The broken moonlight fragmented, interlaced with electricity that lapped against Ian's lowered face. He crouched on the paved streets, emptied glass bottles by his feet. One had been smashed into fine shards.

  Curfew had long passed, though few of the patrolling soldiers dared to approach the muzzled Guide. Reputation was an easy thing to develop, caged within walls.

  Victor's Mutt. The unknown Guide leashed to the Base's top-ranked Esper.

  A media joke.

  He served as a shield to comfort humanity—they were protectors. Promisers of hope. But for those in the outside zones who were given no means to protect themselves, such delusions were quickly muffled.

  Raven hair fluttered over his gloomy eyes, set in a dark severity. His scarred hands planted flat against the brittle street. Cleaned. Maintained, as everything in the Center was.

  Towering buildings spanned every direction, connected by clear bridges and endless glass, leaving every plane exposed. Reinforced glass. It was more of a symbol. The Center lived in luxury, but deserved luxury—supposedly.

  They hid nothing—so it went.

  In his curled hand, a worn paper twisted in his vice. It'd been folded and unfolded dozens of times until it lost structure.

  Five names had been crossed.

  Five more to go.

  With each death, it became easier. He hadn't wanted it to be. It was all vengeance, wasn't it? In the heat of the moment, fury blinded him. But after always came, and he'd fall into a lull. A daze.

  Where was he going? He wanted it all to end faster.

  Eloise, he wanted to ask. Is this what she would've wanted? Was this the world she dreamed of?

  If she'd been alive, he would've paved the road for her. He'd never had many purposes, so he took hers. Her purpose became his.

  It was easier to live that way.

  The first two were Espers that forced her guiding until she had nothing left to give. They were the ones who'd survived—when she didn't.

  They'd been easy, tricked into the Rifts at Victor's discretion. They trusted him, of course. They feared him, but they trusted power.

  Then, when Ian strung them around a monster's gaping jaw, dangling by hooked teeth as washes of a sour heat rolled from the frozen mouth, they confessed every filthy detail.

  They'd enjoyed it. Permission to use a guide as they pleased.

  He didn't cut the rope—he'd told Victor to unfreeze the jaw, hearing their pleas and wails before the monster snapped it shut with an echoing crunch. Wet smacks of flesh.

  When he'd looked at Victor, the other almost looked pleased. But in those ice-like eyes, it was hard to tell. Ian thought it could've been him falling, smashed in a monster's jaw, and that face still wouldn't flinch.

  His stomach had coiled at the thought. What little importance he had to that Esper.

  Then, there were the last three. Four days ago. He hadn't left the apartment since.

  Couldn't.

  They were researchers investigating a smaller project—properties of a Guide's blood and its ability to soothe. They were working on manipulating it into amplification serums that could calm an Esper without the Guide itself.

  With a white coat gifted by Victor, it'd been easy to slip inside. Too easy. He'd combed his hair back, perched glasses on his nose, removed his muzzle, and it was wondrous how image could manipulate others' reactions.

  Sylvan—by unknown connections—upturned a volunteer position to help with menial tasks while they were on the verge of a breakthrough.

  Ian had taken the stairs. Unwise, for the strategy of preserving energy, but necessary, for curbing his stirring rage that threatened to scorch the ground underfoot. They'd been on the tenth floor, and when the lock buzzed, metal sliding open, they hadn't even looked up.

  Heads bent over mountains of paper, beacons of thick crimson hanging in racks. A coolness settled, curtains drawn shut to prevent excessive light.

  In a little refrigerator by the corner, another dozen rows of blood lined the inside.

  "Just one volunteer, right? They can fetch somebody from the facility—we need a new batch," grumbled a man with a boyish face, swirling a beaker under a light. "Then we can drain them dry."

  Another laughed, pushing up his square glasses. "C'mon, man. Don't say it like that. Makes us sound like the bad guys."

  A heavy sigh came from the corner, buried behind books. A woman carefully measured the blood into a beaker. "Enough. This isn't a joke. The expectation is that we do this for the sake of the Base, not your sadistic joys. Further, a corpse does us no good—remember to be efficient and allow their bodies to replenish. You should be aware of this."

  Immersed in their research, they'd yet to notice the onlooker, a ghost among shadows.

  Ian swept his gaze to the row of cages by the back wall, low and cramped. Gaunt faces hollowly stared back, squeezed against frigid bars.

  A machine hummed in the background, a constant buzz. It almost muffled the faint groans and murmurs.

  His hand twitched at his belt. What had she experienced? Being drained of blood, forced into Rifts, in a repeated cycle?

  A ringing echoed in his ears. Louder and louder.

  "Oh, relax. Being uptight doesn't do us much good," drawled the glasses man.

  The woman groaned into her hands, furrowing her brows. "The serums work, but not well enough with the instability of recent Rifts. We've suffered significant losses lately. This isn't the time to relax."

  "Look, I'll buy you a muffin later. Alright, Joyce?" He exhaled, lowering his beaker. "We're getting there, and other groups are researching in the underground station."

