The night crawled on with a heavy silence, but sleep never came. Leiger lay in bed, body still, eyes barely shut, yet her mind was alert—humming with that unbearable sensation. That weight. That eerie tension of being watched. There were no footsteps, no creaking floorboards, no breath out of place. Yet every fiber of her Sentinel-honed instincts screamed: someone’s here.
She didn’t hesitate.
In one swift motion, her hand snatched the night lamp from the stand and hurled it at the darkness before her bed. It flew with precision—but stopped midair. Suspended.
A hand had raised without urgency, catching the lamp’s momentum as if gravity simply listened. From the edge of the room, cloaked in the dusky corner near the mirror stand, a figure leaned casually against the wall.
Then came the voice—sharp, sardonic, unmistakable.
“Sentinels. I suppose you do know how to sense danger.”
Folgren stepped forward from the gloom, the silver of his eyes catching the faint moonlight. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in the rags of a fugitive but in sharp, understated elegance. His gloves were still on—no doubt to hide the engravings that webbed beneath, the ones that seemed less like tattoos and more like brands carved into steel skin. His chest, beneath the fabric, moved like metal rather than flesh.
He placed the night lamp gently on the mirror stand, as though it had never been weaponized.
Leiger sat upright, throwing her blanket aside. The tension in her limbs sharpened, her gaze bitter as frost.
“You’ve been snooping in my personal life, haven't you?” she said coldly. “I’d expect a thank-you, considering I did save your miserable life. But I suppose a criminal stays a criminal.”
Folgren chuckled, stepping forward with casual, calculated grace. His silvery eyes locked onto hers. Dull. Dangerous. Promising something unspoken. The room felt colder when he passed.
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “Though I didn’t expect the soul link to land me with a fallen noble carrying this many… issues.”
She turned her head away from his stare, jaw tight.
“You’ve been stalking me since Iron Street, haven’t you?” she asked, the bitterness returning in full force.
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he began to walk slowly around her room, his steps deliberate.
“You’re quick, but not quick enough,” he replied. “I know more about you than you’d like. Where you’ve been. What you’re carrying. I’m surprised you haven’t picked up on the perks yet.”
Leiger narrowed her eyes. “Perks?”
He glanced at her as he reached toward the nightstand, fingers brushing the edge of a photo frame. Before he could lift it, her hand instinctively shot out, pressing it down. Her face was suddenly close to his—dangerously close. Their breath mingled. She hadn’t even noticed how close they’d become.
His gaze bore into hers again.
She pulled back.
“You mean…” Her voice was quieter now, laced with something heavier than anger. “Every time I felt that… that presence… it was you? You were watching?”
He said nothing at first.
Then, with a slightly amused tone: “We can see and hear through each other. The link shares our senses. Voluntarily… or sometimes, involuntarily.”
Her face flushed. She remembered the mirror. The bath. The quiet self-reflections, naked under fluorescent lights. Even if he hadn’t been trying to look, he could have. She pulled her arms around herself, though her pajamas offered no real comfort. Vulnerability clawed up her spine—a feeling she hadn’t allowed in years.
Folgren raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright? You’re turning beet red.”
“You bastard!” her skin crawled like she has been dipped in fire. She hissed and swung her fist into his face.
It landed cleanly—right cheek, full force. His head barely turned.
He didn’t even flinch.
She backed up into a defensive stance, pulse racing.
“Don’t tell me you saw me during my private time!” she shouted, voice cracking under the strain of humiliation.
He scratched his jaw absently. “I did,” he said, eyes not meeting hers. “But I wasn’t… indulging. I’m not really into all that moral fluff. I’ve got bigger priorities.”
She gaped. “Bullshit! You’re a man—and a criminal. You shouldn’t even be here. What if you’re planning to lock me up and use me like a power source?”
He laughed. A cruel, sharp sound.
“Not a terrible idea,” he said. “But no. Babysitting you would be a nightmare. If you’re not well, I’m not well. This link is inconvenient enough already.”
He stepped back, hands in his coat pockets. “Besides… I don’t want West Station hunting me again.”
That made her pause.
Leiger’s shoulders eased slightly, but her voice still held steel. “Then why are you here?”
