Hours after his encounters with Jamie and Commodore Wilton, Nick found himself on the south side of New Rome. Here, the skeletal remains of the Industrial Revolution—factories of rusted steel and shattered glass—lay bare. This broken sector was a haven for the homeless, "juice" addicts, and the fallen elite who now scavenged through dumpsters for survival. It was in this desolate landscape that Nick had made his home: an old factory on 45th Street, aptly named Factory Forty-Five

  The interior was a vast, hollow space, its only features the cracked brick walls and frail steel beams supporting a leaky roof. Cluttered with the remnants of old, broken machines—cannibalized for parts to fuel Nick’s experiments—the factory felt more like a graveyard than a home. A small living area was partitioned off by large wooden crates against the wreckage of steel.

  He had achieved what he considered significant progress with his father’s Rift technology, yet the same insurmountable obstacle persisted: no matter the aspect of the Rift field energy he attempted to conduct, he could not replicate the Rift Field Stabilizer Ring

  When his father died in the Gravaton Event, the government had seized all blueprints related to the Ring. They had gone further, confiscating all inventions utilizing Rift-Tech worldwide. The Stabilizer was the crucial component, allowing the harnessing of extra-dimensional energy without anti-matter feedback. Now, the State held a complete monopoly. Nick’s closest attempt was the Gold Coil

  As his dilapidated factory came into view, Nick noticed several black cars parked haphazardly outside. Men in sharp, expensive suits guarded the entrance. He paused, weighing his nonexistent options. He knew exactly who they were: the Legion Gang

  The Legion had been locked in a brutal turf war with two other major organizations for nearly a year. While they held a stalemate against , they were steadily losing ground to the . It was the potential loss of New Rome’s West Side that had brought them to his doorstep.

  He almost fled, but before his legs could obey the impulse, two men in black suits spotted him. "Damn," he mumbled, resigning himself as he walked toward them.

  "I thought you weren't coming for a couple more days," Nick said, trying to sound casual.

  "Plans change, Morgan," the chubbier of the two guards commented, beginning a rough pat-down. After a few uncomfortable moments of being frisked, the guard grunted his satisfaction. "Come with us," the taller man barked.

  Inside the main hall, Alexander LegionTitus

  They were surrounded by a cadre of enforcers. Toward the back of the factory, another man stood waist-deep inside one of Nick’s own contraptions, flanked by two bald guards in distinct gray suits—a stark contrast to the Legion’s black attire.

  "Well, finally. I was beginning to think you’d skipped town on us," Legion drawled. His posse chuckled.

  “No, sir. As you can tell, my capital is limited. I’ve had to sell my father’s belongings just to keep the lights on. I walk everywhere now,” Nick lied. “How long have you been waiting?”

  "Too long... but considering you didn't know I’d be here early, I’m willing to forgive the tardiness." Legion took a long drag from his cigar, peering at Nick through a haze of gray smoke. "I’m cutting to the chase, kid. My timetable shifted. I’m here for what you promised. Are they finished?”

  Nick hesitated for a fraction of a second. The next words would seal his fate. "They are. I finished them last night, Mr. Legion.”

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “How did you get that lump on your head?”

  Nick offered a clumsy explanation about tripping on the sidewalk. To his surprise, the old gangster seemed to accept it.

  "You said you had to sell your father’s things just to keep the power on," Alexander chuckled. "Forgive me if I find a bit of poetic justice in all this. I remember your father—Rift, the founder of the old Guild." Legion extinguished his cigar on the bare wood of the desk. "Now, something you probably don't know is that besides Titus and me, there was a third Legion. Our older brother, Bart."

  Alexander made the sign of the cross. “Bart wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but when Father died and Mother got sick... he stepped up. He made sure the family had what we needed. But Mother left us in crippling debt. She had a gambling problem—one of the worst you’ve ever seen.”

  Legion half-grinned at his brother. “You remember that time, Titus, she tried to sell Scruff for slot money?”

  “I do," Titus said, his voice a deep, low rumble. "Old bat would have gotten away with it, too... if she’d told a better lie to Bart about where she was taking the damn dog. That dog was so old he could barely get out of bed to piss, let alone go across town to the park.”

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  The brothers shared a moment of dark humor. Nick wished he were anywhere else.

  “See, Nick,” Alexander continued, “Bart did what he could, but that debt weighed on him like a boulder. He did things the 'right' way first. But the world doesn't want to help you; it wants you crushed. Bart realized that, and he turned to crime. But he didn’t count on one thing. You know what that was?”

  “I don’t,” Nick answered.

  "Your father, Rift." The gangster leaned forward. “Bart had almost cleared the debt, but your dad caught up with him. Hard to beat a testimony from a true American hero. When the great Thomas Morgan says you’re the bad guy, the public starts looking for trees to tie the rope to. Bart didn’t give the bastards the satisfaction of a trial, though.”

  Legion shook off the memory and stood up. “I don’t blame you for your father’s actions—that’s not what this is about. I’m saying... don’t give me a reason to hate you. Because there’s a lot of hate I can throw your way. Now, is there any reason why these guns wouldn't be finished?”

  Nick considered confessing. He could tell them the weapons were useless without the Stabilizer. But as he scanned the room, seeing the armed men filling his decaying halls, something primal surfaced.

  “No, Mr. Legion… it’s just… I haven't tested them yet, sir. That was my plan for today.”

