The cargo hold swayed with the freighter’s groan, steel ribs moaning with each wave like an old man trying not to curse the dawn. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, pale and judgmental.
Delacroix stood with his fists raised, stance tight, precise, just like the instructors had drilled into him back in the Legion.
Too tight.
Too precise.
Across from him, Locke circled lazily, the black training blade resting across his shoulders, arms hooked over it like it was just another Tuesday.
“You always fight like a fuckin’ textbook, or is that just for my benefit?”
Delacroix didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, breath steady.
Locke dropped the blade into one hand and twirled it once—more habit than show. “Right. Thought so.”
Delacroix moved.
Fast—two steps in, one diagonal slash. The blade hissed low, aiming for the gut. Locke parried with a twist of the wrist, letting the strike glance off, then swatted Delacroix’s shoulder with the flat.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to piss him off.
“Better,” Locke said. “But you’re still broadcasting every thought like a bloody semaphore.”
Delacroix’s second strike came harder—a tight arc toward the ribs. Locke stepped in, too close for comfort, letting the blade slip past him.
“Elbows in, weight low—yeah, I’ve seen the manuals.” He slammed his shoulder into Delacroix’s sternum, forcing him back a half step. “They work real well when your enemy’s considerate enough to fight clean.”
Delacroix pivoted, faster this time, turning the missed strike into a low knee. Locke caught it against his thigh with a grunt.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “Start thinkin’ like a bastard.”
They broke apart.
Breath heaving. Sweat building.
Delacroix came again—this time, looser. More instinct, less choreography. A hook. A sidestep. A feint that drew Locke’s weight forward.
For a heartbeat, Delacroix had the angle. He drove in, low and sharp, trying to hook Locke’s ankle for a takedown.
Almost worked.
Locke rolled with it, grunting as he absorbed the motion—then snapped back and swept Delacroix’s legs clean out from under him.
Delacroix hit the deck hard. Steel boomed under his back. He winced, jaw clenched.
Locke stood over him, breathing through his nose, offering a hand.
“Not bad,” he said. “You almost got clever.”
Delacroix hesitated. Then took the hand.
Locke hauled him up with one sharp pull and clapped him once on the shoulder—just hard enough to sting.
“Just remember,” he said, turning back toward the crates, “a demon’s not gonna give you time to line up your fucking form.”
Delacroix rolled his shoulder, sweat trickling beneath the collar of his shirt. “Guess I’m still shaking the Legion out of my bones.”
Locke didn’t look back. “Then shake faster.”
They sat on the crates, slick with sweat and silence.
The kind of silence that only came after a fight—when your blood stopped screaming and your thoughts started crawling back in.
Delacroix leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the black cloth of his blindfold soaked dark against his brow. His chest rose and fell in tight, even breaths. Controlled. Trained. But under it, his hands still twitched—micro-adjustments like a man trying to forget his body remembered pain.
Locke sat beside him, one boot up on a crate edge, forearms resting on his thighs. He didn’t speak for a while. Just watched the steam rise off his skin and the way Delacroix’s shoulders rolled like they were still shaking out ghosts.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose and said, “You’ve improved.”
Delacroix didn’t move. “Define improved.”
“You don’t fight like an officer anymore,” Locke said. “That’s a compliment.”
Delacroix gave a humorless grunt. “That’s generous.”
“No, it’s honest.” Locke leaned back a little, letting the cold seep into his spine. “You’re thinking less, moving more. You stopped trying to win the exchange and started tryin’ to survive it.”
He tilted his head, watching him now—not as a sparring partner, but as something closer to a student. Or maybe something closer to a bomb.
“But you still flinch.”
Delacroix didn’t reply.
Locke reached out, slow and casual, like he was going to stretch—but his fingers twitched toward the edge of the blindfold.
Delacroix recoiled instantly.
Not big. Not dramatic. Just a sudden tension—shoulders rising, breath caught. A half-second of instinct before reason clawed its way back in.
Locke’s hand didn’t even reach him. He just let it hover in the air, then dropped it.
“That,” Locke said, voice low, “is what gets you killed.”
Delacroix wiped sweat from his jaw. “It’s not fear.”
“No,” Locke agreed. “It’s programming.”
He picked up the training blade again, not to use it—just to spin it loosely in his hand. The metal whispered against his calluses.
“You spent your whole life bein’ told that thing on your face makes you dangerous. Makes you cursed. Makes you less.”
