The Ruins of Saturday​The heavy iron gates of the courtyard clicked shut behind them. James and Code 202 continued down the damp, stone-lined corridor of the armory, their strides perfectly synchronized. Before leaving the compound entirely, they had stripped away their previous tactical gear to don the official high-tier armor of the Pitch operatives, identical to the attire in the image.​Both men were now draped in commanding, heavy black leather trench coats that fell past their knees, complete with padded, armored shoulders and sharp vertical zippers spanning the chest. Beneath the coats, they wore form-fitting, textured black combat shirts zipped tightly to the throat, paired with matching black tactical trousers reinforced with utility straps, holsters, and heavy-duty knee armor. Their hands were encased in thick, paneled leather gloves, and their footsteps were rendered deadly and silent by heavy-duty black leather combat bo

​An hour later, the tires of the sedan groaned against the cracked, salt-encrusted gravel of the abandoned industrial perimeter. James drove with a quiet, geometric precision, his massive gloved hands completely steady on the steering wheel. The landscape morphed into a jagged cemetery of rusted machinery and bleeding steel until, at last, the skeletal silhouette of the old oil station materialized through the lingering morning fog.​He brought the vehicle to a silent stop.​James stepped out of the car, the heavy soles of his leather combat boots grounding into the damp earth. Everywhere was wrapped in a suffocating, absolute silence—the exact same heavy stillness that had hung over the yard the last time he and Todd had entered this trap.​Suddenly, a sharp, lethal hiss cut through the air.​A small, black-tipped poison arrow shot out from the shadow of the rusted storage units, flying with blinding, supersonic speed directly toward James’s throat. But James didn't flinch. To his he

​Inside the dark, heavy silence of the adjacent bedroom, Tidder stood frozen. Her skin was prickling with a sudden, sharp instinct of survival. The muffled, unnatural vibration of James’s voice echoing from the sitting room sent a shudder straight down her spine. He was slipping away, mutating into something unrecognizable under the thrall of the crystal.​She turned her head slowly, her eyes tracking the thin shafts of moonlight cutting through the grime of the windowpane. Outside, parked in the overgrown weeds of the alleyway, sat the sleek, skeletal frame of a matte-black sport bike.​Tidder did not hesitate. Every millisecond wasted was a step closer to a cage.​Moving with the silent, fluid grace of a shadow trained by the Pitch, she unlatched the heavy wooden window frame. It slid upward with a faint, almost imperceptible scrape. She caught her breath, slipping her slender, leather-clad frame through the narrow opening, her platform boots hitting the damp, muddy earth outside wi

​The matte-black sport bike tore through the heavy iron gates of the Pitch House, the tires screeching violently against the rain-slicked gravel before slamming to a sudden halt. Tidder vaulted off the seat before the engine could even sputter to a silence.​Two syndicate guards dressed in immaculate black suits stepped forward from the shadows of the concrete pillars, their hands immediately disappearing beneath their jackets to draw their firearms.​“Who the hell are you?” the first guard barked, his face twisting in sudden aggression. “You can't park here! Get the fuck—”​Tidder didn't let him finish. Moving with a cold, terrifying fluidity, she ripped open the heavy canvas weapons bag strapped to her bike. Her fingers locked around the steel grip of an L86A1 LSW. Without wasting a single millisecond, she brought the heavy squad automatic weapon to her shoulder and pulled the trigger.​RAT-TAT!​Two deafening, high-caliber rounds tore through the midnight downpour, striking both gu

The Empty Banner​An absolute, crushing silence descended upon the grand foyer of the Pitch House. The roaring thunder of the crystal had vanished, leaving behind only the rhythmic, hollow dripping of rainwater leaking through the shattered skylights.​James stood motionless on the blood-slicked stairs, his knuckles white as he looked down at Tidder. The black mutation across his skin had begun to recede, leaving his face pale and cast in a hollow shadow. Slowly, deliberately, he dropped his broadsword. The heavy iron weapon clattered against the marble steps, echoing uselessly through the empty halls.​Moving with an agonizingly slow, fragile precision, James knelt into the crimson pools. He slid his arms beneath Tidder’s limp form, lifting his sister’s body into his embrace. Her head rolled back against his shoulder, her dark hair stained with soot, completely drained of the fierce vitality that had defined her entire life.​Holding her