The café inside HQ was designed to make war feel like something you could sip around.

  Warm lights. Soft chairs. Coffee strong enough to bully back the antiseptic bleeding in from the hospital wing. A corner of normal everyone pretended didn’t matter—until it was the only thing keeping them from turning into machines.

  Mino sat at a small table with Zach, Garth, and Alisa.

  She held a mug in both hands without drinking. The heat grounded her. The ember inside her stayed quiet when she kept to simple sensations: warmth, ceramic, breath.

  Garth looked like he’d slept but not rested. His injuries were wrapped, his posture straight by force of habit. Alisa sat close enough that her knee brushed his, like she was making sure he didn’t drift away again.

  Zach was… Zach. Calm on the surface. Watchful under it.

  Mino stared at the map pinned on the wall beyond them—one of the public “incident updates” that didn’t show half the truth. Too many red dots.

  “I keep hearing the same phrase,” Mino said finally. “Organized cell. Crime syndicate. Large-scale medean organization.”

  Garth’s eyes flicked to her.

  Mino’s ears twitched. “What does that actually mean for us?”

  Alisa’s fingers tightened around her cup. Zach didn’t answer. He waited, like he wanted Garth to say it.

  Garth exhaled slowly. “It means we stop playing whack-a-monster.”

  Mino blinked.

  Garth leaned back, gaze distant. “Right now, we can handle random enemies. Raiders. Lone mededians. Small crews. Even someone like Heroko, if we get lucky and smart and he makes mistakes.”

  Alisa flinched at Heroko’s name. Mino noticed, and something cold slipped through her chest.

  Garth kept going, voice steady but grim. “But if this is what Marten thinks it is—if a syndicate has formed, if it’s structured and recruiting—then numbers become the weapon.”

  Mino swallowed. “How many… are we talking?”

  Garth’s jaw flexed. “We have allies spread across the world. Networks. Government programs. Independent fighters. Union-adjacent groups. In total? Maybe two thousand we can count on.”

  Mino’s eyes widened. Two thousand sounded like a lot—until she heard how he said it.

  “And them?” Mino asked.

  Garth’s gaze hardened. “They could have hundreds of thousands.”

  The words hit the table like a dropped knife.

  Zach’s posture tightened. Alisa went pale.

  Mino’s hands trembled slightly around her mug.

  “That’s…” Mino whispered. “That’s an army.”

  “It’s worse,” Garth said quietly. “An army has uniforms and a front line. A syndicate has cells. It can be everywhere at once.”

  Mino stared down into her coffee like it might offer answers. “Then what do we do?”

  Garth looked at her—really looked, like he was measuring how much truth she could carry.

  “We prepare,” he said. “We stop assuming we can fix it by winning fights. We start thinking about survival, intelligence, and cutting the head off before the body grows.”

  Mino’s throat tightened. “And if there isn’t one head?”

  Garth didn’t answer immediately.

  “That,” Zach said softly, “is when it gets ugly.”

  Silence settled over the table, thick and heavy.

  Alisa leaned closer to Garth, her shoulder touching his arm. “You’re staying,” she said quietly, as if reminding him was also reminding herself.

  Garth’s gaze softened for a fraction. “I am.”

  Mino wished the promise felt comforting.

  It didn’t.

  It sounded like something you said when you were afraid the alternative was true.

  A chime sounded overhead—HQ’s internal alert, different from the sirens. Administrative. Controlled.

  Marten’s voice came through the ceiling speakers, crisp and direct.

  “All available agents: asteroid impact confirmed. Retrieval and secure required. Expect strong resistance. Meet in the staging bay in ten.”

  Zach’s eyes flicked to Garth. Garth’s jaw clenched.

  Mino’s pulse kicked. “Strong resistance.”

  Alisa’s fingers tightened around her cup. She didn’t say she was scared. She didn’t say she wasn’t fighting.

  She just stood with them.

  “I’m coming,” Alisa said quietly.

  Garth started to object—

  Alisa cut him off with a look. “Close by,” she added. “Not frontline. But close.”

  Garth swallowed. Then nodded once.

  Mino felt the ember inside her stir, alert, like it liked the idea of another fight.

  She didn’t.

  But she stood anyway.

  The staging bay smelled like oil and steel.

  Vehicles sat ready—armored vans, utility trucks, a few sleek units designed to move fast and be forgotten. Agents moved with practiced speed, checking gear, loading dampeners, securing containment cases.

  Zach tightened a strap on his forearm guard. Garth checked the protections on the staff head piece like it was a sleeping bomb.

  Mino adjusted the dampener cuff on her belt, trying to ignore how her hands wanted to glow already.

  Then the bay doors opened.

  A woman walked in with a travel bag in one hand and a massive wolfhound at her side like it was part of her.

  Taco.

  She looked travel-worn but not tired in the way HQ people were. Her eyes were sharp, hungry, like she hadn’t learned the particular exhaustion of systems. Her bladed bow was slung over her shoulder. The wolfhound’s gaze swept the room, assessing.