Locke shrugged.
“So now every time someone gets close, your body still expects a boot or a bullet.”
Delacroix didn’t deny it. Didn’t argue.
He just sat there, shoulders rigid, as the cold of the crate seeped into his spine.
Locke let the silence sit.
Then, almost gently: “You wanna fix that?”
Delacroix turned his head slightly, blindfold angled toward him. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Locke nodded once, quiet. Then smirked, just faintly.
“Good. Because the next bastard who goes for your blindfold ain’t gonna stop short.”
Delacroix shifted, stretching his back until the muscles popped along his spine. He rolled his neck once, then let his blindfolded gaze drift sideways—just for a second.
Toward the container.
It sat in the corner of the cargo hold like it had always been there. Ordinary. Anonymous. No markings. No airflow. Bolted to the floor with reinforced brackets. The kind of container no one mentioned but everyone noticed.
He couldn’t help it.
Even with the blindfold, his head tilted just slightly toward it.
Just enough.
Locke didn’t even glance. He just spoke, voice low and dry.
“There’s nothin’ in there for you, mate.”
Delacroix didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn away.
“You sure?” he asked.
“I’m certain.”
Delacroix leaned forward on his elbows, hands loose between his knees. “You’ll have to forgive my curiosity.”
“No,” Locke said, flat. “I don’t.”
The words landed like a snap of cold metal.
Locke finally looked at him then—really looked. Not through him. Not past him.
At him.
“It’s not personal,” he said, tone still calm, still even. “But if you start pokin’ into things that aren’t yours to poke…”
He leaned in.
“…I’ll put you down.”
Silence.
It wasn’t a threat.
It was a fact. Like gravity. Like a blade waiting in the dark.
Locke’s eyes never left him.
“Do you understand?”
Delacroix didn’t answer right away.
He just sat there. Still. Breathing slow.
Thinking.
Locke didn’t blink.
“Delacroix,” he said again, firmer this time. “Do you understand?”
A beat.
Then—
“I understand.”
Locke exhaled once, sharp through his nose. “Good.”
He stood.
The moment passed.
But it didn’t go far.
Silence settled between them again.
Not the kind that came after exhaustion.
The kind that felt like something had shifted. Tipped.
Delacroix sat still on the crate, the sweat drying on his skin, his ribs sore from impact. But that wasn’t the ache that lingered.
It was the words.
I’ll put you down.
He hadn’t expected warmth. He hadn’t even expected trust. But for a moment—just a brief, fragile moment—he’d thought maybe Locke was someone who saw him. Not as a Shadeborn. Not as a tool. Just… someone.
And now?
Now he knew better.
He pushed off the crate, standing slow, wiping a line of sweat from his jaw.
“I’m gonna hit the showers,” he said quietly.
Locke didn’t stop him.
Didn’t nod. Didn’t acknowledge.
Just let the silence hold.
Delacroix turned, boots echoing faintly as he crossed the hold. One step after another. No rush.
He was halfway to the corridor when the sound of boots hit the stairwell.
Meilin.
She came down quick, urgency in her steps, braid bouncing against her back.
“There’s a situation,” she said, already halfway down the stairs.
Locke looked up, frowning. “What kind?”
She met his eyes.
“It’s the coast guard.”
Delacroix paused in the hallway.
Just enough to hear.
Just enough to know.
Locke moved. So did Meilin. Their footsteps receded toward the top deck.
Delacroix didn’t.
He kept walking.
Because this wasn’t his business.
Because Locke had made it clear where he stood.
Because old habits didn’t die. They just got buried deeper.
He reached his quarters. Stepped inside.
The door shut behind him with a metallic clunk.
He locked it.
And said nothing.
The sky above the freighter had grayed to slate, the horizon a smudge of haze where the sea kissed the smog-streaked clouds. Wind scraped across the deck in lazy bursts. Below, the ocean chopped against the hull with no real rhythm, just the kind of unease that crawled into the bones.
Locke stood at the port railing, arms folded, coat flapping behind him. His eyes were on the cutter—sleek, narrow, painted in the dull grey-blue of the Kyōsakan Maritime Defense Authority.
It moved like a predator.
“KMDA Cutter K-47, this is freighter Tenzan Maru,” the radio crackled behind him from the bridge. “Requesting confirmation of boarding party.”
A calm voice replied over the static. Male. Crisp. “Four officers inbound. Prepare to receive.”
