Bluewater Hall was built in 1978—a relic from the maritime age, back when cargo ships mattered more than satellites. Once it tracked containers and tariffs. These days it tracked handshakes and photo ops.
But tonight, the place smelled wrong. Burnt varnish, ionized air, something metallic that clung to the teeth.
The junior showed his badge. The officers at the door hesitated, then stepped aside. Emergency lights hummed overhead. Too bright, too clean for what had just happened. The long black-oak table sat untouched—except at the far end, where the carpet had fused into the floor and a fountain pen lay bleeding ink across an unsigned contract.
The air was still warm. Like a negotiation mid-sentence, interrupted by flame. “It’s him.”
Austin Reins stood at the edge of the blast, studying it like a painting. Others saw wreckage. He saw handwriting. The carpet beneath the chair had fused into the floor paneling. One metal leg twisted inward, melted down like sugar. The rest of the room was untouched — as if the explosion had been surgically precise.
He didn’t move. Just narrowed his eyes, sniffing the smoke-stained air. His gaze drifted across the room, bloodshot — like he hadn’t finished yesterday’s pack. The rug curled in on itself, scorched at the edges like a dying flower. The armchair’s frame warped into something barely functional, almost art. He didn’t lay a finger on it. Just followed the fractures across the wall, line by deliberate line.
The junior cleared his throat, reading off his notes like a nervous student. “The president was here to sign a pre-industrialization support contract for an anti-interference shield system. Leftover from the weapons R&D fund the vice president pushed through years ago. The one everyone called… infamous.”
Austin half-listened, eyes on the warped chair leg. The kid kept going. “One thing on record—she was due an eighty percent raise on nearly a third of her compensation package. At the same time she’d been asking other departments to cut back.”
Austin finally glanced over, the unlit cigarette shifting at his lip. “And what do the suits call that?”
The junior hesitated. “Fat cats?”
Austin smirked without humor. “Good. You’re learning the language.”
The junior held out a datapad, voice running on.“Severe burns. Lungs collapsed. Medical says…”
“Shame,” Austin cut in, fingers twitching over the cigarette box in his pocket. “I was hoping to ask her a few questions about misrouted campus funds.”
He let his gaze settle on the ink-smeared contract, smoke curling against his teeth. “Her job was protocol—smiling for cameras, cutting ribbons, cashing Lockhart’s checks. Last month she took twenty million in honor of some alumnus who built an artillery toy that chased farmers out of Asia. They called it innovation.” He tapped the cigarette against his palm. “I call it the routine.”
The unlit cigarette hung from his mouth like punctuation. He didn’t light it. Didn’t need to. Just breathing in the smoke that wasn’t there.
The junior, pale and stiff, voice clipped, uncertain—“Same detonation profile. Kamuy Residue Signature matches. Barely.”
Of course it did. That damn CIA patchwork—something they cooked up years ago to track post-Kamuy signature. Half-algorithm, half-guesswork. Good enough to stir suspicion. Never enough to hold up in court.
Austin finally lit the thing. Flame caught. His face flickered. “First was the warehouse. Then the records van. This time?”Ash dropped onto his polished shoes. “Now they’re aiming for warm bodies.”
Thirty-five years old, and already carrying the complexion of a basement ceiling. Wind moved through the broken windows behind him, lifting the hem of his coat. In the far distance, the spires of The Academy at New Elysion caught the moonlight. Like a blade poised over the city. “You know what I’m thinking ?” he asked suddenly.
The junior shook his head.
“Six months ago, there was a deal gone bad in Asia. Lockhart moved fast—leveled a blacksite lab. Claimed it was self-defense. Said the other side fired first.”
The junior mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Things haven’t sat right in this city since,” Austin muttered.
Then he turned. Walked toward the stairwell. Paused. “And I want the full list of faculty involved with the Artemis Project Support Fund,” he said, turning to the junior. “The one that used to be called the weapons R&D fund, before they gave it a goddess name.”
He didn’t look back when he added: “And tell HQ to reflag the case. Code it under Ouroboros activity.”
The junior hesitated. “But we haven’t confirmed…”
“We never confirm,” Austin said flatly, descending one step at a time. “They just move. Quiet. Coordinated. Always one step ahead.”
A pause. He exhaled smoke into the stairwell shadows. One step. Another.
“I don’t care what message they were sending.”
He tapped ash into the dark.
“I just want to know who.”