“Checking in,” he said plainly. “And to remind you of the obvious: no one can know about this bond. If they do… they’ll kill you just to get to me.”
She stared at him in silence.
“I mean it,” he added. “Stay out of anything that concerns me.”
Leiger’s eyes flicked to the door, then the walls. Had anyone heard?
Folgren casually raised his hand. The night lamp flew from the mirror stand and landed softly on the nightstand beside her.
“Relax, Not even your neighbor's cat couldn't hear us.” he added “Sound's kinetic. Should've figured. ”
Then, with an annoying amount of satisfaction: “You’re quite the hothead, you know. Almost used your Sentinel Gadget over a petty argument. Nearly punched your brother at the dinner table.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’ve seen those too huh?”
“Ambitious,” he said. “Carrying everyone else’s burdens like they’re beneath you.”
“Shut up!” she snapped. “You don’t know anything about what I go through. About what I have to face alone.”
Folgren’s chuckle was colder this time. “You nobles. Always so righteous. Suppose I wouldn’t know. Never met my parents. Trash heap was the only cradle I got.”
He walked to the window, pulling it open with a creak. The night wind curled in.
“But maybe try seeing the world as something more than your own maze of loss and ambition.”
And then—without warning—he was gone. A blur through the sky, vanishing into the moonlight.
Leiger stood there, fists clenched, heart pounding. Rage. Shame. A whirlpool of emotions.
She sat back down slowly, hands on her lap, staring at the floor.
“I’m not wrong…” she whispered. “For wanting back what was taken. Even if it’s selfish.”
But then the idea struck her. Soul link. If he could look through her eyes… she could do the same. She closed her eyes, concentrating, reaching out in the way she remembered feeling the presence before.
And then—clarity.
Her left eye burned slightly.
When she opened it, it had shifted—silver-gray now, like his. Through it, she saw the night sky. Felt the cold rush of wind. The arc of motion as Folgren soared high above the city, cloaked in speed and kinetic control.
Her right eye closed instinctively, focusing.
Then, his voice—deep, smug, inside her head.
“Ah~, so you’re finally using the perks.”
“Shut up,” she muttered aloud.
“Okay, Your Highness,” he replied, laughing.
The vision faded. Her eye returned to crimson.
Leiger sat in silence, then lay down.
So this was her life now.
She clenched the bedsheet.
“I’m not going to be used. I’ll control this. I’ll control you.”
And with that bitter promise echoing in her chest, she finally drifted into sleep—no longer haunted by paranoia. Only purpose.
Morning light spilled through the curtains, painting Leiger's room in a soft golden hue.
She stirred awake, blinking slowly. The events of last night returned like a crashing wave—his silvery-gray eyes, that knowing smirk that curled like a hook around her mind. Her face twisted in irritation.
“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath.
A lot had happened. Too much. But she reminded herself—calm never lasts.
Throwing her legs over the side of the bed, Leiger rolled her shoulders, performing a series of quiet stretches, muscle memory kicking in. Then came her light morning exercises—enough to shake off the haze and settle her breath.
She headed toward the bathroom, pulling open the door—only to see Izzy, mid-step, holding a laundry basket filled with freshly folded clothes.
“Did you sleep well, Lady Leiger?” Izzy asked softly.
Leiger gave a slow nod. “Somewhat.”
As her eyes lowered to the neatly folded coat and uniform, her gaze then trailed upward—spotting a faint red bruise but more like a hickey where Izzy’s shoulder met her neck.
“What happened?” she asked, brows tightening. “Are you alright?”
Izzy hesitated, then quickly adjusted her maid collar to hide the mark. “It’s nothing. Really.” She forced a faint smile. “Lady Isolde said it’d be nice if you could stay for breakfast.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Without waiting for further questions, Izzy slipped past her and disappeared into Leiger’s room. Leiger stared after her, eyes narrowing slightly—but she chose not to press it further.
Instead, she turned and entered the bathroom, brushing her teeth while trying to still the storm in her mind. Focus. Just get back to the station with a clear head. That was all that mattered right now.
Back in her room, her uniform was neatly laid out: a crisp white collared shirt, deep brown waist corset, navy blue A-line skirt, and black stockings—the standard Sentinel coat in its usual gray and blue rested over it all, alongside her utility belt.
