The glow of the city lights cast restless shapes across the windows of the makeshift loft. Rain had tapered off, leaving puddles glimmering on the street below. Inside, Jared lay awake on the worn couch, his gaze flicking between the flickering overhead bulb and the half-dark skyline beyond the glass. Every joint ached. The bullet graze on his thigh throbbed in protest each time he shifted, yet his mind refused to slow, thoughts drifting to the perilous meeting with the Razor Claws.
He felt equal parts relieved and uneasy. He and his friends had secured a tentative alliance with a gang that could provide information on the Syndicate's movements. But forging deals with criminals—especially ones known for violence—risked plunging them into deeper waters. The memory of those scarred faces, of the knife tapping ominously on the bar table, still made his skin crawl.
In the dim hush, Marcus and Ava lay on separate blankets across the loft floor. They'd all agreed to stay close, prepared to grab their gear and run if the Syndicate or the Razor Claws decided to pay an unexpected visit. The half-furnished coworking space, while more private than a motel, felt insecure. No matter how many times Marcus double-checked the locks or taped the windows, tension weighed on them like the city's humidity after a storm.
At last, Jared dozed off for a couple of hours, lulled by the ambient hum of traffic. When dawn broke, he stirred again, blinking gritty eyes. Ava was already awake, perched by the window with her laptop open, sipping from a paper cup of stale coffee. Her hair was undone, falling in loose waves around her shoulders, and dark circles underscored her usually bright eyes.
"Morning," she said softly, giving him a faint smile. "Or what passes for it."
He sat up slowly, wincing as his leg complained. "Got any left?" He nodded to her coffee.
She reached behind her to grab another cup from a cardboard tray on the sill. "Help yourself. It's not gourmet, but it's hot."
Gratefully, Jared took a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. "Any updates from last night?"
Ava nodded toward her laptop. "I've been scanning a few channels—some local message boards, plus tips from my reporter friends. Nothing about us specifically, but rumor is the Syndicate's rattled. Selina Vaughn hasn't shown her face in public since the auction fiasco."
"So they're regrouping." He let the coffee's warmth course through him, fighting the morning chill. "What about the Razor Claws? Think they'll stay quiet for now?"
Ava shrugged. "One can hope. I doubt they'll make a move unless they see a chance to profit or strike back at the Syndicate. For the moment, we're on the same side."
Marcus stirred from across the loft, propping himself on an elbow. His hair stuck out in half a dozen directions, and a pillow imprint lined one cheek. "I dreamt we were all trapped in a giant warehouse, except this time the Syndicate had an army."
Ava closed her laptop with a grim chuckle. "Not far from reality."
Jared downed the last of his coffee, mustering his resolve. "We need a plan to strike at them before they catch their breath. Maybe we can gather more dirt on their corporate backers—you said you saw big-name faces at that auction. City officials, business magnates. What if we trace the money?"
Ava brightened. "Exactly what I was thinking. Follow the money, find the source."
Marcus rubbed his eyes. "But how do we do that? We're not exactly forensic accountants. And hacking their bank records could be dangerous, especially if they have top-tier security."
Jared nodded. "True. But we might not need direct bank records if we can discover front companies or real-estate holdings. We already know the Syndicate operates dummy corporations. If we can link those to influential boardrooms, we'll have leverage."
Ava glanced at the battered clock on the wall, its second hand forever stuck in a twitching half-tick. "We should get started. I'll comb through corporate registries, see if any shell companies match the swirl logo or the Syndicate's rumored businesses. Marcus, can you see if the Razor Claws have any leads on corporate shipping channels? They might know which freighters or warehouses the Syndicate uses."
Marcus rose, stretching stiffly. "Yeah, I'll check in with them—discreetly. I don't want them thinking we're milking them for intel without holding our end of the bargain."
Jared grabbed the crutch they'd scrounged up from a local thrift shop, testing his weight on the injured leg. He'd refused to see a hospital doctor, fearful that the Syndicate might track them if they flagged his gunshot wound. The thigh was healing slower than he'd liked, but at least he could hobble around.
"We'll dig up whatever we can," he said, determination flaring in his eyes. "Once we have enough evidence, maybe we can pressure some corporate weasel to flip on Selina Vaughn."
