I swallow. My throat feels tight. The classroom, the kids, Kairo’s doubt—they all suddenly seem remote, echoing in another life.
“Estimate?” I ask.
Garkin’s jaw sets. “They want him released, plus territory concessions, or they’ll execute him this midnight cycle. Then they move on the docks. Then we get a full-scale pitchfork in the ribs.”
I look at the screen. The red blip. The tunnel network under Haven-7. The red-scale territory boundaries. It’s all real. And it’s all ticking.
I stand. My armor test earlier is now more than an exercise. It’sneeded. The shift between teacher and warlord compresses in my chest like a vice.
“Prepare the extraction team,” I say. “We go tonight. Quiet. Fast. Bring Verin home.”
“Understood,” Garkin says. “But we’ve got kids. School. You?—”
I cut him off. “I’ll be Mr. Kuraken by morning. But tonight? I need Kuraken the restorer. Understood?”
He nods, though I can’t see. “Understood.”
I mute the holo-call and lean my head back. The ceiling above me, the bare fluorescent tubes, the dust motes dancing in the light. I taste the dryness in my mouth. I taste the lie I’m living.
I don’t tell Kairo. I can’t. Not now. She’s fragile. The kids are watching. If I expose the business tonight, I risk everything—but I risk more if I don’t.
Later.Fifteen minutes before school starts.
I walk into the classroom wearing a crisp sweater over a black shirt. My horns catch just enough light to show they’re polished. I smile. The kids look up at me like I’m the man with the cape and the powers. I let them.
“Morning, gang!” I say. “Ready for the big play rehearsal today?”
Ben at the back waves enthusiastically. He still wears the faint trace of the cupcake hat from yesterday. It makes my heart hammer.
Principal Jennings watches from the doorway, clipboard in hand, eyebrow raised. I wave. She returns with a meek half-smile.
The smell of chalk dust and warm plywood fills the room. I hand out paper crowns and glitter sticks. One girl—Lina—leans forward and whispers, “Mr. K, can you make my crown bend so it shines like your horns?”
I laugh. “Let’s try it.”
I bend the paper just enough that light catches the glitter and the crown sparkles like a distant star. The girl squeals. My throat warms. I’m doing what I love. What Ihaveto love.
And beneath it, the war drum beats faster.
Night comes like a curtain.
The rooftop garden again. I suit up under the orange-glow of emergency lighting. Carbon-weave armor, silent boots, the hum of power cells charging. The scent of metal and adrenaline is sharp. My body remembers the rhythm of battle.
Garkin’s already there, scanning the transit shaft below.
“Team Alpha’s in,” he says quietly. “Extraction in T-45 minutes.”
I nod. I hand him a small tracker. “If something hits the fan, I want that beeper going straight to my wrist.”
“Roger.”
We descend into the underbelly of Haven-7—the network of tunnels and forgotten maintenance shafts that most citizens think are “power conduits.” Funny how darkness and memory share the same corridors.
The smell changes: damp concrete, rust, the faint scent of sewage venting. I catch the whiff of spilt fuel. It’s a good smell. It says something real is happening.
The tracker bleeps.
“Coordinates locked,” Garkin murmurs.