She stripped off her pajamas, slipping into each piece of the uniform with methodical precision. As she buttoned the top of her shirt, her eyes paused—the faint sigil etched into her skin, a mark left behind by her soul-link with Folgren.
A weight settled in her chest. She let out a slow, resigned sigh before fastening the last button and shrugging on her coat. Adjusting the Sentinel insignia at her shoulder, she took a final look in the mirror—ready. As ready as she could be.
She headed downstairs, making for the door, but paused when a familiar voice called out from the kitchen.
“Leiger,” her mother said.
Isolde stood at the stove, modestly dressed, her silver-white hair tied into a neat bun. Izzy worked beside her. Her smile was warm—but the eyes behind it were glassy, hollow in a way only Leiger could read.
Isolde approached, gently wiping her hands on a cloth. She reached out, caressing Leiger’s cheek with a tenderness that Leiger didn’t reject—but didn’t lean into either.
“Will you stay? Just thirty more minutes?” she asked softly.
“I’m sorry,” Leiger replied. “Commander Vex said I need to report back right away.”
Isolde nodded, accepting. But she turned, “Wait just a moment dear.” retrieving a tray from the counter.
“I thought so,” she said, lifting the lid to reveal freshly baked pastries. “Strawberry jam filled. I had a feeling you wouldn’t linger.”
Leiger hesitated for only a moment before accepting one. She bit into it—and everything stopped for a second. The flaky crust. The warm sweetness. The taste of her mother’s homemade jam—something she hadn’t had in far too long.
She devoured it in three more bites. Her mother’s smile grew.
“It was… delicious,” Leiger said after clearing her throat.
“Take more for the road,” Isolde insisted.
Leiger didn’t refuse—taking two more with her, the warmth of home lingering on her fingers.
As she turned to leave, her mother called out one last time. “Be safe out there.”
Leiger glanced back, mouth still full, and gave a nod.
For a moment, it felt like time had bent backwards—like she was just a little girl again in the kitchen, before the world had turned cruel.
But all things end.
An hour later, Leiger stood at the front gate of West Station, the looming structure casting long shadows beneath the morning sun.
Duty waited.
Gloamhearth, West Station. Year 1314, February 6th.
Leiger didn’t linger as she opened the gate and stepped through. The yard of West Station was as empty as a cemetery, as usual. Cold air and silence greeted her like old companions.
But as she approached the Hall’s entry door, faint sounds drifted out—chatter, the clink of metal bowls, and the occasional dry laugh.
She pushed through.
Inside, round tables were mostly filled. Sentinels—mostly Initiates and Operatives—sat around with bowls of oatmeal and slices of stale white bread. The usual. The air was thick with the familiar scent of processed grain, weak coffee, and exhaustion.
Leiger’s eyes drifted toward the center table—and found him.
A Sentinel stood with his coat loosely draped over his shoulders, barely making the effort to wear it properly. The left sleeve was rolled up without care. His hair was messy and unkempt, streaked with faint lines of gray like someone had brushed paint over it in irritation. In one hand, he held a data file. In the other, a coffee mug stamped with chipped golden letters: “Best Elite.”
He turned lazily, saw her, and raised an eyebrow.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
Elite Operative Sentinel Darius “Graylock” Henshaw.
He approached her slowly. Leiger noted the permanent dark circles under his eyes—like ink stains he’d long stopped trying to scrub out.
She gave a respectful nod. “Good morning, Sentinel Henshaw.”
Graylock sipped from his mug. “Tsk, just call me by what other do. Anyway, didn’t see you last night. You usually sit around and polish that Multi-Tool of yours.”
“I was granted permission to visit home while it was in for repair,” Leiger replied.
Graylock made a tired sound that could’ve passed as surprise. He took another sip.
“Anyway. Sit.” He motioned toward the table. “I’ll fill you in.”
As they both sat down at an empty round table, the hum of conversation around them didn’t die down. Laughter echoed off the Hall’s old stone walls, mingling with the clatter of utensils and the occasional call for more coffee.
Before a word passed between them, two rookies approached—eager footsteps, wide eyes. Their coats were fresh, crisp, the brass buttons still shining from induction.
“Sentinel Graylock! How’ve you been, sir?” one asked, voice practically bouncing.