  "For how long?" Her voice cracked, her gloved hand trembling. "How long until the Espers are unable to protect us. If these serums fail, and they all die, what becomes of us? What becomes of humanity?"

  Silence sank over them, and all three lowered their heads. The current situation of the Rifts was becoming graver.

  Humanity was falling behind.

  Then, the sound of a gun clicked, and all three swerved to the door.

  Ian cocked his head, gaze cold. There was no colour in the black depths. Nothing but shades of rage too dark to decipher.

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  "All for the sake of humanity." He tasted iron on his numb tongue and a chill in his heart. All he felt was cold. "To protect ourselves, we sacrifice others. We manufacture survival, and now that we're failing—"

  A whisper of a laugh escaped him. "Try harder? Grieve?"

  The man in glasses threw his hands up and jumped to his feet. Papers scattered past his billowing coat, and a glass wobbled precariously by the table's edge. "Calm down, buddy. Let's talk it out, alright? We're not looking for trouble."

  "Put that gun down!" The grumpier man, young with fiery hair, gulped. "I'll call the guards! Who the hell let you in anyway?"

  "Call them," murmured Ian, lifting the muzzle straight. "And I'll have a bullet through you before you can open your mouth."

  The other choked and slumped into his seat. The woman—Joyce—steadied her gaze and parted her glossed lips. Her attention glided to the cages, and then back. She sighed. "Are you here as an avenger, or a hero?"

  He stepped closer, fiddling with the gun. A frost carved his voice, an intensity that chilled to the bone. He shoved his other hand into his jacket.

  "The Strelitzia. Do you recognize that name?"

  She stiffened, gripping the edges of the desk with wide eyes. Her painted nails bent painfully, but she didn't seem to notice. "She's been dead for years. But it's not us who killed her. She died in a Rift—"

  "Did you drain her of her blood?" he sneered. "Watch her spirit fade every time you extract pieces of her? Do anything to prevent her from entering the Rifts once you'd left her hollowed?"

  The woman gritted her teeth. "We're not killers. Guides after being extracted are not recommended for battle."

  "But you knew." He blocked the metal door, and at his right, a metal bed with straps and an IV station greeted. There were stains of rust—and something more. For a breath, he imagined Eloise there, limp in the restraints, watching the bags swell with her soul. "Every time she returned, paler than the last, you'd taken it anyway."

  "What we do—"

  "Is all for the sake of humanity," murmured Ian dazedly, repeating the chant. One sentence to excuse all cruelties, one line to sum up the worth of their lives. "Then what I'm about to do is for the sake of myself."

  Joyce swallowed hard, her pretty neck bobbing. Did panic drip against her skin, the fear of death devouring? Was she searching for excuses, scrambling them to mind? Would she beg and plead?

  Just as his sister had?

  The caged Guides pressed closer, squeezing against the bars.

  The red-haired man grumbled, ruffling his hair. "You don't get it, do you? Your sister died, yeah, that sucks. But these serums could save entire zones! They're protecting humanity!"

  "What does humanity matter to me if she's gone?" smiled Ian, a cold, sarcastic smile that made the three pale. Terror steeped in their lightly trembling figures, their darting gazes. The realization that no matter what they'd said, none would leave the room today.

  Humanity.

  Recent explosions, failures to measure the Rifts' level. Dozens of deaths, and a fatality rate that increased by triple. Hence, their urgency.

  But the Base segregated lives, enforcing death to save lives. It was a hypocrisy.

  Playing God.

  His head pounded, screaming away all thoughts. It tapped against his skull unyieldingly, like fingers hammering against a wall. Ticking against time.

  "Fuck! You're a damn idiot!" The red-haired man flung himself over the table and smashed several beakers in Ian's direction. They skinned his cheek, crashing into the wall.

  Ian only had to tilt his head to evade it and coldly raised his gun. His finger, resting on the trigger, applied pressure. And it was easier than the last.

  Killing.

  Bang—!

  The young man's face almost looked silly, wide-eyed with a bullet buried in his forehead. He slumped against the table, thudding down along with strewn papers and beakers of red. The glass tubes clattered over each other like a chime

  A ringing of a new beginning.

  The glasses man choked, scampering over. He slipped on the glass, sinking to his knees as he dragged the corpse into his arms. He bent over, breathing in shallow gasps. Guttural, broken breaths. Shards tore into his flesh, and red bloomed across his white coat.

  But there he grieved, broken noises intermittently wheezing out.

  "Brandon, Brandon. C'mon, buddy. Wake up," he pleaded, pressing his forehead to the other's still chest, devoid of a beating heart.

  Ian said nothing more and raised his gun again.

  Bang—!

  The man slumped over his deceased friend, still clinging to his body.

  Only the woman remained. Her pupils trembled, reflecting the corpses of her two friends. A single tear rolled down her cheek, illuminated by a microscope's dim white light, like crystals falling from her steady gaze.

  "Know this, Avenger," she whispered, her voice low. "Death begets death. There will be no end to this madness."

  Fearlessly, she approached her companions and laid them gently on the ground. Her fingers brushed against their eyelids, slowly shutting them. She bent her head and pressed a kiss to their foreheads.