  Mino’s mouth opened before her brain could stop it. “Your name is really Taco?”

  Taco’s eyes flicked to her. “Yeah.”

  Mino blinked. “Is it—”

  “My real name?” Taco cut in, deadpan. “Yep.”

  Garth’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “You’re early.”

  Taco shrugged. “Plane landed. I heard you were going out. Figured I’d show up before anyone tried to ‘process’ me.”

  The wolfhound sat at her heel, calm but alert.

  Alisa looked at the dog—and the dog looked back.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  For a long moment, it was just eye contact.

  Then the wolfhound made a low sound, not quite a growl.

  Alisa stiffened, shoulders drawing in slightly.

  Taco’s hand dropped to the dog’s harness. “Hey. Not here.”

  The wolfhound’s ears flicked, but he didn’t relax.

  Alisa’s mouth tightened. She forced her gaze away first.

  Mino noticed. And filed it away.

  Marten’s voice snapped over the bay intercom: “Move.”

  No more introductions.

  They loaded up and rolled out.

  The impact site sat in a scrubland valley outside the city, where the ground was hard and dry and the crater looked like something had taken a bite out of stone.

  The asteroid fragment glowed faintly in the center, half-buried, pulsing like a heartbeat.

  And around it—

  Resistance.

  Not punks.

  Not scattered scavengers.

  A coordinated group, spread in a perimeter, using cover, watching the approaches. Mismatched gear. Matched discipline.

  Garth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s new.”

  Zach’s voice went tight. “That’s a cell.”

  Mino’s skin prickled. The ember inside her stirred, as if recognizing something.

  They advanced.

  The first exchange was brutal and fast—arrows and shots, vavic blasts and dampeners thrown like grenades. Taco moved on the flank like she’d been born for chaotic ground, her bladed bow snapping between ranged kills and close-quarter slashes when someone got too near.

  Mino stayed near Zach, shaping her energy into controlled pushes instead of letting it burst. She redirected debris. She knocked enemies off their feet without crushing them. She tried not to kill unless she had to.

  Garth moved like a wounded lion—less speed than before, still terrifyingly efficient. He used the staff head’s protection field like a shield when an attacker tried to hook it with vavic pulls.

  Alisa stayed behind a boulder near the containment case, close enough to be seen, far enough to avoid becoming a target—until someone broke through and sprinted toward her.

  Alisa froze for half a heartbeat.

  Mino saw it.

  Zach saw it too and moved—

  But Taco was closer.

  Taco stepped in front of Alisa without hesitation and swung her bow like a blade, catching the attacker across the chest. The enemy stumbled back, shocked, and Taco finished them with an arrow through the throat.

  Alisa stared at Taco like she didn’t know what to do with being protected by a stranger.

  Taco didn’t look at her. She just said, “Stay down.”

  Then the enemy line wavered.

  A signal sounded—sharp, whistled.

  The remaining attackers began to retreat.

  Not routing.

  Withdrawing.

  Like this had been a test.

  Garth’s eyes narrowed. “They’re running.”

  Zach’s jaw clenched. “They got eyes on our response time. Our composition. Our tactics.”

  Mino felt cold wash through her. “So this wasn’t about the fragment.”

  “It was about both,” Garth said grimly. “They wanted it. And they wanted to learn how we stop them.”

  Taco’s eyes tracked the retreating figures. “We chase?”

  Garth shook his head. “No. We secure.”

  They moved quickly, pulling the fragment into a containment case designed to dampen its vavic pulse. The moment it sealed, the air felt a fraction lighter.

  The relief didn’t last.

  The enemy had been organized.

  The enemy had pulled back on purpose.

  None of it looked like random crime.

  It looked like an opening act.

  Back at HQ, Taco’s “transfer” became real.

  They walked her through corridors, rules, schedules, the places she wasn’t allowed to go without clearance. She rolled her eyes at half of it and listened anyway.

  In the debrief room, she finally sat at a table with Mino, Zach, Garth, and Alisa—everyone looking at her like she was a new piece on the board.

  “So,” Mino said, trying not to stare at the wolfhound now lying at Taco’s feet like a furry landmine. “Taco.”

  Taco nodded. “Yep.”

  Alisa cleared her throat quietly. “Is that… a nickname?”

  Taco’s expression stayed completely serious. “No.”

  Mino blinked. “How?”

  Taco shrugged. “My parents were weird.”

  Zach snorted. “Fair.”

  Garth leaned back, studying her. “You fought well out there.”

  Taco’s mouth twitched. “Thanks.”

  “And you didn’t do anything reckless,” Garth added, like he was testing.

  Taco raised an eyebrow. “I did plenty of reckless. Just not stupid reckless.”

  Garth’s mouth twitched again. “Good distinction.”

  Alisa glanced down at the wolfhound, who watched her with calm intensity that still didn’t feel friendly.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Alisa said quietly.