He grunted, not looking up, and took a sip from his mug.
The other chimed in, “Could you show us how to use our Arcane Multi-tools like you do? You make it look so easy—”
“Later,” Graylock said. “Hit the training field more. You’re not slicing bread with those things.”
They both nodded with gleaming smiles and hurried off. As they left, Graylock leaned back in his chair and raised his voice just enough.
“And don’t take any Operative-level missions without my supervision!” he called out.
They threw him a clumsy salute mid-step.
He sighed and took another sip.
The exchange drew a small smirk from Leiger, followed by a soft chuckle. “Mentoring again?”
“Always,” he said without looking at her.
She smirked again. “Figured.”
Graylock set his mug down on the table, eyes lingering on the steam curling upward. “Kids these days think this job’s all theatrics and action shots. Most of ‘em don’t even get a chance to process their first mistake in actual mission.”
Leiger gave a quiet nod. She didn’t speak.
Graylock raised an eyebrow. “That was a cue to say something reflective and wise.”
She met his gaze. “You’re the only one here who actually cares if they live through their rookie months. I mean that. Even I’m thankful. Back when I was an Initiate… you didn’t have to help. But you did and you saved me more than I would like to mention.”
For a moment, something passed behind his eyes—faint amusement, maybe pride. He chuckled.
“Not gonna lie. You were one of the rare ones. Actually competent. You carried yourself, mostly.”
Leiger looked away, but smiled—small and real.
Her gaze drifted toward his mug. The steam was thick, rising like smoke from an oil fire, the liquid so dark it looked like crushed voidglass.
“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Ten shots of espresso.”
She blinked. “That’s… going to make your heart explode.”
“Maybe. If I chugged it. But sip by sip?” He raised the mug. “This gets me through the day. And the night. And sometimes tomorrow.”
He took another slow sip, eyes half-lidded with resignation.
After another slow sip, Graylock muttered, “Anywho,” and slid the file from his left hand onto the round table.
Leiger took it wordlessly, flipping it open. Inside was a dark purple envelope—smooth and waxy, traced with delicate green filigree that looked almost alive. Thorn-like curls spiraled into symbols and strange mask-like patterns. Clipped beside it were photos of the same envelopes, torn open and photographed across different districts.
“They showed up all over Voldrath,” Graylock said, resting his elbow on the table. “Between two and four in the morning. No one saw who planted them.”
Leiger nodded faintly. “I saw some on the way—in some trash but didn’t think much of them.”
He sighed. “You wouldn’t. Not unless you opened one.”
She glanced at the first image: a neatly scripted message in deep violet ink.
The Kinetic Sovereign has taken his final bow. Not with thunder, but silence.
Another slip:
What is a stage without its tyrant star? A place for a thousand shadows to dance.
And one more:
He fell beneath the weight of his own legend. And something else rose through the cracks.
All ended with the same signature flourish:
– Your Villainess
Leiger shut the folder. “So it’s her.”
Graylock gave a slow nod, taking another sip. “Madame Marionette. Pretty much.”
The heavy entrance to the hall creaked open just enough for a tall, slender figure to slip through. Both Graylock and Leiger tilted their heads slightly.
The figure walked with a sluggish, practiced gait—more habit than effort. A female Sentinel. Her coat, while standard issue, had extra padding and small etched modifications that hinted at field experience and frustration with standard-issue anything. Her short hair was the same deep navy as her eyes, and her expression was carved from stone: deadpan, permanently fixed.
She sighed. Not out of exertion, but exhaustion of a more spiritual kind. Not tired from work—just tired of this place and its ever-predictable low pay.
Hands deep in her coat, she drifted toward them, eyes half-lidded as if even blinking was beneath her mood.
“Morning, Sentinels,” she said, voice flat.
Elite Operative Vera "Paycut" Mercer.
Graylock nodded once. Leiger mirrored it. Paycut didn’t wait for an invite. She slid into the empty chair beside Leiger like she’d owned it yesterday and rented it out for regret.
She glanced between them. “What’s up with you assholes?”
Leiger silently slid the file across to her.
Paycut picked it up, flipping through its contents as Graylock filled her in—details on the envelope drops, the aesthetic flair, the signature poetic lunacy that only Madame Marionette would bother with, and the repeated references to The Kinetic Sovereign.