A small vessel detached from the cutter’s hull, slicing the waves clean as it sped toward them. Four uniforms on board—three armed, one with a clipboard. The lead wore rank pins on his collar and a blade at his hip. Not for show.
Captain Moreau waited at the starboard gangway, face stiff, posture practiced. His first mate stood behind him, expression unreadable.
Locke didn’t join them.
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He stayed back near the bridge stairwell, half-shadowed by the bulkhead, watching.
Meilin stood a few paces from him, arms crossed, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes flicked from the boat to the boarding platform, then to Locke.
“This routine?” she asked.
Locke didn’t look at her. “If we’re lucky.”
Meilin frowned. “And if we’re not?”
He turned slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
“Then it gets loud.”
A beat of silence.
Locke nodded toward the lower deck. “Mess hall. Now.”
“I can help—”
“No,” he said, and this time the sharpness was there. Not cruel. Just final. “If this goes south, the best thing you can do is not be near it.”
She hesitated. Then nodded once and turned, footsteps light as she disappeared below.
Locke turned back to the deck.
The boarding boat was latching to the hull. Lines tossed. Hands reaching. The first officer of the KMDA stepped aboard with quiet authority, eyes sweeping the crew like he already knew where the secrets were hidden.
And Captain Moreau greeted him with the smile of a man who’d done this dance before.
Too smooth.
Too easy.
Locke’s jaw tightened.
Something stank.
And it wasn’t the sea.
The coast guard officer—tall, trim, unreadable—stepped off the boarding vessel with two others flanking him and a pair trailing behind. Not rushed. Not tense. Just deliberate.
Moreau greeted him with practiced ease, hand extended, smile just tight enough to be professional. The officer took it, no small talk. No glance to the sea. Just a nod.
Locke watched from a distance as they exchanged pleasantries—ship name, manifest references, confirmation of crew count. Everything sounded right. On the surface.
Too right.
Moreau turned and gestured toward the stairwell. “I’ll take you below. We’ll start with the cargo hold.”
The coast guards followed.
So did the first mate.
Locke waited until they passed him. Then he stepped in close behind Moreau and grabbed his elbow—nothing violent, just a quiet insistence. The captain glanced back, half-frown forming.
“What’s going on?” Locke murmured.
Moreau didn’t stop walking. “Routine inspection.”
Locke didn’t let go. “Bullshit.”
Moreau slowed now, just enough that the others passed out of earshot. His voice stayed calm. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
That was when Locke knew.
Because if it were a real inspection—and Moreau had it covered—then the money would’ve exchanged hands up top. Quick handshake. Folded bills. Done before the boots hit the deck.
No need to go below.
No need to “inspect” anything.
Locke let go of his arm, but his eyes were steel. “You sold us out.”
Moreau gave a half-shrug. “I’m just keeping the ship clean.”
He turned and followed the others down the stairs, leaving Locke at the top—alone with the tension curling in his gut like smoke.
The narrow stairwell groaned under the weight of boots. Steel met steel in quiet rhythm as Moreau led the coast guard team deeper into the ship, voice calm, guiding.
"This way," he said. "Cargo hold’s at the base. You’ll find everything logged and locked."
The lead officer nodded without acknowledging him. “Good.”
At the base of the stairs, they paused.
Two of the guards—broad-shouldered, tight-jawed—split off and positioned themselves at either side of the cargo bay door. Neither spoke. Neither looked curious. They stood like walls.
Locke stopped at the landing just above them, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sharp.
He clocked the placement instantly.
Two inside. Two to block. One unaccounted for.
The last guard—a younger man, lean and quiet—paused by the stairwell.
“Crew mess is below deck, yeah?” he asked, already halfway turned.
Moreau didn’t blink. “Yes.”
“I’ll verify crew count.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just moved—smooth, practiced, like he’d already memorized the layout.
Locke took a step forward. One of the door guards shifted just slightly. Not threatening. Just ready.
Moreau turned back toward the cargo bay, giving Locke a look that meant nothing.
And too much.
Locke’s jaw clenched.
He’d seen it before.
A bribe was supposed to keep things tidy. Quick exchange. No walking tour. No drawn-out play-by-play.
This wasn’t tidy.
This was orchestrated.
He watched the last guard disappear down the corridor toward the crew quarters—toward Meilin.
His fingers twitched by his side.
If we’re lucky, nothing.
But Locke had stopped believing in luck years ago.