Echoes of Authority
They spent the morning in a flurry of quiet activity. Ava typed nonstop, cross-referencing public corporate records with any mention of swirl-related logos or suspicious shell companies. Marcus perched on a stool, phone in hand, texting cryptic messages to a Razor Claws contact. Jared paced the edges of the loft, occasionally stopping to examine the Shades of Authority, which lay on a desk amid a mess of cables.
At one point, he slid the artifact on, letting the tinted lenses cloak his vision in that now-familiar darkness. For a moment, he simply breathed, scanning the loft. A swirl of faint colors hovered around Ava and Marcus—tranquil blues and subdued oranges. No aggression, just quiet focus. He felt a faint tugging at the corner of his perception, as though the glasses wanted him to look deeper into hidden layers of the building, the city.
He resisted. The more time he spent wearing the Shades, the more drained he felt afterward. It was a power that required caution, especially when he wasn't in immediate danger. Still, he couldn't deny the subtle, almost gravitational pull they exerted—a whisper suggesting that with more practice, he could see beyond surface auras.
He removed the glasses, blinking as normal light flooded his eyes. A wave of dizziness passed. Shaking it off, Jared tried to steady his thoughts: they had a bigger mission than deciphering the artifact's mysteries. He needed to focus on dismantling the Syndicate.
A Lead Emerges
Ava suddenly sat upright, almost knocking over her laptop. "Guys, check this out."
Marcus hurried over, as did Jared, doing his best to keep the weight off his leg. On Ava's screen was a PDF scan of an older city council proposal, referencing a redevelopment plan for the industrial docks. One of the signatories was a corporate entity called Arcbridge Investments, listed as a key stakeholder.
"This Arcbridge Investments has no real digital footprint before last year," Ava explained, scrolling through lines of text. "But look, the swirl emblem is faintly stamped on these documents—see it in the corner? Looks like a watermark. They must've tried to hide it, but the scan is just clear enough to notice."
Jared leaned closer. "Arcbridge… that name ring a bell?"
Marcus frowned. "Not off the top of my head. Let me run it through a deeper search."
He took the laptop and typed furiously. After several minutes, lines of data scrolled across the screen—registered addresses, board members, financial statements. Most were vague or incomplete, as though Arcbridge had intentionally shrouded its dealings.
"Here," Marcus muttered, enlarging a snippet. "Arcbridge Investments is connected to a subsidiary that owns multiple warehouses near the docks—warehouses not in use for official city business. They pay minimal taxes, which might mean they're being used off the books."
Ava's eyes lit with determination. "These could be the Syndicate's storage facilities—perfect spots to stash contraband, launder money, or host smaller auctions. If we can find proof, we can link Arcbridge to Selina Vaughn."
Jared's heart thumped. "So we gather evidence from one of these warehouses. If we catch them in the act, we'll have leverage to blow this wide open."
Marcus nodded, but caution underscored his words. "We have to be smart. The Syndicate won't leave these places unguarded."
"That's where the Razor Claws might help," Ava said. "They want a slice of payback, right? If we clue them in about a potential Syndicate operation, they might help us infiltrate one of these warehouses. They can handle any guards. We gather the evidence."
Jared pressed his lips into a tight line. "It's risky. But waiting around only helps Selina regain her footing. We strike while they're unsettled."
Marcus tapped a few keys, pulling up a map of the industrial docks. "Arcbridge has a warehouse at Pier 19. The city's logs list it as 'under renovations,' but no permits for construction have been filed. That's suspicious enough."
Ava zoomed in, scanning aerial photos. "Pier 19 is fairly isolated. Perfect for covert shipments. If we approach from the water, we might avoid detection."
Jared's mouth twisted into a faint smile. "And if the Razor Claws approach from land, we'll box them in."
Marcus raised a brow. "A pincer move. That might actually work—assuming we trust the gang not to double-cross us mid-operation."
Ava shrugged. "We have little choice. We have to strike alliances where we can. Let's do it. I'll message them, see if they're game."
Boardroom Shadows
While Ava reached out to the Razor Claws, Jared and Marcus prepped gear. Marcus polished up his spectral analyzer in case they needed to scan for any additional clues about the artifact's presence, though Jared doubted the Syndicate would store that valuable lens anywhere but near Selina. He also tucked a newly acquired burner phone in his pocket—one more layer of anonymity.