Paycut closed the file with a light snap.
“Folgren,” she said dryly.
Leiger didn’t flinch, but she fell quiet.
Paycut exhaled through her nose. “These people… like Marionette—they act like life’s just a goddamn stage. Everyone else? Props. Set pieces. Background noise for their genius. Meanwhile, the rest of us are working three shifts to afford stale loaf of bread and the occasional bullet wound.”
Graylock leaned back and took a slow sip from his mug. “How was the babysitting?”
Paycut squinted. “Don’t.”
Graylock smirked. “Wasn’t you on a bodyguard mission to Merchant Coalition Empire? One of Chairman Lucius Vale’s personal men, right? Through… what’s their empire called again…”
“The Aurex Consortium,” Leiger supplied smoothly.
“That’s the one,” Graylock nodded. “Diplomatic run for Etherium trade, wasn’t it?”
Paycut let out a sigh that seemed older than her bones. “It was like escorting a magnetic landmine through a fireworks factory. Or a bar full of drunk Abyss divers. Take your pick.”
She shook her head. “Vale’s man walked like he owned half the city, chin held so high I thought his neck would snap. Of course, there were a few ‘attempts’—but hey, I was there—for that reason.”
She tossed the file down. “Meeting didn’t go as well as they hoped. Some formalities got exchanged, sure, but the Etherium seller from the Consortium’s side? Said they’d rather deal directly with Chairman Vale next time.”
Graylock raised a brow. “Chairman Lucius Vale and his silver tongue huh. Well. Might work out in the end.”
Paycut snorted. “Yeah, if that silver tongue doesn’t end up with a knife in it first. Those Consortium nobles smile like they’re measuring your coffin.”
She leaned forward slightly, tone still dry but with a flicker of actual interest. “Still, if the Coalition’s reps are getting picky, it means they’re worried. Etherium stock’s probably spiking—or they’re planning something.”
Graylock hummed low in his throat, thoughtful. “Either way… it means something’s brewing.”
Graylock cleared his throat and tapped the now-half-empty mug lightly against the table. “Alright. Back on track.”
He leaned forward, arms on the table. “The current situation’s messy. A quiet death for an Apex Augury? Unheard of in my sentinel days. They don’t go down without lighting half a district on fire or leaving a crater behind. Especially not Folgren—guy had absolute control over kinetic energy. If he actually died, it’s weird that there’s been no surge, no trail, no mess. Nothing.”
Paycut and Leiger both nodded slowly—Leiger more measured, playing along with subtle brows furrowed in thought. Paycut scratched the back of her neck, deadpan.
“But then again,” Graylock added, “it’s Madame Marionette we’re talking about. If anyone could take down an Apex, it’d be either her, another Apex, or an Executor Sentinel. And even if it’s not true, her poetic envelope stunt was enough to stir the pot.”
He tapped the folder again. “You know how the underground works. Power vacuums don’t stay empty. And Folgren wasn’t just some shadowy myth to them—he was a Phantom Ruler. The Crimson Circuit’s entire infrastructure bent around his will.”
He sat back, voice heavier now. “That’s why there’s been an order passed around the Station. No new field ops unless approved by Commander. Most of us are being told to stay stationed, brace for the shifts. Ever since those envelopes dropped, Sonnet’s been pushing to embed himself deeper into the Crimson Circuit again—see what moves they’ll make in the vacuum.”
Graylock looked at the two of them pointedly. “So for now, keep your coats dry and your blades sharp. Big Station meeting’s coming very soon and we just have to wait.”
Paycut gave a long, sarcastic exhale through her nose. “Sure. Just another day of risking our necks for the low, low price of one sustainable paycheck. Even if it's about a literal war on a crime faction.”
Leiger didn’t answer at first. She rested her right hand near her chin, gaze on the table, eyes thoughtful.
“I see…” she muttered softly, letting herself sink into the silence, the wheels turning.
Graylock leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head as he did. “Well, since it’s been made clear that no one can move without the Commander’s say-so, I guess I’ll happily take the time to rest. Though I’m sure that ‘rest’ will mostly involve paperwork.” He closed his eyes with a contented sigh and picked up his coffee mug, sipping loudly.