The mess hall smelled like reheated rice and salt-stained steel. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in dull protest, flickering now and then like they might give up entirely.
Meilin sat at the end of the bench table, arms folded, a steaming mug of tea untouched in front of her. She tapped her fingers against the wood. Once. Twice. Then stopped.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Measured. Not rushed.
A man in coast guard greys stepped through the hatch.
Not the officer. Not one of the clipboard types. This one had the swagger of someone who didn’t need orders to throw his weight around.
He saw her. Smiled.
“Crew mess?”
She nodded slowly. “You’re in the right place.”
He stepped in, hands loose at his sides, a sidearm holstered beneath his jacket. Too visible to be unintentional.
“Got orders to verify headcount,” he said, voice light, easy. “Captain says the manifest lists five crew. You make six.”
Meilin tilted her head. “Cook’s not listed. Contractual loophole.”
The guard grinned. “Ah. Invisible labor. Gotta love bureaucracy.”
He started circling the room. Not looking at anything in particular—just looking.
“Nice ship,” he said. “Quiet. Not many mouths. Lot of space.”
Meilin said nothing.
He took a step closer. Too close.
“You ever wonder what they’re hauling in all those crates?”
Still, she said nothing. Just tensed.
“Some of ‘em,” he went on, “got heavier seals than most military drop vaults. Stuff like that makes a man curious.”
He reached for her mug. Picked it up. Took a sip.
Meilin flinched.
He smacked his lips. “Too much ginger.”
She rose slowly from the bench. “If you’re done verifying, I’d like you to leave.”
The smile disappeared.
He didn’t move.
“You got rooms down here, yeah?”
Her eyes narrowed.
The guard glanced at the corridor behind him.
“Mind if I have a look?”
She stepped back.
He followed.
She stopped. Raised a hand. Knocked twice—sharp, quick.
“Delacroix?” Her voice wasn’t panicked. Not yet. Just tight. “Hey. Something’s not right. One of the guards—he—”
She glanced over her shoulder. The coast guard was right there now. His face had changed. No charm left.
“Delacroix, please.”
Silence.
No footsteps. No breath. No movement inside.
Just steel and stillness.
The guard reached forward and grabbed her by the braid.
Hard.
She gasped, half-falling against the wall as he yanked her back. “I asked you a question.”
Delacroix sat on the edge of the cot.
Still blindfolded. Hands clasped between his knees.
The world beyond the door had narrowed into voices and violence. He heard Meilin. Heard the shift in tone. Heard the desperation.
And still—he didn’t move.
Because it wasn’t his problem.
Because Locke had drawn a line in the sand.
Because he knew what stepping out meant.
But then he heard it.
The sound of hair being yanked. A body hitting the wall. A short, muffled cry.
No more protocol.
No more questions.
Delacroix stood.
Slowly.
Like the tide rising.
He reached for the latch.
Turned it.
And the door creaked open.
The stairwell groaned under their boots as Locke descended, flanked by two coast guards. One ahead. One behind. The air in the hold was colder now, metallic and still, like the ship itself was holding its breath.
Moreau waited near the sealed container, hands behind his back, face tight with a politician’s smile.
The lead officer stood nearby, gloves tucked into his belt, watching Locke like a man watching a door just before kicking it in.
Locke’s eyes flicked to the container.
Then to Moreau.
“You know how this works,” the captain said, tone diplomatic. “They’re not here to torch the ship. They just want a peek. You open the crate, they verify it’s clean, we all move on.”
Locke didn’t answer.
The officer stepped forward. “Your name’s on the manifest. The lock’s keyed to you.”
Silence.
Locke let his eyes settle on Moreau again.
“You really think this ends with a peek?” he asked.
Moreau shifted, but held his ground. “I think if you cooperate, nobody bleeds.”
“That’s rich,” Locke said. “You think these bastards come all this way for a routine look, then decide to stroll back empty-handed?”
He turned his gaze on the officer.
“I’m not opening it.”
Tension cracked the air like ice underfoot.
The lead guard exhaled once. “You don’t have to. Just tell us where the key is.”
Locke smiled. Not friendly. Not warm.
“The key’s not with me.”
The two guards behind him moved fast—one pressing a hand against his shoulder, the other drawing a sidearm and leveling it center mass.
“Don’t be stupid,” one of them said.
Locke didn’t flinch.
“You’re not faster than five barrels,” the officer said. “Give us the key, and you walk.”