  "Well, let’s test them, my friend. There is no time like the present," a voice called from the back of the building.

  Nick felt a fresh knot of unease. It was Ben Garret

  "This is Ben," Alexander stated. “He’s here to lend his expertise. Only a handful of people truly understand this junk.”

  “I admit, I don't usually operate in these circles, but the chance to see what you’ve been doing was too enticing to pass up," Garret said with a sneer. "Though, thus far, I’m rather disappointed in you, Morgan.”

  "Good thing I don't give a shit about your opinion, Ben," Nick snapped.

  "Shut up! Both of you!" Legion barked. "Show us the guns."

  Nick walked to a tarp-covered crate in the corner and yanked it off, revealing twenty unmarked crates. As he unlocked the first one, he saw Garret wearing a devious smile. Nick felt like he was betraying his father’s ghost, but there were no other options.

  "Step back, Morgan," Alexander ordered. "Let Ben do the testing."

  As Garret stepped forward, Nick seized his chance. His gaze flickered to a cluttered workbench. There, half-hidden beneath a blueprint, was a small, square device—a 'Rift Field Detonator.' It was a palm-sized, single-use explosive meant to unleash a focused burst of energy. With a surreptitious motion, Nick snatched the cold metal and slipped it into his pocket.

  Garret pried off the top of a weapon, probing its inner mechanisms. "Yes, yes... but this... is that the proton matrix?" After twelve minutes of examination, Legion’s impatience flared.

  “Well, Garret? Will they work?!”

  "I’m not entirely sure," Garret admitted, turning to Nick. "The designs are ingenious, but the stabilizer... where is it? In its place is a coil. Did you find a workaround?"

  "All the designs for the stabilizer were confiscated," Nick said, his voice steady. "I created a substitute. It’s not as stable, but it gets the job done."

  Garret looked unconvinced. “Maybe it does... and maybe it doesn't. Samuel! Bones! Front and center!"

  The two bald men in gray suits approached.

  "Mr. Legion, since I can’t guarantee the safety of this weapon, I volunteer my men as a test," Garret offered. Samuel took the gun while Bones stood fifty feet away in the center of the hall.

  "You’re going to shoot your own man?!" Nick shouted.

  "Relax, Morgan. Bones here is Test Subject A-6—a once-depraved juicer who has become a stable power," Garret snapped. "Hit it, Sam."

  Samuel didn't squeeze the trigger so much as he engaged a sequence. The weapon didn't "bang" like a traditional firearm; it hummed—a low, throat-rattling vibration that made the loose glass in the factory windows shriek. A localized vacuum seemed to form around the barrel, pulling in the hanging dust and smoke, before a bolt of jagged, violet-white energy tore through the air.

  The crack of the air displaced by the bolt was deafening. It struck Bones squarely in the sternum. For a heartbeat, there was a terrible, frozen quite. Bones didn't fly backward; he stayed rooted, his body absorbing the kinetic force. Then, the energy began to bleed outward.

  Violet veins of light spider-webbed across his skin, glowing brighter until they began to cook him from the inside out. Bones fell to his knees, not screaming, but gasping as the air in his lungs was ionized. His skin didn't just burn; it unraveled like old parchment in a gale, turning to gray ash that swirled into a miniature cyclone. Nick watched, paralyzed, as he saw the man's ribcage exposed, glowing red-hot, before the flesh simply ceased to be.

  It was a miniature storm. Electricity crackled, and an unnatural wind whipped debris around what was left of the levitating man. After a few seconds Only charred, blackened bones remained as the energy dissipated and what was left of bones fell to the ground.

  Silence hung in the air, followed by Alexander Legion’s applause. "Woohoo! I had my doubts, Morgan, but damn! What a show!"

  Nick stood frozen. He had never witnessed death firsthand. The gruesome sight of someone being torn apart by his own invention left him sick with shame.

  "That's good business. Boys! Bring in the money!"

  Two guards entered carrying black travel bags and placed them at Nick’s feet.

  "I'll take two crates. That's one million," Legion explained. "If they work for my needs, I’ll buy the rest. Just don't sell to anyone else. We're your only customers now."

  As the gangsters headed for the exit, Ben Garret approached the remains of his bodyguard.

  He pulled a small, glass vial from his pocket and crushed it over the blackened pelvis of the skeleton. A viscous, iridescent fluid leaked onto the bone.

  "Behold true power, little Morgan!" Garret’s voice was manic.

  The twitching began at the marrow. It looked like a thousand tiny needles weaving together. First, the deep crimson of new muscle fiber began to wrap around the scorched femur, wet and glistening. There was a sickening, rhythmic sound—the noise of a heart forming and immediately pumping blood into half-finished arteries.

  Nick felt his stomach turn as he watched the eyes grow back—milky white orbs that rolled in their sockets before the eyelids had even formed. Sheets of translucent skin began to stretch over the raw meat of the man's face, knitting together with an audible popping of pores. Within minutes, the charred ghost in the center of the room was replaced by a gasping, shivering human being, his new skin as pale and unblemished as a newborn’s, standing amidst the ashes of his previous self.

  Garret and his guards left with no words and a smile, leaving Nick alone in the silence of the factory.

  "These people... they're soulless lunatics," Nick whispered.

  He thought of Jamie’s warning and the Commodore’s threat. Too many paths led to his downfall. Whether it was the Legion Gang or the Law, Nick knew he couldn't stay. He had to leave New Rome, and he had to do it now.