The car ride back to Alder Park was deathly silent. The muted hum of the engine and the faint creak of the vehicle’s frame were the only sounds, save for Zoe sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her nimble fingers worked incessantly, shuffling and laying out her cards in repetitive, almost mechanical motions. Her focus seemed half on the cards, half elsewhere, as though trying to divine some clarity.

  Gemo, lounging against the door with a yawn, broke the oppressive quiet, "Damn, Marcello," He said, looking over. "How're you gonna let Alder blue-ball us like this?" He asked in his usual playful mocking tone.

  Marcello’s jaw tightened, his brow furrowed in annoyance, "He's used to getting his way," He replied, voice clipped. "There's nothing I could've said to change his mind. You can't with people like that."

  Gemo grinned lazily, leaning his head back, "So, like you?"

  Marcello’s scowl deepened, his fingers curling into a fist on his lap, "You don't know anything about me."

  Mitani, seated near the window, chimed in, attempting to diffuse, "To be fair to him, it does make sense," Mitani said. "I mean, if anyone is gonna know how to torture someone to get info, it'll be those scary-ass dudes. "

  Zoe looked up from her cards, locking eyes with Marcello. The weight of his cold, calculating gaze sent a ripple of unease through her. She studied his expression, trying to discern the direction of his thoughts.

  Poatan stepped into the alleyway and sat on the concrete steps, unlocking his phone.

  "Poatan?" Zheanni’s sharp voice burst from the speaker, crackling slightly with static.

  "Yeah, it's me," he muttered, pulling out a battered lighter and flicking it a few times before it ignited.

  "The fuck happened? I got everyone lookin' for you! Thinkin' you got packed an' shit."

  "Hell nah, you know that ain't ever happenin' to me. But shit, we got enemies here; that's for sure."

  "Is it BTB?"

  "Nah, I don't think so. I've never seen these dudes before, but I got the names 'Alder Park' and 'Marcello' from one of 'em."

  "Alder Park," She repeated, the name stuck in her mouth.

  "You know him?"

  "Nah, but I will soon...Hold on, does this man have any relation to Ayla Park? The Dizney girl?"

  "Oh yeah! That was the other name I heard! One guy kept asking me if I knew where she was. But I didn't know she was a star."

  "Where you at?"

  "No clue. Kinda looks like the area where Antwan and his girl were set up. But look, it don't matter," he took Bulwark's phone out of his pocket, as he spoke, scrolling through the contacts, seeing the name Marcello. He grinned, showing off his blood-stained teeth; small spots of flesh still stuck between some. "I'm gonna get this lil' dude out of the way for us."

  "Hold on," Marcello said, holding up a hand to Zoe, as he reached in his pocket, pulling out the ringing phone. "What do you need, Bulwark?" He said, putting it to his ear.

  Zoe watched as Marcello's eyes widened, a look she'd never expected to see on him. She watched as the arm which held his phone slowly dropped by his side.

  "Zoe, do me a favor, real quick."

  "Uh," she looked from his hand back to his face, now totally calm, almost as serene as his voice. "Okay," she said hesitantly.

  "Right now, look up large abandoned sections of town." He put the phone back to his ear, "What is it you need."

  Zoe walked to an open laptop on the kitchen counter, passing by Mitani, who watched Marcello curiously.

  "I'll choose the place," Marcello said. "It'll be a quiet area…" he trailed off, listening. "No, I don't need anyone else." He walked over to Zoe, looking over her shoulder at the computer screen. "I'll message you the address."

  "What was that?" Mitani asked.

  "Gemo," Marcello nodded at the man sitting on the couch. "That thing we discussed earlier. It's now or never."

  "Ha!" Gemo threw his head back, laughing, "Let's get it!"

  Marcello stepped to the center of the room, making eye contact with Zoe and Mitani. "One of you tell Alder that Bulwark and the mafia members he sent are dead, and I'm going to kill the guy who did it."

  13c Rue Camizelle Road, 985412, Apris.

  Poatan stepped over the broken glass as he walked through the consulate's front door. Strolling through the grand entrance, his bare feet slapped against the once-shiny marble floor, now dull and cracked with age. The air was stale, tinged with the acrid stench of mildew and decay. He glanced at the walls, where portraits of past presidents hung, either defaced with crude graffiti or torn to shreds, their frames dangling by a thread.

  This building and the surrounding area of town had been abandoned seven years prior. After years of political unrest, a massive riot forced a shutdown of the country. For weeks, most major roads in Apris had been completely blocked. When most of the remaining government officials had been executed or had left, crime families and the government officials they paid were the only ones left to run the place. Now, only this sector of Apris remained bare, with few daring to enter—it being common knowledge that it would be suicide.