Locke’s hand twitched, fingers brushing the hem of his coat where the hilt of his blade rested, unseen.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
The officer gave a nod.
“Take him.”
Gloved hands seized his arms. Metal cuffs snapped shut with military precision.
Locke let them.
Eyes still on the container.
They chained Locke to a support strut near the cargo lift—arms behind the beam, feet planted, posture casual despite the steel biting his wrists. The cuffs were military-issue. He didn’t struggle.
The guards searched him methodically.
Knives. Throwing weights. Small-caliber revolver tucked behind his belt.
But no key.
Just as he said.
The lead officer tossed the empty holster to the floor with a quiet clatter.
“You weren’t lying,” he muttered.
Locke smiled faintly. “Try to keep up.”
Moreau stepped forward now, hands raised—not pleading, but managing.
“Where is it?” he asked. Calm. Rational. Like they were talking over drinks.
Locke tilted his head. “Can’t remember.”
The guard closest to him didn’t wait. He drove the butt of his rifle straight into Locke’s gut—hard. The sound was wet and solid, a breath knocked sideways. Locke grunted, knees dipping for a heartbeat, but didn’t fall.
Didn’t curse.
Didn’t beg.
Just breathed through the pain.
Moreau winced. “That won’t work.”
He gestured to the guard to back off. Then turned, more to the officer than anyone else.
“He’s a Rōnin. They don’t crack. Not like this.”
The officer frowned. “So what, we sit here and wait?”
“No,” Moreau said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “There’s another way.”
He turned to the other guards, voice low but sharp.
“Go get the girl.”
Locke’s eyes opened fully now.
Not wide.
Just sharp.
Focused.
His voice was quiet. Cold.
“He lays a hand on her—” he nodded toward the guard already halfway to the stairwell “—you’re all dead.”
Everyone froze for a beat.
Not because of the volume.
But because of the way he said it.
Like a fact.
Like he wasn’t threatening.
Just informing.
The lights in the lower deck hummed with a soft electrical pulse, casting everything in a tired yellow haze. Meilin stood outside Delacroix’s door, arms folded, weight shifting from foot to foot.
She knocked—twice.
“Del?” she called, tone light, maybe even embarrassed. “There… might be trouble. One of the guards split off, and I—”
She stopped. Listened.
Nothing. No footsteps. No shifting cot. Not even breath.
Another knock. Louder this time.
“Look, I’m not saying it’s bad yet. Just… maybe come out. Maybe be ready.”
Still nothing.
Her lips pressed tight. She turned to leave.
That’s when the footsteps came.
A coast guard turned the corner—tall, dark-uniformed, mouth twisted into something trying to be polite and failing.
“Miss,” he said, nodding. “Sorry to disturb. You’re needed downstairs.”
Meilin straightened. “What for?”
“Captain’s orders. They want you in the hold.”
“I’m the cook. Whatever business that is, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
The guard stepped closer. His smile didn’t move.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t asking.”
He reached for her wrist.
Meilin jerked back. “Don’t touch me—”
The slap came hard and fast, snapping her head sideways. Pain bloomed along her cheek, white-hot and dizzying.
Before she could recover, his hand was in her hair, yanking her forward.
She screamed.
“Shut up,” he growled. “Ain’t no one here to save y—”
Silence.
The guard’s eyes widened slightly. Then crossed.
And then he pitched forward—dead weight hitting steel with a thud.
A knife jutted from the base of his skull, handle still quivering.
Meilin stared, panting, chest heaving. She hadn’t even seen it happen.
A shadow stepped into view behind the fallen body. Barefoot. Blindfolded.
Delacroix.
He reached down, took her hand, and helped her to her feet without a word.
Then turned.
And started walking back toward his door.
“Wait—” Meilin followed, still breathless. “Locke needs your help.”
Delacroix paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame.
“Whatever this is,” he said, “pretty sure Locke would want me to stay out of it.”
“He’s too stubborn for his own good,” she said. “They might kill him.”
Delacroix shrugged.
“Then that’s on him.”
She stepped closer. “Is that really all this is to you? Just someone else’s mess?”
He didn’t answer.
Meilin stared at him, voice shaking—but not weak.
“Look, if you’re not gonna do it for Locke, then do it for me.”
Delacroix turned his head slightly, blindfold facing her now.
“You barely know me.”
“No,” she said. “But I know you just got off your ass to save me.
