The silence left by the Architect's departure was instantly drowned out by the roar emanating from the courthouse model. It pulsed on the desk like a malignant heart, radiating waves of pure, unfiltered aggression.
The air in the small office grew thick with irrational fury, a tangible force that slammed into Elias, setting his teeth on edge and flooding his mind with a visceral, burning rage that wasn't his own. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to break something, to lash out at the empty air.
He staggered back, fighting the involuntary surge of violence. This wasn't the subtle melancholy of the music box or the creeping paranoia of the locket; this was raw, primal anger, amplified to a terrifying degree. It clawed at his control, threatening to reduce him to a snarling, unthinking animal.
Focus, he commanded himself, Technique. He fell back on years of mental discipline, raising practiced internal shields, visualizing the rage as a storm outside his consciousness, battering against a fortified wall. It didn't stop the feeling, but it bought him precious seconds of clarity.
His go-bag lay where it had fallen when he spun to face Anya. Fighting the inertia the curse imposed, he lunged for it, his movements clumsy under the emotional assault.
His fingers fumbled with the zipper, the simple task feeling monumental as his hands trembled with borrowed fury. He had to get the containment cylinder.
Finally, his hand closed around the familiar, cool metal of the cylinder. He pulled it free, the device itself a small anchor of purpose in the storm of emotion.
Aiming the wider, activation end at the roaring model on the desk, he depressed the primary trigger.
The cylinder whirred to life, extending a shimmering, translucent energy field – the containment bubble. It expanded rapidly, pushing against the radiating aggression, a sphere of calm attempting to engulf the chaos.
The cursed object resisted, its red glow intensifying, pushing back against the field with violent pulses. The air throbbed with the clash of energies.
Elias gritted his teeth, bracing himself against the onslaught. The rage from the object was a physical force now, not just emotional. It felt like a battering ram against his mental shields, seeking purchase, demanding release.
He could feel his own carefully constructed control beginning to buckle under the sustained pressure. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his knuckles white where he gripped the cylinder.
Suddenly, the courthouse model pulsed with blinding intensity, unleashing a focused blast of aggression energy directly at him. It hit him like a physical blow, throwing him backward. His head cracked against the edge of a filing cabinet, stars exploding behind his eyes. Pain lanced through his skull, mixing sickeningly with the amplified rage.
He gasped, the air knocked from his lungs, his grip on the containment cylinder faltering. It clattered to the floor, the containment bubble it had been projecting flickering and threatening to collapse.
No! The thought was primal, overriding the pain and the rage. If that bubble failed now, the full force of the curse would explode outwards, likely triggering a massive, uncontrollable wave of aggression throughout the entire building, potentially even the surrounding district. Chaos would erupt by morning.
Ignoring the throbbing in his head and the red haze of fury still clouding his vision, Elias scrambled on the floor, blindly reaching for the dropped cylinder.
The cursed model roared louder, its red light filling the room, the vibrations shaking the desk. He could feel the containment field weakening, the barrier between controlled chaos and uncontrolled disaster thinning.
His fingers brushed against the smooth metal of the cylinder. He snatched it up, his movements fueled by a desperate urgency that temporarily eclipsed the rage. He re-aimed the device at the model, fighting the object's continued resistance and the lingering disorientation from hitting his head.
He depressed the trigger again, forcing power into the cylinder, willing the containment field to reform, to hold.
The translucent bubble flickered back to life, expanding again, pushing back against the aggressive energy. It was a slower, more arduous process this time, the object sensing his weakened state, fighting with renewed vigor. But Elias held firm, pouring his focus, his will, everything he had into maintaining the field.
Inch by agonizing inch, the bubble expanded, the roar of the model beginning to diminish as the field contained its energy.
The red light started to dim, the violent pulses weakening. The pressure in the air lessened, the irrational rage in Elias's mind slowly receding like a tide going out, leaving behind exhaustion and a dull ache.
With a final, straining effort, he completed the containment. The bubble snapped shut around the courthouse model, solidifying into an opaque sphere. The object inside went instantly dark and silent. The oppressive pressure in the room vanished entirely.
Elias collapsed against the filing cabinet, gasping for breath, his body trembling with the aftermath of the magical and emotional strain. The silence was profound, broken only by his ragged breathing and the distant, growing wail of sirens.
He looked at the contained object. The courthouse model was now invisible inside the opaque containment sphere, inert and harmless. He had done it. The immediate threat was neutralized.
But as he stared at the sphere, a final, weak pulse of energy emanated from it, a dying gasp of the curse's power. It wasn't the raw aggression anymore, but something softer, colder. And it carried with it a faint, fleeting impression – not a clear image, but a feeling of profound loss, of something broken and empty.
It resonated with the symbol fragment he'd associated with 'Despair'. And for a split second, he saw a fragmented image flash in his mind – towering, empty structures, a place of public gathering but devoid of people, bathed in a grey, desolate light.
The Despair node. The next target in the sequence. And the image was a cryptic clue to its location or nature.
Elias pushed himself away from the filing cabinet, wincing at the ache in his head. He had the object, contained. He had a new clue, frustratingly vague. And he had the sound of sirens growing louder in the distance, meaning mundane security was now definitely alerted.
He needed to get out. Now. He had to get the contained object and the fragmented clue back to the safehouse, analyze them, and try to decipher the image before the rival's countdown to Despair reached zero. He was injured, exhausted, and potentially trapped in a courthouse filling with police. The night was far from over.