  Taco’s hand rested on the dog’s harness. “He doesn’t like fear.”

  Alisa stiffened.

  Mino’s eyes narrowed slightly. That wasn’t a comforting explanation.

  Taco continued, less blunt now. “He’s trained. He won’t bite anyone here. He’s just… protective.”

  Alisa’s fingers tightened in her lap. “So am I.”

  The wolfhound huffed, as if judging the statement.

  Taco’s mouth twitched. “Okay. Maybe you two will figure it out.”

  The meeting broke up with the usual rush of tasks.

  Taco was shown her room—small, clean, bare. She unpacked like someone used to living out of bags: gear arranged in reachable order, weapons placed where her hands would find them in the dark, the sealed case from her transfer set on the desk unopened like a dare.

  She stared at it for a long moment.

  Then she looked away.

  Not yet.

  Meanwhile, Garth stood in the hallway outside the common area, watching Zach and Mino walk past.

  He didn’t look relaxed.

  He looked like a man measuring angles and vulnerabilities.

  “We need to reduce exposure,” Garth said quietly to Zach when they were close enough for only them to hear.

  Zach’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

  Garth’s gaze flicked toward the outer corridors, the sleeping quarters, the places minds could be mapped and doors could be breached. “Meaning you shouldn’t live alone anymore.”

  Zach stared. “Garth—”

  Garth didn’t blink. “You’re a target. Your mind got explored. They used your knowledge to hit us. If they come again, they’ll come for you first—or through you.”

  Zach’s jaw clenched. “I’m not moving into a dorm because you’re paranoid.”

  Garth’s voice went flat. “I’m not asking. I’m recommending—strongly—for everyone’s protection.”

  Mino stood there, listening, her stomach twisting. Part of her wanted to protest—part of her was relieved. Being alone with her thoughts was when the ember inside her got loudest.

  Zach looked at Mino, then back at Garth. His expression tightened with reluctant understanding.

  “…Fine,” Zach said. “I’ll move into HQ housing.”

  Garth nodded once, like a plan had locked into place.

  Zach exhaled sharply and looked at Mino. “Help me grab my stuff.”

  Mino blinked. “Now?”

  Zach’s mouth twitched. “Before I change my mind.”

  Zach’s house felt too quiet.

  Too normal.

  The kind of normal that made Mino’s skin itch, because she didn’t trust it anymore.

  They walked through the entryway, past a small shoe rack and a coat hanging on a hook. A faint smell of laundry soap lingered.

  Mino’s hands started to glow faintly without her meaning to.

  Zach noticed immediately. “Hey.”

  Mino swallowed. “I… I don’t like being in houses.”

  Zach’s expression softened. “Because of the fire.”

  Mino nodded, throat tight. “And because… being alone with you here feels… scary.”

  Zach went still, the words landing heavy between them.

  He didn’t get defensive.

  He didn’t look hurt.

  He looked pained—like he hated that she felt that way and hated himself for understanding why.

  “Mino,” Zach said quietly, “look at me.”

  She looked up.

  His eyes were steady. “Nothing will happen to you,” he said. “Not from me. Not while I’m breathing.”

  Mino’s breath hitched.

  Zach continued, voice firm, almost sworn. “You are safe with me. I swear it.”

  Mino swallowed hard. Her hands dimmed slightly.

  She nodded once, not because fear vanished, but because his certainty gave her something to hold onto.

  They moved through the house quickly after that—Zach grabbing clothes, gear, the small box of dampener charms, a worn photo frame he hesitated over before packing anyway.

  Mino stayed close, listening to every creak, every distant car sound, like her body didn’t know how to stop being ready.

  When they left, Mino felt the tension in her shoulders loosen for the first time since stepping inside.

  Zach locked the door behind them and didn’t look back.

  In shadows far from HQ lights, Spike received a message.

  He wasn’t in a fortress or a command room. He was somewhere quiet—somewhere the darkness felt like it belonged. His face was mostly hidden, but his eyes caught a faint reflection from the communicator screen.

  A report from one of the mededians who’d survived the crater battle.

  They were thwarted again. The HQ team responded faster than expected. New agent present.

  Spike’s mouth curled.

  “So they’ve prevented me again,” he murmured.

  He lifted his gaze into the dark as if the dark itself could answer him.

  “Who are these people?” he asked softly, almost amused. “They’re becoming a real pain.”

  He tapped the communicator once, sending a reply with calm certainty.

  “No worries,” Spike whispered, voice smooth and poisonous. “In a few days, we’ll give them a wake-up call.”

  He sent the message.

  Then he leaned back, shadows swallowing most of him.

  “Continue with our plans,” he murmured. “And find out who they are.”

  His smile sharpened slightly, like a blade drawn from a sheath.

  Outside, the world kept turning.

  HQ kept tightening its walls.

  And beyond the horizon, the organized syndicate kept moving—gathering fragments, gathering minds, gathering momentum.

  Preparing to hit hard enough that “local missions only” would feel like a joke told at a funeral.