And I’d like to believe that counts for something.”
A pause.
Delacroix turned without a word and stepped back into his quarters.
The door didn’t close.
Meilin stood outside it, fists clenched, blood still pounding in her ears.
“No,” she said, voice low but firm. “You’re not shutting us out again.”
Inside, Delacroix didn’t respond. Just moved to the cot, crouched beside a rusted duffel bag. He unzipped it slowly, like opening a wound.
The blade came out first—slung over his shoulder with a practiced motion, its weight settling across his back like it belonged there.
Then came the sidearm.
MAG52.
He popped the cylinder, spun it once.
Seven chambers.
Two empty.
One spent in the penthouse. Thorne.
Two more on the freighter. One to blind the sea spectre. One to keep Locke breathing.
Five left.
He loaded each one slowly.
Meilin stepped inside.
“How many guards?” he asked, not looking at her.
She hesitated. “I didn’t get a good look. Maybe four? Five?”
Delacroix snapped the cylinder shut with a flick of his wrist. The weapon disappeared beneath his coat.
He turned to her now.
“I need your help.”
She blinked. “What do you want me to do?”
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“So was knocking on your door.”
He gave her a look. Not gratitude. Not approval.
But something.
Something like acknowledgment.
He grabbed the last shell—a shotgun slug—and slipped it into a side pocket. Just in case.
“Follow my lead,” he said.
And then he moved for the door.
Heavy boots rang against the metal steps.
Every head turned.
Delacroix descended one slow step at a time, blindfold still tied tight across his eyes. His arm was locked firm around Meilin’s throat, not choking, but close. In his other hand, the black matte barrel of the MAG52 pressed hard against her temple.
She trembled, eyes wide with confusion and something worse—betrayal.
“Fucking traitor,” Locke spat, still cuffed to the cargo strut. His lip was split, one eye swollen. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”
Delacroix didn’t blink.
“Did I ever say I was on your side?” he said, voice even, almost bored. “Far as I remember, you made it crystal where I wasn’t wanted.”
Moreau stepped forward, cautious. “Why?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“All I care about is docking in Kyōsaka,” Delacroix replied, taking another slow step down. “So long as I can walk off this ship and be left the hell alone, I don’t give a shit what happens here.”
Meilin’s voice cracked. “I thought I could trust you,” she said. “I thought we were friends.”
Delacroix didn’t look at her. Didn’t soften.
“Where I come from,” he said coldly, “darkies don’t have friends. Just handlers.”
The room went quiet.
One of the coast guards glanced at the others, hand twitching near his sidearm.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s Tanaka?”
Delacroix reached the bottom step. His boots met steel.
He didn’t smile. “That one made the mistake of testing me.”
That hung in the air for a beat—too long.
Then Delacroix let his voice rise, sharp with irritation. “You want the fucking key? The girl’s got it.”
Moreau’s brows lifted. A low chuckle escaped him.
“Of course she does,” he murmured, nodding to himself. “Smart move. Bring her here.”
Delacroix walked her forward, one arm still around her neck, pistol never wavering.
Meilin didn’t resist.
But her breathing was fast.
Delacroix’s steps were quiet now.
Measured.
He counted.
Two near the lift.
One by Locke.
One half-behind the console.
And Moreau—closer than he should’ve been.
Five targets.
Five bullets.
The math was tight.
As they reached the flat surface, his grip loosened.
He leaned in, voice a whisper.
“Trust me.”
Then he moved.
He let her go, stepped past her—
And turned.
In one fluid spiral, he brought the MAG52 around and fired.
Bang.
The guard by the console dropped, shot through the throat.
Bang.
The one nearest the lift caught it clean in the chest.
Bang.
Another reaching for his pistol never made it halfway.
Bang.
The fourth had time to turn. Not time to scream.
Each shot echoed like a nail in a coffin.
The fifth guard stumbled back—blood soaking his jacket—then hit the floor.
Moreau dropped to his knees, hands up, scrambling backwards through the blood like a man trying to deny gravity.
Delacroix didn’t even look at him.
He holstered the MAG52.
The black blade whispered free from its sheath.
One stroke—clean, merciless—cut through Locke’s restraints.
Chains clattered to the deck.
Locke flexed his wrists. Blood trickled where the metal had bitten him.
He looked at Delacroix.
No smile.
No thanks.
Just a grim nod.
Respect earned.
Not given.