Jared hovered near a dusty window, gazing at the city's skyline. Midday sun glared off high-rises, a stark contrast to the dingy rooftops around him. Somewhere behind those reflective windows, wealthy board members of shell corporations sat at polished tables, orchestrating the Syndicate's moves. The swirl symbol could be hidden in their documents, their brand logos, or their backroom deals. He pictured them meeting in plush conference rooms, sipping imported coffee while they decided the fate of innocents.
The injustice curdled in his stomach. He wanted to see them sweat, to see their polished veneers crack under the weight of exposure. Because if they had orchestrated his downfall at Bernington, if they manipulated city finances to line their pockets, if they tried to peddle supernatural artifacts to criminals… they deserved the full wrath of truth.
His phone buzzed. Ava turned from her own phone, excitement in her eyes. "The Razor Claws are in. They'll mobilize a few members to help us investigate Pier 19 tonight. They're asking for a rendezvous at an abandoned fuel station near the docks."
Marcus gave a low whistle. "Guess they're itching for revenge."
Jared took a bracing breath. "We do this carefully. We recon the place first—check guard patrols, see if there's an easy entry. Then we tip off the Razor Claws. We only confront the guards if we have to."
Ava stuffed her laptop into a backpack, slinging it over her shoulder. "And if we find evidence inside, we document everything. We'll blow up the Syndicate's operation—maybe even feed the info to that detective, Gallagher, if it can help."
"Agreed." Jared tested his leg, wincing but staying upright. "Let's not waste time."
The Calm Before
They had a few hours before dusk. Marcus used the time to finalize backup plans—emergency contact numbers, a borrowed car registration, minimal digital footprints. Ava pored over every detail of Pier 19's layout, gleaned from outdated city planning documents. Jared tried to rest, but his mind never truly relaxed, looping through worst-case scenarios.
Eventually, the sun dipped below towering buildings, painting the city in a tapestry of oranges and purples. The loft darkened, and they lit a single lamp to avoid drawing attention. Each of them packed up what little they owned into duffel bags, just in case they couldn't return.
As the clock neared eight, a hush settled among them. Jared fastened the straps on his jacket and tested the Shades of Authority's weight in an interior pocket. He wouldn't wear them unless absolutely necessary—he wanted to remain clear-headed until the moment of truth.
Ava adjusted the camera pen clipped to her shirt, determined to capture every second of their infiltration if possible. Marcus powered down the loft's circuit breakers as a precaution, not wanting to leave any trace of unusual energy usage.
"Ready?" Jared asked, his voice echoing in the near-empty space.
Ava and Marcus exchanged a tense glance, then nodded.
They stepped out into the corridor, locking the door behind them. The elevator in the building was defunct, so they trudged down the concrete staircase in silence, footsteps echoing ominously. Outside, the early night air carried the scent of wet asphalt and the faint tang of the sea. Overhead, a canopy of clouds blotted out most starlight.
Marcus's car waited at the curb, engine idling in the gloom. They piled in, hearts pounding with that familiar mix of fear and adrenaline. This was the next step in their quest—a chance to corner the Syndicate at one of their clandestine facilities. If all went well, they'd secure evidence that could topple Arcbridge Investments, possibly even unravel the Syndicate's entire power base in the city.
Yet Jared felt a gnawing sense of unease. They were gambling on half-trust alliances and the hope that the Syndicate hadn't tripled their security after Greyline Depot. Was it enough? Could they truly outwit an organization that flaunted its grip on corporate boardrooms and street-level criminals alike?
He stared out the window as they pulled away, neon reflections dancing on the sedan's windshield. In the back of his mind, a flicker of the artifact's presence gave him a strange confidence. Maybe the Syndicate had deep pockets and dark connections, but Jared had allies of his own now—even if they were criminals or underdogs. And he had the Shades—a fragment of supernatural advantage to push back against the city's darkest corners.
With the gritty hum of the sedan's engine, they merged into Silvercoast's restless arteries, heading south to the docks. Each turn brought them closer to Pier 19—and the promise of either a triumphant breakthrough or a catastrophic ambush.
In the quiet tension that settled, none of them voiced their fears out loud, but the weight of those unspoken worries pressed on their chests like an anchor. In an hour, they'd meet the Razor Claws. By midnight, they might face the Syndicate's wrath once again.
Yet no one turned back.
The city's towering skyline slowly gave way to industrial sprawl, and with it, the next chapter of their fight edged into focus. They were heading for the Syndicate's shadowed stronghold, determined to shine a light on the secrets lurking within. And, whether they emerged victorious or beaten, Jared knew there was no turning back.