"You’re right, I shouldn’t—"

The electronic lock clicked open before Ronan could even finish, Sarael’s shadows retracting from the mechanism. Her fingers were still laced tightly together, but her expression had shifted.

"Then it’s settled, forever... okay?"

The desperation from moments ago was still there, but it had been joined by something more resolved. She wasn’t asking anymore. She’d made her decision, and now she was acting on it.

"Yeah, it’s settled, you’re my wife, and I shouldn’t be afraid to flaunt you," Ronan said. "But you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve knocked."

"Knocking is for people who aren’t sure they belong somewhere."

She lifted her chin just slightly, the bite mark on her neck visible above the collar of her shadow-made sweater.

"We’re sure."

Ronan didn’t argue. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, Sarael walking beside him instead of dissolving. The change was small but significant. Anyone watching would see two figures entering together, not one man and the ghost trailing behind him.

The warehouse interior was nothing like the rusted exterior. The floor had been polished to a dull sheen, and the walls were lined with soundproofing panels that muted the hum of the city outside.

Overhead lights hung from exposed beams, casting the space in a cold, sterile white that made Ronan’s skin prickle. His skills were weaker here, suppressed by the brightness, but the golem’s inheritance was still humming in his chest.

The warehouse might have been lit up, but it was still dark outside. More than enough for his skills to work.

A man was waiting near the center of the room, seated behind a metal desk that looked like it had been salvaged from a scrapyard. He wore a white mask that covered his entire face, featureless except for two dark eyeholes, and the rest of his body was hidden beneath a sleek bodysuit that left nothing exposed.

Whoever this man was, he clearly wasn’t interested in showing his face.

’Fuck...’

Ronan bit his lip. He couldn’t believe he’d been this complacent. He should’ve worn a mask before entering. Now some stranger knew exactly what the country’s most wanted fugitive looked like, and Ronan didn’t even have a name to trade for the information.

Sarael noticed his reaction immediately. Her shadows stirred, curling slightly tighter around her ankles, and her violet eyes flicked toward the masked man with a new kind of focus. The kind that usually preceded something violent.

"You brought company."

The man said. His voice was dry, almost bored.

"The instructions didn’t mention company."

Ronan didn’t flinch.

"She’s my wife. She goes where I go."

The masked man’s head tilted slightly, the featureless white surface catching the overhead lights. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then a dry chuckle escaped from behind the mask.

"Wife. Right."

He leaned back in his chair, gloved fingers tapping once against the metal desk.

"16259 didn’t mention you were married. Doesn’t matter. You passed the test. That’s what counts."

"So what was the point?" Ronan kept his voice level. "The vault job wasn’t enough?"

"The vault job told me you could follow instructions. The Filgree job told me you could kill without hesitation."

The masked man spread his hands.

"Two different skills. Both necessary. The people I work for don’t hire amateurs."

Before Ronan could respond, Sarael stepped forward. Her hands were raised, her eyes locked onto the masked man like she was staring through him, and her mouth was a flat, unimpressed line.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but can you remove your mask? I find this arrangement rather unfair."

Her tone wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a negotiation.

The masked man stopped. He stared at her, and for a moment, the silence in the room felt heavier than it should have.

What she’d just asked was the last thing someone in his position should ever do. Removing his mask meant exposing his face, his identity, the one shield that kept him alive in a network built on anonymity.

For someone as high up in the underground hunter networks as him, it was close to suicide.

"That is non-negotiable—"

The words died in his throat.

Literally.

His voice cut off mid-syllable as an invisible force wrapped around his throat and slowly squeezed.

His hands flew to his neck on instinct, but there was nothing to grab, nothing to pry away.

The sound that escaped him was a strangled, choking gasp, his shoulders heaving as he fought against something he couldn’t see, couldn’t touch, couldn’t fight back against.

"Don’t you dare disrespect my husband."

The masked man’s fingers scrabbled against his own throat, clawing at skin that showed no marks, no bruises, no evidence of the force crushing his windpipe. His chair screeched back against the polished floor as he convulsed, his spine arching, his shoulders heaving.

Sarael watched him with the same detached curiosity she’d shown the flesh golem back in Tartarus-B. Like she was examining a puzzle she hadn’t yet decided to take apart.

"Sarael!"

Ronan’s voice cut through the silence.

"Stop! Don’t kill him."

The pressure didn’t ease. The masked man’s gasps were getting thinner now, his struggles weaker. His gloved fingers had stopped clawing and were now just twitching against his collar.

"He disrespected you. He was going to sit there with his hidden face and talk down to you like you were beneath him."

"He’s a contact. A useful one. I don’t mind."

"I mind."

Her voice cracked, and the pressure tightened.

"You’re my husband. You’re the only person in this world who matters. And he was going to sit there, masked and anonymous. Judging whether you were good enough for his ’big leagues.’ Like you hadn’t already proven everything."

She shook her head, her ponytail swaying with the motion.

"I won’t let anyone treat you like that. Especially not from someone so pathetic."

The masked man’s legs kicked frantically, his body spasming in the invisible grip as he hung suspended inches above his chair. Ronan couldn’t see his face behind the mask, but he didn’t need to.

"S-Stop... her—"

"Silence!"

Sarael’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Her pupils swirled, and a sharp crack split the white mask right down the center. Visible enough to terrify. Not deep enough to reveal his face.

"I’m speaking to my husband."