  On the second floor, he pushed open the double doors to the consul's office, the heavy wood creaking in protest. Marcello leaned against the overturned desk in the middle of the dirty room. The carpet was stained with muddy footprints and was splattered with singed bullet holes.

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  Sunlight filtered through the office windows, catching the suspended dust particles like fireflies floating around them.

  "Marcello." Poatan greeted, his voice low and gravelly, looking the beleaguered figure before him up and down, an unimpressed look on his face.

  "Yeah?"

  "Do I know you?"

  "No," he said, pushing himself off the desk.

  Poatan cocked his head, squinting at him, "Then what's your issue, bruh?"

  "Do you know John Doe?"

  Poatan smirked, "Yeah. What about him?"

  "Do you know where he is?"

  Poatan shrugged, "Honestly, not sure. I've barely seen the guy…That's what this is? You got beef with John?"

  "Do you know anything about his past? Has he told you anything?"

  "Dude, I don't know. You won't see him again, so I don't know why you're so pressed now."

  “The Kiala Star Tribe,” Marcello said, his tone sharp as a knife.

  "What?"

  "On the island of Kiala Reef. Seven years ago, he made everyone I know just disappear."

  "That's crazy," he raised his eyebrows. "How come?"

  "Don't know. I was hoping you would."

  "Heh," he chuckled. "It's up."

  Marcello's eyes turned steely.

  "There we go," Poatan smiled, strolling toward Marcello, his muscles flexing and rippling under his shirt. "You're really down for this. I didn't expect that."

  "I'm just taking the chance to widdle you guys down. Less of a headache later." Marcello clenched his fists around a nigh invisible string of fishing line and pulled. Behind the desk was a decayed hole in the floor, which Marcello fell through right as two grenades rolled toward the room's center, triggering a thunderous explosion that reverberated through the entire building.

  Landing on his feet, Marcello swatted away the descending dust and debris from his hair.

  'Not enough,' He thought, his aura surrounding him. He hopped back just as Poatan slammed through the floor above, his foot stomping where Marcello was standing less than a second prior.

  The rapid expanse of debris that would've cut through any average human slowed and glided past Marcello as he extended his right hand; the emerald on his ring emitted a luminous glow.

  Marcello ducked a punch, quickly retreating. 'I gotta get away. I'm severely limiting myself here.'

  Poatan stood, watching Marcello as he hid deeper into the consulate. "So this whole thing with you askin' about someone named 'Ayla' was bullshit?" He called after him as he disappeared deeper into the consulate. "You were fronting in front of whoever, pretending like I knew shit that I really didn't. For what?"

  'Flying Banshee!' The blue opal on Marcello's fingers glowed as a sleek black controller appeared in his hands, and a translucent green visor shimmered into existence across his eyes.

  Poatan flinched, feeling something whiz by his head. He scanned the room; the boarded windows and dirty skylights left long pillars of shadow.

  From behind him, a low hum as bullets sprayed from a dark corner, each surrounded by bright blue light.

  He whirled, picking up a chunk of broken floor and flinging it toward the gunfire. The piece shattered as it hit the wall, echoing throughout the empty consulate.

  "Damn," Poatan coughed, his raspy voice bouncing through the halls. He touched his calf gingerly, feeling the hot wound. His eye twitched as his right ear heard something faint.

  He scooped up several hunks of rubble, chucking one.

  Marcello winced; it felt like someone had kicked him in the ribs with steel-toed shoes. Putting his hand to his side, it felt like a chunk of flesh had been ripped from his skin. He put both hands back on the controller, concentrating as hard as possible.

  Sparks flew as the rock chipped the small flying object.

  'Dude got some energy-toy flying around. An inexperienced energy user will still leave a connection from their manifested object to themselves—like a breadcrumb trail.' Prior to this, he'd sparingly utilized this aspect of energy. Feeling the world around you, one would be able to see without seeing. So now, as Poatan concentrated, he focused on the presence of Marcello. The feeling was very weak, but he knew he was still in the building. Obviously, he saw the direction Marcello fled, but he wasn't stupid; he knew the boy could be literally anywhere. 'This Marcello kid is on his shit. Being able to manifest something and then being able to hide its signature takes a powerful user. I gotta be a little serious here.'

  To Poatan's right, behind the tall plant growing from a crack in the floor, the object began firing again. The bullets ripped into his shoulder.

  Then came death hurtling toward the flying toy at an undodgeable speed.

  Poatan apprehensively took a step toward Marcello's Flying Banshee, trying to get a better look. He lifted an energy-covered hand; the glow of it illuminated the shaded corner.

  "Some kinda toy biplane?" Poatan looked on, confused. The rock he threw had completely ripped apart the right half of its top wing and completely dismantled the propeller. In the cock-pit was a small figurine with a green visor covering its eyes.

  Before his curious fingers could grab it, the plane glowed briefly before disappearing.