Chapter 56: The Gates of Wretchedness – Arc Start
"Good morning," I gently pulled white hair behind from Seraphina's head as I watched her snooze against the morning light.
She was a mess. A beautiful, white-haired, S-Ranked mess tangled in my cheap duvets. I smiled, sliding out from the covers before the heat of the bond could tempt me back into the pillows. I headed for the bathroom, the cold tile a sharp shock to my bare feet.
I brushed my teeth, watching the minty foam swirl down the drain. My skin looked different in the mirror. Clearer. The Bond evolution was a physical overhaul.
I stepped back into the bedroom.
Seraphina was sitting bolt upright. Her eyes were wide, darting toward the door with a look of pure, unadulterated panic. She was clutching the blanket to her chest like a shield.
"I thought… you left…?" she whispered. Her voice was small. Vulnerable.
I chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "From my own home, Seraphina? That would be a hell of a dramatic exit, even for me."
I walked over and sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under my weight. I handed her the steaming cup of coffee I’d grabbed from the small kitchen. I held up a grocery bag I’d stashed on the nightstand.
"Wanna help me cook breakfast?" I asked.
Seraphina took the cup. Her fingers grazed mine—cool against my lingering heat. She pouted. A real, genuine pout, her upper lip sticking out just enough to be dangerously cute.
"Yeah…" she muttered, looking into her coffee. "But… I don't know how to."
"Guessed so," I said, grinning. "That's why I want you there. If you knew what you were doing, I would have just stayed in bed and let you serve me."
The kitchen was a disaster zone ten minutes later.
There was flour on the ceiling. I don't even know the physics behind that. Seraphina stood over a pan of scorched eggs, looking at them like they were a high-rank boss she couldn't freeze.
"It’s a pan, Seraphina, not a training dummy," I told her, scraping the charcoal into the bin.
"It kept sticking," she complained, her ears turning a vivid pink.
But we ate it anyway. It tasted like salt and burnt edges, but seeing her sit there in one of my oversized t-shirts made the scorched flavor almost worth it.
The mood shifted the second we stepped into the Ashen Tower.
The lobby was a blur of glass and business, but the Ice Team office was a fortress. Hana was leaning against the far wall, her dark eyes tracking us as we entered. Roonie was already at the conference table, his fingers dancing across a tablet.
"Alright, everyone. Focus up," I said, taking my place at the head of the table.
I didn't feel like the F-Ranked nobody from a month ago. My mana was a steady, humming engine in my chest.
"We’re playing this two ways," I said, looking around the room. "Seraphina, you’re the Ace. You stay visible. You stay powerful. You’re our deterrent. If we need a mountain leveled, you're the one. But you stay away from the shadows."
Seraphina nodded, her expression turning into that familiar, frozen mask.
"Hana and I are the bloodhounds," I continued. "We find the root of this monster dope ring. Francis is dead, and investigating his cause of death up front is a suicide move. There’s a traitor in the mix. We start asking questions at the hospital or the morgue, we alert the rats before we even see their tails."
I pointed a finger at Roonie. He looked up, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"So we use his death instead," I said. "Roonie, I want a paper trail. Make it look like we're bogged down in Association bureaucracy. Buried in red tape. Make them think we're too busy with funeral logistics to notice the money."
Roonie’s grin widened. "Misinformation and administrative shadows. That's the kind of role I like."
"Good. Hana, with me," I said.
The shipyard district was a different kind of hell in the daylight.
The address from Gloria’s files led us to a grimy corner of the slums. It was a place where the sunlight didn't quite reach, trapped between rusting tenements and low-hanging power lines.
We hit the bank first. A small, local branch that smelled like stale air and wet paper.
"Francis Tremblay?" the teller asked, his eyes darting to the guild badge I’d pinned to my blazer. He sweated. "Yeah. Every month. For three years. Cash orders. Same amount, every time."
"Where's the money going?" Hana asked, her voice a low, dangerous rasp.
The teller tapped his screen. "An account in the name of a Taylor. Address is just three blocks from here."
We stepped back out into the humid air. Hana fell into step beside me, her hand resting casually on the knife at her hip.
"A girl?" Hana asked.
"Seems like it," I said. "Francis was juicing himself on monster dust and dying in illegal holes, but the money always made it to Taylor."
"Love makes people do stupid things," Hana muttered.
We reached the address. It was a rotting apartment building, the brickwork crumbling like old biscuits. The mailbox was hanging by a single screw.
"Taylor," I whispered, reading the faded plastic label.
I looked at the peeling door of the building. My heart did a slow, heavy thrum. The thermal resonance flared, a cold prickle of anticipation.
"Let's see who was worth Francis's soul," I said.
We headed inside.