My head throbbed with each pulse of the flickering fluorescent light overhead, and my mouth felt like I'd been gargling sand. The hospital's idea of treatment had been a quick once-over, a couple of synthetic skin patches over the worst cuts, and a bill large enough to choke a Monster.
And then the FBH goons had shown up, all business and zero sympathy, like I hadn't just dragged myself and an unconscious woman out of a gate that shouldn't have existed.
"This is how you thank your heroes, huh?" I called out, jangling my cuffs against the bench for emphasis. "Real classy, Neo-Atlanta!"
The guard stationed outside my cell—a middle-aged guy with a perpetual scowl and enough dandruff on his shoulders to simulate a snowstorm—didn't even look up from his terminal.
"Keep it down, kid."
"I'm not a kid," I shot back. "I'm a taxpayer. Well, theoretically. And I saved lives today! Probably even yours, indirectly. You're welcome, by the way."
No response. Fine. I had other ways to be annoying.
I started humming—loudly and off-key—a jingle from a crystal supplement commercial that had been plaguing public transit ads for months. When that failed to get a reaction, I switched to tapping my foot against the metal bench, creating a rhythmic clanging that echoed through the small space.
"I said keep it down!" Dandruff Man finally snapped.
"Sorry," I replied. "Just trying to distract myself from thinking about how I'm going to afford my mother's next treatment now that you've confiscated my crystals."
That wasn't even exaggeration. The knowledge Minerva had deposited in my mind before I woke up was both a blessing and a curse. I now knew exactly what Mom needed—a specialized crystal compound synthesized from three different types of dimensional matter, processed with a precision that would make an S-rank Transmuter sweat.
The price tag? More than I'd make in a hundred years of legit porter work.
And that was just part one of a three-stage treatment.
『You could synthesize it yourself, with my guidance,』 Minerva's voice whispered in my mind.
'Not now,' I thought back firmly. 'I'm busy being wrongfully detained.'
『Is it truly wrongful when your license is, in fact, counterfeit?』
I ignored her and continued my percussion symphony against the bench.
The door to the holding area slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and I straightened up despite myself. A woman walked in—not the burly officer I'd been expecting, but someone who moved with the economy of a predator. Dark hair cut in bob framed a face that might have been pretty if it wasn't set in such a rigid expression. But what caught my attention were her eyes—one golden, one blue-green—both focused on me with unnerving intensity.
The guard scrambled to attention. "Detective Kaine. Didn't expect you down here."
"Evidently," she replied, her gaze never leaving me. "I'll take him to interrogation room three."
"But the captain said—"
"The captain approved the transfer five minutes ago. Do keep up."
Dandruff Man fumbled with his keys, muttering under his breath as he unlocked my cell. The woman, Detective Kaine, watched him with thinly veiled impatience.
"On your feet, Hayes," she ordered as the cell door swung open.
I stood slowly, making a show of stretching my cramped muscles. "You know, a 'please' wouldn't kill you."
Those mismatched eyes narrowed. "Move."
She led me through a maze of corridors, maintaining a brisk pace that had me working to keep up despite my longer legs.
Interrogation room three was exactly what you'd expect—small, windowless, with a metal table bolted to the floor and uncomfortable chairs on either side. A recording device sat in the center of the table, its red light already blinking.
"Sit," Detective Kaine instructed, gesturing to the chair facing the door.
I complied, watching as she settled into the chair opposite me. Up close, I could see faint gold-tinted veins beneath her skin, particularly around her temples—a sign of active Enhancement Essentia.
"Pierre Hayes," she began, her voice clipped and professional. "D-rank Transmuter, according to your registration. Except your registration doesn't exist in any official database. Care to explain?"
I leaned back in my chair. "Maybe it fell through the cracks? Bureaucracy, am I right?"
"Where did you get the fake ID, Hayes?"
"Fell off a truck."
"Try again."
"Found it in a cereal box?"
Her golden eye seemed to glow slightly. "You entered a Tier 3 gate with fraudulent credentials. Five people are dead. This isn't a game."
That hit harder than I wanted it to. I dropped the smirk, letting my shoulders slump. "Look, I know it's not a game. I was in there, remember? I saw what happened."
"Tell me about the gate," she said, pulling out a tablet and stylus. "Start from the beginning."
I took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. The Cathedral felt like a fever dream now, distant and distorted.
"It was supposed to be a Tier 1 gate, easy in and out. Except it wasn't." I leaned forward, the cuffs clanking against the table. "The moment we stepped inside, it was obvious something was wrong. The place was... wrong. Physics didn't work right. Time moved strangely."
Detective Kaine's stylus moved across the tablet as she took notes. "And the entities you encountered?"
"There were these things—Wardens, I think. Made of crystal fragments floating in formation. But the real problem was the Monster."
Her head tilted slightly. "Describe it."
"Tall—three, maybe four meters. Humanoid, but stretched out, like someone pulled them from both ends. No faces, just these masses of crystal threads constantly unraveling and rewinding. They set traps, these filament webs that could extract memories when they touched you."
I watched as she began to sketch on her tablet, her brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, she turned the screen toward me.
I blinked at the image. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"
The drawing looked nothing like the horror I'd described—more like a child's attempt at drawing a spider with too many legs.
"This is what you described," she said flatly.