As he continued to sip, the distinct click of heels echoed through the stone floor, coming closer. Graylock, oblivious to the approaching presence, remained focused on his coffee.
Paycut and Leiger both looked up, glancing at the figure behind Graylock. The woman approaching had a tall, commanding presence. Her figure was sleek, and her curves were accentuated by the tight, subtly modified Sentinel coat she wore. Her vibrant purple hair cascaded to one side, and her sharp features—elegant and precise—complemented her jadeite-colored eyes that matched the color of her rose lipstick. The emerald neck-choker with black ribbon around her neck, with its noble engraving, stood out. Beneath her coat, her attire was notably more fashionable than the usual standard issue, making it clear that she was someone who didn’t care much for the dress code.
Graylock, still unaware, continued to sip. But Paycut and Leiger’s gazes followed the woman closely, unable to tear their eyes away from her as she approached. The click of her heels grew louder, and Graylock finally noticed their looks. He stopped mid-sip and turned to ask, “What?”
Then, a seductive, almost sultry voice called, “Gray~~.”
Graylock let out a long, exhausted sigh, his posture slumping as he prepared himself for what was about to happen. He quickly felt hands wrapping around him from behind, and a familiar sensation of soft and large breasts pressed against the top of his head. It felt as though two ostrich eggs had been placed on a swallow’s nest. He didn’t flinch, though—just sighed deeper as if this was a constant routine.
Commander Selene Veyne
“Commandr Selene,” Graylock mumbled, his voice thick with resignation.
“Hmm?” Selene teased, her voice dripping with playfulness. She didn’t answer directly. Instead, her hands lingered a moment longer, squeezing him slightly as she leaned in closer.
Graylock sighed again, a visible, exaggerated release of breath. “Why are you bothering me?” He rubbed his forehead, trying to compose himself. “I had a long night scouting, and all I want is some peace and quiet. Not your… shenanigans.”
Selene pouted dramatically, her face turning into an exaggerated look of hurt. “Oh, so now I’m shenanigans, huh?” She tilted her head, then in an overly theatrical tone, added, “Guess I’m not worthy of your attention anymore. I suppose you’re right though. After all, you were scouting… inside my room.”
Graylock immediately coughed, causing coffee to splutter from his lips, which sent Paycut and Leiger into fits of coughing as well. The hall was suddenly filled with awkward choking sounds.
“For the love of god,” Graylock groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stop with your nonsense. I’m going to report you to HR if you keep this up.”
Selene paused, looking mildly offended for a moment, then just as quickly, her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Though you wouldn’t,” she teased, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Fine, fine. I won’t make you suffer any longer.”
Graylock tried to regain some composure, glaring up at her. “Now, what do you want?”
Selene’s demeanor shifted immediately. She stepped back slightly, her voice turning serious. “I need you to follow me to an Abyssal Gate's Section 9.”
Graylock raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that where Eliza and some of the other operatives went last night?”
Selene nodded with a slight grimace. “Yes, but there’s a problem.”
She reached into her coat and pulled out a communicator, flipping it open. With a press of on the screen, a voice message began to play, filled with urgent static and the sound of wind howling in the background. It was Eliza’s voice—panicked, desperate.
“WE NEED BACKUP! ASAP! The first Abyssal rift’s been cleared, but a second, larger one tore through—more Abyssal crawlers and something bigger might be coming. Most of the operatives are down, some have fainted… One’s lost a limb…” Eliza’s voice shook with the intensity of the situation, her words choked with urgency. “SEND GRAYLOCK! GET THAT MAN HERE QUICKLY! MY HAVOC CANON IS OVERHEATING! COME QUICK!”
The voice cut off abruptly, and Selene closed the communicator with a solemn expression.
“That was sent just a few minutes ago,” she added. “We don’t have time.”
Graylock’s casual demeanor faltered as the weight of the situation set in. He straightened his back, his face hardening. “Okay,” he said, standing up from the table. “Let’s go.”
Selene beamed as if they were heading off to some romantic getaway. “I’m so excited!” She clung to his arm as they stood. “Our little Abyssal rift date, Graylock. You’ll drive, and I’ll cling to you from behind.”
Graylock barely reacted. He sighed again, clearly giving up on trying to make her behave.
