Chapter Nineteen

  Detective Chelsea Smith stood with her partner and their chief, gazing through the one-way glass into the interrogation room. Inside sat their suspect, cuffed to the steel table by specialized restraints designed to suppress every ounce of his power. The runes glowing faintly along the edges of the glass sent faint motes of shadow dancing across the room, adding an ominous weight to the scene.

  The man looked peaceful, unnervingly so. His head rested on the table, his wild mane of fiery red hair spilling out like scattered flames. For someone who had left a trail of destruction and erased a lieutenant of the Red Hand from existence, he was alarmingly calm.

  "I don't know why you're so worried," Corey said, raising an eyebrow at Chelsea. "He's asleep."

  That much was true. Ambrose Severen, the man who had caused chaos since stepping into their city, was fast asleep.

  Chelsea's gaze lingered on him, unease gnawing at her. She couldn't shake the memory of the word of power he had used to erase the Red Hand lieutenant, a feat she had never seen before. The woman had simply ceased to exist, without blood, without screaming, without any of the normal signs of death. One moment present, the next gone, as if reality itself had been edited.

  "I can't analyze him," the chief muttered, his tone grim. Chief Wilson was a burly man with steel-gray hair and piercing blue eyes. A veteran of the force long before the System arrived, he had adapted quickly, rising through the ranks with a combination of street smarts and political acumen.

  Chelsea nodded. "None of us can."

  They had all tried their analysis skills, but something about the prisoner defied their attempts to gauge his level, class, or abilities. It was like looking at a blank slate, or perhaps more accurately, trying to read a book written in a language none of them understood.

  "We need a specialist. I'll call someone from SpecOps," the chief said, stepping out to make the call. His heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading into the background noise of the station.

  Chelsea frowned, shooting Corey a glance. Her partner shrugged, entirely unbothered. His weathered face showed more signs of exhaustion than concern, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual.

  "At least SpecOps won't get the credit for bringing him in," Corey said, running a hand through his thinning hair.

  She sighed. That much was true, but this was her investigation. She didn't want anyone swooping in to steal it from her. She needed to figure out why Ambrose was in Virion and what his true intentions were. If she could do that, imprisoning him would be straightforward.

  The station was built to deal with people like him. The svartal handcuffs were one method, but the entire station was reinforced with runes designed to suppress power, accessible only to those carrying a badge. The walls contained specially treated materials that absorbed and negated spiritual pressure, and even the air circulation system had filters designed to disperse concentrated mana.

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  Virion's prisons were even more secure, layered with similar arrays, plus additional safeguards. Multiple redundancies, independent power sources, guard rotations of high-level officers, and emergency protocols for every conceivable scenario.

  But the thought didn't comfort her.

  Why are you reassuring yourself? she wondered, crossing her arms. The word of power he used couldn't be accounted for. It was an unpredictable variable that no amount of planning could mitigate. Words of power were the stuff of legends, abilities so rare that most people went their entire lives without encountering one.

  The System was a game of counters, paper beating rock, scissors cutting paper, but if you lacked the necessary counter, you were at a complete disadvantage. And how did one counter a word that could erase reality?

  The chief returned, his heavy footsteps announcing his presence before he rounded the corner. "We've got a SpecOps analyzer on the way. If she can't figure him out, no one can. I want to wait for her assessment before we go in."

  Chelsea nodded. It made sense. Knowing your enemy was key. They had been lucky to catch him in a moment of weakness. She didn't want to push that luck by going in blind.

  She just hoped the analysis came in time.

  ---

  Ambrose didn't need sleep anymore. At C-Grade, his body no longer required it. But that didn't mean he didn't enjoy it. For him, sleep was like worship, a moment of peace that wrapped around him like a protective cocoon.

  When he woke, he felt surprisingly refreshed, given that he'd been sleeping on a steel table. He tried to stretch, only to hear the clinking of chains. His hands stopped halfway to his face, restrained by glowing cuffs that radiated power.

  He blinked at his surroundings. The room was dim, the light above casting cascading reflections across the rectangular steel table, creating creeping shadows that danced along the walls. It wasn't a large room, but its oppressive design made its purpose clear.

  An interrogation room.

  The walls were bare, painted a dull gray that seemed to absorb both light and sound. No windows, just the table, two chairs, and a camera mounted in the upper corner, its red light indicating it was recording. The room smelled of antiseptic and something metallic, perhaps the residue of fear from previous occupants.

  A single door clicked open, and the detectives from the traffic stop entered. Chelsea Smith sat across from him, her expression composed but watchful. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face. Her partner leaned against the corner, arms crossed, his attempt at a menacing scowl more amusing than threatening.

  Ambrose nearly snorted. He's trying too hard.

  "You may remember me," Chelsea began, her tone even. "I'm Detective Chelsea Smith, and that's my partner. Let's start with who you are."

  Ambrose said nothing, meeting her gaze with silence. His single visible eye remained steady, unblinking as he studied her. She was good at hiding her emotions, but small tells gave her away, the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers rested too deliberately on the table.

  Her eyebrow arched. "You weren't the silent type before. Why not speak to us now? We know you're not a citizen of Virion, or even this planet. You don't have any rights here. Things could get very unpleasant for you."

  Her tone wasn't threatening, just matter of fact. But Ambrose wasn't worried. Torture wouldn't work on someone with his stats, and talking wouldn't help his situation. It was better to listen, to gather information.

  His mind was elsewhere, focused on the cuffs around his wrists. His skills were there, he could feel them, but they were just out of reach, like trying to grasp a shadow.

  It had to be the runes. He doubted anyone in this station possessed the skill to suppress him so completely. His spirit was muted, his Icon smothered, as though a pillow had been pressed against his connection to them.

  He set that thought aside, turning his attention to the word of power he had used. Why had it drained him so completely this time? It hadn't done so before, not even when he'd used it against Fenrir.

  Erasing someone from existence, he mused. Perhaps the cost of the word was tied to the scope of its use. The more profound the effect, the higher the toll.

  "Listen, you stupid fuck," Corey growled, his voice cutting through Ambrose's thoughts. "Did you not hear my partner? You're going to be tortured, and as tough as you think you are, everyone breaks."

  Ambrose shrugged, unimpressed. The cop wasn't wrong, most people broke under torture. But Ambrose wasn't most people. He'd experienced pain beyond what most humans could comprehend, lived through losses that would have broken lesser men. Physical discomfort was just that, discomfort.

  The two detectives exchanged a glance before walking out, leaving him alone. The door closed with a solid thud, and the lock engaged with a heavy click.

  Ambrose returned to his thoughts. If his theory was correct, the cost of the word correlated directly to how it was used. Erasing someone from reality was an extreme application of its power, one that demanded an equally extreme price.

  He should have known better. Words of power were dangerous tools, and he still knew so little about them. But perhaps there was a way to use them more efficiently, to wield their power in smaller, controlled bursts rather than as a last resort.

  If he could refine his use of the word, there might still be a way out of this.

  And once he was free, nothing would stop him from continuing his mission.