  One last smile. One last farewell.

  Hovering over their bodies, Ian saw the tears continue to stream. Drop by drop.

  The alarms began to blare, screeching high above. It was time to go. But he lifted his gun the last time, breathing slowly.

  "Kill me now, Avenger. Grant me the mercy of seeing them last."

  The alarms were a dull echo to her quiet sorrow.

  Bang—!

  His hand limply dropped to his side. Then, he circled the tables with a glance sideways—three bodies peacefully lay as if sleeping. Maybe when they woke up, they could live a life of peace and security. They'd enjoy that muffin outside, exchanging jokes.

  One last tear rolled down Joyce's cheeks, bleeding into the expanding puddle of red.

  Ian fished a key chain from the red-haired man's belt and hurriedly unlocked three of the four cages. When he'd stopped at the last, a young woman no older than eighteen curled. She'd pulled her bony legs into her chest, as if trying to embrace herself.

  The keys rattled, and still she didn't move.

  Ian ducked his head under and pressed his fingers to her neck. Then, his breath hitched.

  He drew away and glanced at the three pairs of sunken eyes, all fixed on him. As if they were looking at a salvation, a worship, when he was nothing more than an avenger.

  The woman hadn't been wrong.

  "What'll you do?" he asked hoarsely. "We leave now, but I'm not a guard. We either make it, or we don't. That's not my responsibility."

  The youngest, freckled with ginger hair, crawled out. He gripped his oversized white gown shakily. "Take me. Please. My sister, she's—"

  "I can't save your sister right now."

  He chewed his lip and gave one stiff nod. Ian regarded him, then turned to the remaining two. The older woman peered into the cage where the dead woman lay and leaned against the bars. She smiled. "Thank you. But there's no meaning for me out there."

  "They'll recapture you."

  She shook her head sluggishly, free of all sensation. "They won't," she said simply. Certainly. "We won't return to that hell."

  Ian hesitated, but footsteps were thundering closer. He swallowed and fled with two. As he stepped out, he gave a final glance at the ruined room.

  Three corpses lay together, and the older woman, who'd brought the younger woman's head to her lap and opened her bleeding lips to hum a melody.

  Her gentle song drifted before them. Her last.

  They ducked into the fire exit, but before the door slammed shut, the older Guide had been grabbed feebly by the collar, flung against the wall. His head cracked, blood seeping. A bullet fired, and Ian yanked the young boy away, hissing as it impaled in his arm.

  They ran until their lungs bled dry.

  After, all he remembered was leaving the Guide under Sylvan's care and collapsing. Cold, firm hands had dragged him back, retrieving the bullet as they stripped his clothes and submerged him in warm water, carefully drawing a towel against his wounds.

  Everything felt like a blur, a dream. A drowning.

  Victor bandaged and dressed him before dragging him to bed. Ian lay flat on his back, absentmindedly staring at the dark ceiling.

  He felt the impression of a trigger on his finger.

  He heard their mourning ringing in his ears, both silent and loud.

  The bed sank beside him, dark duvets draped over, but still he didn't speak. Didn't move. Not until an unknown number of hours had passed, and he'd traced the patterns in the grey ceiling a hundred times.

  "They were friends. They knew what they'd done and expected vengeance. But they thought they were right."

  Victor hummed low, fiddling with Ian's hair. "Does that matter?"

  Ian's pupils trembled. He didn't know what answer he hoped, knowing the Esper wouldn't understand. Did he seek comfort after all this time? Assurance? Or somebody to tell him he could rest, and stop thinking about anything?

  He almost laughed. What was he doing, here in this man's bed, trying to have a heart-to-heart?

  Victor didn't act beyond his benefits. He helped Ian occasionally, but never more than that. Sometimes, Ian wondered if he became explosive and destructive, a bloody whirl of chaos, would he exist as something in those pale eyes?

  It was a ridiculous thought.

  The desire to possess something beautiful, even if it didn't reflect you.

  Ian pressed his hands to his face. "No matter what, humanity dies. I'll kill her, or she'll kill me. Isn't that how this damn world works?"

  "Are you seeking justification?"

  "No. I'm stating a fact." Ian rose, resting against the headboard. His fingers curled against his palm, remembering the weight of his gun. Now familiar. "I'm not looking for forgiveness, nor am I looking to save this useless world."

  Victor turned, pressing into the mattress as he smiled. "Good. Then don't look back."

  Ian tipped his chin darkly. "I no longer have a choice."

  "No," mused the Esper, taking his hand into his and intertwining their fingers habitually, as if trying to rob Ian's warmth. His long fingers traced the grooves of Ian's pronounced knuckles, the light pulse of his veins.

  Ian's guiding started automatically, wrestling with the painful energy. The sharpness cleared his head, eased him.

  The day his sister had died, perhaps even before that, resentment boiled in his blood. He'd been made of it, built of hatred and despise. So, when he'd claimed the role of an avenger and witnessed the first life snuffed, he'd known.

  "Either you burn, Guide. Or this Base does."

  That the path he'd set on only had one ending.