Chapter 3: The Alchemist’s Den

The rain hadn't relented as Elias Voss guided the stolen truck through Old Detroit's fringes, its engine a low growl beneath the storm's ceaseless drum. The docklands faded into a blur of neon and decay, giving way to a strip of sagging bars and flop houses that clung to the city's edge like barnacles. His long black coat was still damp, the kevlar lining heavy against his frame, but he didn't feel it. His gray eyes stayed locked on the road, unblinking, the faint blue glow of his machete's runes reflecting off the dashboard. The rift fragment from Pier 17 sat in his pocket, wrapped in a rag, its pulse a nagging itch he couldn't shake.

Mira Kade slouched in the passenger seat, boots propped on the dash, flipping the vial of ghoul ichor from the dealer between her fingers. "That shard," she said, breaking the silence that had stretched since the warehouse. "Rift key material, you think?" Elias didn't look at her, his grip steady on the wheel. "Maybe. Need more than guesses." She snorted, twirling the vial with a flick of her wrist. "You're a real poet, Voss. Ever consider writing ballads?" He let the jab hang, unanswered. Her chatter was a burr under his skin, but she'd held her own back there. That earned her a pass—for now.

He pulled up outside a rusted door beneath a flickering sign: The Iron Flask. The bar was a haunt for hunters, alchemists, and anyone who traded in the gray spaces between law and chaos. Elias killed the engine and stepped out, the wind tugging at his coat as he scanned the street—empty, save for the rain and the distant hum of rift scars overhead. Mira followed, stuffing the vial into her jacket, her magic simmering beneath her skin like a caged storm. "Charming place," she muttered, eyeing the peeling paint. He didn't reply, just pushed through the door, the stench of stale beer and burnt herbs hitting him like a fist.

Inside, The Iron Flask was a tomb of scarred wood and dim light. A handful of figures hunched over tables, nursing drinks and secrets, their eyes flicking up as Elias entered, then away just as fast. He was known here—not liked, but known. Behind the counter, a woman looked up—Rhea, her face a patchwork of scars and ink, her hands stained from years of mixing things better left unmade. "Voss," she rasped, voice like gravel, nodding once. "Been a while." He didn't answer, just slid the vial across the counter's chipped surface, the black ichor glinting under the bar's weak bulbs. "Analyze it."

Rhea took it, squinting as she turned it in her fingers. "Ghoul ichor. Fresh cut. Where'd you get this?" Elias cut her off, his tone flat and final. "Source matters. What's it for?" She shrugged, pouring the liquid into a shallow dish, the black shimmering as it spread. "Depends who's asking. Street junkies boil it for a high—nasty stuff, fries the brain. But this?" She leaned closer, sniffing it, then set it over a small burner. "This grade's clean. Could be weaponized. Or bait." Mira stepped up, curiosity sharpening her gaze. "Bait for what?" Rhea's lips curled, showing yellowed teeth. "Something big. Rift-born, maybe. Hard to say without more."

Elias watched the ichor bubble, the faint hiss filling the silence. "Shrike's moving it," he said, voice low, a statement not a question. Rhea's smirk faded, her eyes flicking to his. "That bastard? He's been quiet lately. Too quiet." She tapped the vial with a chipped nail. "This is military-grade. Not his usual game—small-time trafficking, sure, but this smells like a project." Elias nodded, filing it away. The Shrike wasn't just a dealer anymore—he was building something, and the rift fragment in his pocket tied into it.

A crash shattered the room's stillness—glass exploding, a chair toppling in the back. Elias turned, machete half-drawn in a heartbeat, its runes flaring blue. A figure staggered from the shadows—tall, gaunt, eyes wild with panic, clothes torn and streaked with mud. "They're coming!" he shouted, voice cracking like dry twigs. Rhea swore, ducking behind the bar, grabbing a shotgun stashed beneath. Elias stepped forward, pistol raised, gray eyes piercing the man. "Who?" The gaunt figure didn't answer, just pointed a trembling hand at the door as it burst inward with a splintering crash.

Three figures stormed in—hooded, clad in patched tactical gear, blades and rifles gleaming wet from the rain. Shrike's crew, marked by the silver talon pins on their collars. Elias didn't hesitate, squeezing off a shot that punched through the lead's forehead, the suppressor muffling the crack to a whisper. The body hit the floor, blood pooling fast. Mira's magic flared, a violet whip snaking from her hand to wrap the second's neck—it tightened, snapped, and he dropped, gargling smoke. The third lunged at Elias, a jagged blade swinging for his chest. Elias sidestepped, the machete flashing up in a clean arc that opened the man's gut. Blood sprayed the bar's floor, and the body crumpled with a wet thud.

The gaunt man whimpered, backing into a corner, hands clawing at the wall. Elias loomed over him, his shadow stretching long in the dim light, gray eyes boring down. "Talk." The man stammered, voice shaking like the rain outside. "Shrike—he knows you're here. Sent them to clean up. Said you're a problem." Mira crossed her arms, kicking one of the corpses aside. "Fast response for a ghost. He's got eyes on us." Elias didn't reply, just holstered his pistol with a soft click and turned to Rhea, who'd emerged with the shotgun still in hand. "Finish it."

She nodded, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper—chemical breakdown, rift traces—and slid it across the counter. "High-grade ichor, laced with rift energy. Could draw something nasty if you're not careful. Watch your back, Voss." He took the slip, tucking it into his coat without a word, the weight of the rift fragment pressing against his ribs. The bar's patrons stayed silent, heads down—no one wanted trouble with him, or The Shrike.

Outside, the rain pounded harder, the rift scars overhead pulsing like a warning flare in the purple-streaked sky. Elias stepped into it, Mira at his side, her magic dimming as she pulled her hood up. "He's tracking us," she said, more statement than question. Elias didn't answer, just kept walking, boots splashing through puddles that reflected the neon haze. The Shrike knew his moves—good. Let him watch. Let him see what was coming. The fragment in his pocket thrummed faintly, a heartbeat of its own, and Elias's jaw tightened. This wasn't a hunt anymore—it was a war, and he'd end it his way.