He turned toward Paycut and Leiger. “Paycut, you coming?”
Paycut slammed her head down onto the table, causing a loud, exaggerated thud that echoed in the hall. Then she proceeded to make loud snoring noises, purposely exaggerating her ‘sleep.’
“You paycheck-complaining prick-”
Graylock shook his head, about to respond when he noticed Leiger. She was sitting with her hand on the table, an unreadable, almost forced neutral expression on her face to the dynamic with Graylock and Selene.
He sighed once more and turned to her. “Your Sentinel gadget’s been repaired. It’s at Cee’s desk.”
Selene let out a contented sigh as she began tugging Graylock away. As they passed the others, she waved casually to them, calling out teasingly, “Bye, little heartbreaker!”
Leiger just nodded at her, the teasing remark going unnoticed by the tired Graylock as he allowed himself to be pulled away.
As Selene and Graylock finally left, Leiger lingered in silence, her thoughts still drifting. She then tilted her head slightly and asked, "You're not actually asleep, are you?"
Paycut, face buried into her folded arms on the round table, merely gave a lazy thumbs-up in response.
Leiger shrugged and rose from her chair, stretching subtly before making her way toward the back of the hall where the mission deployment clerks were stationed. As she approached, it became clear that only the Left Clerk station was occupied. The Right and Middle desks remained empty.
Behind the Left Clerk’s station, a small woman with round glasses was anxiously organizing mission files, her movements jittery and uncoordinated. The air of weariness clung to her like fog.
“Morning,” Leiger greeted casually as she stopped at the desk.
The clerk startled, nearly dropping a stack of reports. “Ah! G-Good morning! I’m Celeste Marlowe—but everyone calls me Cee. I’ll be your new assigned mission deployment clerk from now on!”
Leiger gave a calm nod. “I’m aware. My—”
“Oh! Your Sentinel Gadget!” Cee interrupted, eyes lighting up with a sudden spark of purpose. “Wait just a moment!”
She scampered into the back room and returned moments later, carefully placing Leiger’s Arcane Multi-Tool onto the counter. Leiger picked it up immediately. Just from the weight and sheen, she could tell it had been polished—and enhanced.
Cee beamed nervously. “The repair team made a few upgrades using spare parts from Sir Bardock’s Sentinel Gadget.”
Leiger tilted the tool slightly, examining it with a practiced eye. The grip felt subtly different, firmer. More efficient.
“They improved Function 3—your Arcane Disruptor,” Cee continued, tapping her notes with a finger. “And Function 5—your mental long stick—has a smoother retract mechanism now. Function 7, your shield, and Function 8, the two-handed longsword, were both upgraded with kinetic absorption and release enhancements which also includes function 5. That’s thanks to an Arcane-Kinetic Converter salvaged from Sir Bardock’s unit.”
Leiger raised a brow as she felt the sword module click into place, just slightly heavier now. “And?”
“Oh! Uh, Function 6—the stun gun—has been removed,” Cee said with a sheepish laugh. “It’s been replaced with a Whisper Rail. Mid-range anti-personnel. Compact railgun format.”
Leiger blinked. That was… not a small change.
“It also has a better tolerance for rapid shifting between functions,” Cee added, “but that doesn’t mean it’s immune to overheating. The tech’s advanced, but it still has limits.”
“Hm.” Leiger made a thoughtful noise. “What’s the catch?”
“Well… the repair team said you’re going to become an Elite Operative eventually, so they, um… preemptively upgraded it on your behalf. But the costs will be deducted from your station credit, of course.”
Leiger let out a long sigh. “Typical.”
She turned and began heading toward the exit at the right.
“Miss Leiger!” Cee called nervously behind her. “I-It’s going to be my honor to work with you! I’ll do my best!”
Leiger waved her hand behind her dismissively without turning around.
A few minutes later, Leiger arrived at the entrance of the training ground.
The massive space resembled a coliseum—only modernized and functional. Within its reinforced walls, a few Sentinels sparred or practiced in silence. Among them, two rookies were clearly following Graylock’s orders to "hit the field".
Leiger’s gaze scanned the crowd with calm detachment—until her eyes locked ontosomeone.
Commander Noire Valcrest.
Who was the most interesting character in this chapter?