"No, it's not. That looks like a drunk octopus had a fight with a geometry textbook." I pointed at the tablet. "It was more... elongated. And the threads weren't just sticking out randomly—they moved with purpose, like they were alive."
Detective Kaine's eyes narrowed, but she turned the tablet back and began a new sketch. "Like this?"
The second attempt wasn't much better.
"Has anyone ever told you that you might want to consider a career change? Away from art?"
Her jaw tightened. "Focus on the details, Hayes. Not my artistic ability."
"Fine. But let the record show that looks nothing like what we saw." I tried to gesture with my hands, limited by the cuffs. "The worst part wasn't even the Monsters. It was what they served—something called the Choir. We never saw it clearly, just glimpses. But it could... get inside your head. Make you do things."
Detective Kaine's expression shifted subtly. "Interesting."
"What's interesting is that when we reported this, your people went in and apparently saw none of it. How does that happen?"
"That's classified information."
"Of course it is," I muttered.
She leaned forward. "What happened to the expedition leader? The others?"
"Dead. Or worse." I couldn't keep the edge from my voice. "Look, I did what I could. I got Eliza out. I reported the gate so your people could seal it. What more do you want?"
"I want to know why a D-rank porter with a fake license was in a Tier 3 gate to begin with."
"Money," I said simply.
Before she could respond, the door opened. A uniformed officer stepped in, his face carefully blank. He leaned down and whispered something in Detective Kaine's ear. I watched her expression shift from surprise to irritation and finally to resignation.
She stood abruptly. "Wait here."
Both of them left, leaving me alone with the blinking recording device. I glanced around the room, noting the camera in the corner, then slumped back in my chair.
"What's going on?" I asked aloud.
The door opened again. Detective Kaine returned, her lips pressed into a thin line. She reached across the table and deactivated the recording device.
"It seems someone has posted your bail, Mr. Hayes."
I blinked. "My what?"
"Your bail. You're being released." She unlocked my cuffs. "The charges haven't been dropped, but you're free to go for now. Someone with influence is taking an interest in your case."
My first thought was impossible—Dominic wouldn't lift a finger to help me. But who else would have that kind of pull?
"Who?" I asked, rubbing my wrists.
"Not my department." She gathered her tablet and stood. "The Officer will return your personal effects. Stay in Neo-Atlanta, Hayes. This investigation isn't over."
She led me back to the processing desk where Dandruff handed over a small plastic container holding my meager possessions—the crystal pendant from Mom and my salvaged communicator. Everything else had been destroyed or confiscated.
"Sign here," Dandruff said, pushing a form toward me.
I scrawled my signature, still trying to process what was happening. "So I'm just... free to go?"
"For now," Detective Kaine said from behind me. "Don't leave the city."
I turned to face her. "The gate—"
"Is being handled," she cut me off. "Your warning was... noted."
There was something in her tone that made me pause. "You believe me."
Those mismatched eyes met mine. "Let's just say I've learned to keep an open mind about unusual gate phenomena. Now go, before I change mine."
I didn't need to be told twice. I pocketed my belongings and followed an officer to the front entrance of the precinct. The doors slid open, revealing the neon-washed night of Neo-Atlanta's Foundation level.
And there, parked directly in front of the steps, was a sleek red sports car that definitely cost more than everything I'd ever owned combined.
Leaning against it were two women. One was Eliza, looking far better than when I'd last seen her unconscious in my arms. She'd traded her torn combat gear for a black outfit, her golden eyes watching me with an unreadable expression.
Beside her stood a woman who had to be related to her—they shared the same golden eyes, though the older woman's were warmer, more expressive. Her silver-white hair cascaded down her shoulders in contrast to Eliza's short black cut. She wore casual clothes that somehow looked designer on her frame, and she carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how much space they deserved in the world.
As I approached, the older woman nudged Eliza and said something I wasn't meant to hear. But in the quiet night air, her words carried clearly:
"Tenías razón, prima. ¡Es lindo!"
Eliza's face darkened. "Cállate, María," she hissed.
I stopped at the bottom of the steps, suddenly aware of how I must look—disheveled, bloodstained, and probably smelling like a week-old corpse.
"So," I said, "I'm guessing you two are my mysterious benefactors?"
The older woman—María—stepped forward, extending her hand with a brilliant smile. "María Demara. And you've already met my cousin, Eliza. We thought you might appreciate a ride home after your... adventure."
I shook her hand, noticing the subtle ripple of energy around her fingers—an Enhancement type, and a powerful one at that.
"Pierre Hayes," I replied unnecessarily. "And yeah, a ride would be great. But why? I mean, don't get me wrong—I appreciate not sitting in a cell, but..."
"You saved my cousin's life," María said simply. "Twice, according to her. That makes you family in my book."
Eliza crossed her arms, looking anywhere but at me. "Don't make it weird, María."
I glanced between them, suspicion warring with desperate hope. "There's a catch, right? There's always a catch."
María's smile widened. "Smart boy. Yes, there's a catch. But let's discuss it somewhere more comfortable, shall we?" She gestured to her car. "After all, you look like you could use a decent meal and a change of clothes."
I hesitated, thinking of my mother alone in her hospital room, of the treatment she needed, of the FBH investigation still hanging over my head.
Ah, what the hell. Whatever these two wanted from me, it couldn't be worse than what I'd already survived.
"Alright," I said, moving toward the car. "I'm listening."