The smell of gunpowder still hung in the air—acrid, sharp, clinging to the metal walls like a curse. The bodies bled quietly into the grooves of the floor, steam rising from their cooling flesh.
Moreau was on his knees, hands up, eyes wide.
“They gave me no choice,” he panted, voice cracking at the edges. “You think I wanted this? I didn’t ask for trouble, I just—”
Delacroix walked past him, slow and quiet, the MAG52 still warm in his grip.
He stopped just behind Moreau. Looked down.
“The only reason you’re not bleeding with the rest,” Delacroix said, voice flat, “is because we still need a hand on the wheel.”
Moreau’s breath hitched.
“They’ll kill me,” he muttered. “You don’t understand. You don’t know who—”
Locke stepped forward, face hard.
“I’m done guessing,” he said. “Who put you up to this?”
Moreau hesitated.
Locke’s boot came down with a sickening crack—right across Moreau’s ankle.
The scream echoed, high and sharp and desperate.
Meilin flinched. Delacroix didn’t move.
Moreau rolled onto his side, clutching his leg, spitting curses through tears.
Locke crouched beside him, eyes cold.
“You don’t need your ankle to steer a ship,” he said calmly. “But unless you start talking, I’ll start picking bones you really won’t miss.”
Moreau sobbed, nodding furiously. “Okay, okay—Takagi. Masahiro Takagi. It was him.”
Locke’s face didn’t change. But the name landed like a drop of oil in a burning pan.
Moreau kept rambling. “It was supposed to be a procurement job. Crate in, crate out. Simple. That’s it. Not this—” he looked up at Delacroix, eyes red, voice tightening with something bitter and venomous, “—not this fucking darkie getting involved.”
A silence dropped like a blade.
Delacroix stepped closer, gaze unreadable.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Then he turned to Locke.
“Get him to the bridge.”
Locke stood. “And you?”
Delacroix holstered the MAG52.
He glanced at the bodies.
“I’ll handle the mess.”
The cold night air hit Delacroix like a slap.
He moved across the deck in silence, boots leaving smudged prints in drying blood. In his hand, he carried the gas canister—heavy, sloshing with the bite of fuel. The dead weight of one last errand.
The coast guard’s boarding vessel bobbed quietly below, tethered by a single line to the hull. Untouched. Waiting.
Delacroix stood over it, raised the canister high, and threw.
It crashed onto the deck of the cutter with a hollow clang—fuel splashing across the interior.
He drew the MAG52.
One bullet left.
He didn’t aim long.
Crack.
The shot sparked. The flame bloomed.
The boat erupted into fire with a sound like paper ripping—only louder, wetter. Smoke twisted skyward, bright orange against the night. For a moment, the deck below glowed like dawn.
Then it faded to black.
Delacroix holstered the gun and turned.
Cargo Hold – Minutes Later
The smell of blood was still thick—metallic and cloying, clinging to the back of the throat. But the noise had gone. The dead didn’t scream.
Meilin knelt near the far wall, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the deck with a wet rag. The water in the bucket beside her had gone pink, then red.
Delacroix stepped into the room, silent.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She didn’t look up.
“When we dock,” she said, voice tired but steady, “if anyone sees a crime scene, there’ll be questions. The kind we don’t need asked.”
She wrung out the rag. Red water dripped into the bucket.
Delacroix nodded, almost to himself. “Locke said this wasn’t your first rodeo.”
“It’s not.”
Silence again.
The room creaked around them, like the ship was trying to forget too.
Delacroix turned. Started toward the stairwell.
“I’ll be in my room.”
Meilin looked up then. Hair stuck to her face, sweat clinging to her jaw.
“I don’t know what Locke said to you,” she said, “but we’d probably be dead twice over if it weren’t for you.”
He stopped.
“And for what it’s worth… you say your kind doesn’t have friends.”
She stood, squeezed the rag again. Blood spiraled down into the water.
“Well… you’ve got one in me.”
Delacroix said nothing.
Just nodded once—barely perceptible.
Then turned and climbed the stairs.
Locke stood behind Moreau, arms crossed, one boot resting against the wall. The captain sat at the helm, one ankle wrapped in a crude splint, his hands firm on the wheel.
“If you so much as twitch wrong,” Locke muttered, “I’ll make you steer with your teeth.”
Moreau didn’t answer.
The lights of Kyōsaka shimmered faint on the horizon—distant, but getting closer.
