Chapter 15: The Warehouse Seam

The docklands of Old Detroit loomed under a sky streaked with rift scars, their purple glow pulsing faintly as dusk settled over the city. Elias Voss drove the truck through the maze of rusted cranes and abandoned piers, the coordinates from Rhea burned into his mind—a warehouse on the waterfront, Apex's dirty secret. His gray eyes stayed fixed on the road, unblinking, the scar over his eyebrow sharp in the dashboard's dim light. The machete rested beside him, runes glowing faintly blue through crusted blood, while the SIG Sauer hung reloaded at his hip, its weight a steady anchor. His tactical gear was patched but stained, the gash on his back a dull throb he ignored—focus was his shield, and he'd honed it sharp.

Mira Kade sat beside him, her magic flickering violet in her palms as she flexed her hands, the rift shade's attack still a fresh scar in her mind. Her torn jacket hung loose, her smirk faint but sharp as she eyed the coordinates on Rhea's scrap of paper. "Apex stash," she muttered, voice low. "Ichor vats, rift-tech—Carver's little playground." Elias grunted, a rare sound, shifting gears as the truck jolted over cracked asphalt. "Seam's there," he rasped, voice flat. "We cut it." She smirked, leaning back. "And if it's a trap?" He didn't reply, just drove, gray eyes narrowing—the Wraith Queen's reach was bleeding through, and Apex was the vein.

The warehouse emerged from the gloom—a hulking slab of corrugated steel, its walls tagged with faded runes and gang signs, windows blacked out. Elias parked a block away, killing the engine, the silence thick with the hum of rift scars overhead and the distant lap of water. He stepped out, machete in hand, runes flaring as he scanned the perimeter—two guards at the loading bay, rifles slung low, drones buzzing above. Mira followed, boots crunching gravel, her magic dim but restless. "Subtle," she whispered, nodding at the guards. Elias's voice was low, final. "They die. We go in."

He moved, a shadow against the dusk, coat left behind to keep his stride light. The first guard didn't see him—a shot from the SIG Sauer, thwip, punched through his skull, muffled by the suppressor. The body crumpled, rifle clattering, and the second turned, fumbling for his radio—Mira's violet arc lashed out, searing his chest, smoke curling as he dropped. Elias stepped over them, holstering the pistol, machete low as he reached the bay door—ajar, light spilling from within, buzzing with electronics and rift energy.

Mira slipped in beside him, magic coiling in her palms, her breath steady. The warehouse yawned—a cavern of crates, vats bubbling with black ichor, rift-tech consoles glowing purple along the walls. The air hummed, heavy with ozone and rot, the rift seam's pulse vibrating the floor. Elias gestured her left, taking the right, gray eyes piercing the gloom—three techs in Apex lab coats worked a console, oblivious, while a guard patrolled the far end, rifle at his side. He moved, silent, machete slashing the guard's throat in a clean arc—blood sprayed, soaking a crate, and he dragged the body behind it, runes dimming to avoid the glow.

Mira's Violet spark fried a drone overhead, its crash muffled by the vats' hum, and she crept toward the techs—one turned, eyes widening, but her magic snapped his neck before he could shout. The others bolted, stumbling over cables—Elias lunged, machete pinning one to a crate, the other tripping into a vat, ichor splashing as he screamed, flesh dissolving. The warehouse fell silent, save for the rift's hum, louder now, a heartbeat in the walls.

Elias approached the central console—rune-etched, its core pulsing with a rift shard, larger than the ones he'd carried, its energy syncing with the vial in his pocket. "Seam," he rasped, voice low, tracing a crack in the floor beneath it—purple light shimmered, faint but alive. Mira joined him, magic flaring, her smirk gone. "Carver's been busy—look at this." She nodded at the vats—dozens, bubbling with engineered ichor, tubes feeding into the console, amplifying the rift's pulse.

A low rumble shook the warehouse—not the hum, but something breaking free. The crack widened, rift energy erupting as a tear split the floor—purple tendrils lashed out, and a rift wraith clawed through, taller than the shades, its form shimmering with corruption, claws like scythes, eyes glowing purple. It screeched, lunging for Elias, faster than the hounds—he sidestepped, machete slashing its flank, runes blazing as black blood sprayed, sizzling on the concrete.

Mira's violet bolt hit its chest, staggering it, but it swung, claws raking her arm—she cursed, magic flaring to shield her as Elias fired—three shots, piercing its form, slowing it. The wraith shrieked, tendrils lashing from the tear, and Elias dove, slashing its legs—runes cut deep, crippling it, and Mira's whip snapped its neck, shattering it into smoke. The tear pulsed, tendrils retreating, but didn't close, the console's shard flaring brighter.

Elias rose, gray eyes narrowing, machete dripping as he faced the console. "Shut it down," he growled, voice flat. Mira nodded, magic coiling, but a voice cut the air—smooth, cold, familiar. "Too late, Voss." Dr. Leon Carver stepped from a side door, glasses glinting, a rift-charged pistol in hand, flanked by two Apex guards in tactical gear. "You've been a thorn," he said, voice tight, aiming at Elias. "But useful."

Mira's magic flared, violet bolt aimed at Carver—he dodged, the blast scorching a guard instead, dropping him in a heap. Elias lunged, machete slashing for Carver, but the second guard fired—bullets grazed his shoulder, blood spraying as he rolled, coming up with the SIG Sauer—thwip, a shot through the guard's visor, clean kill. Carver swung the pistol, rift energy pulsing, and fired—a wave hit Elias, staggering him, runes flickering as he braced against a crate.

Mira's Violet net trapped Carver's arm, pinning it—he cursed, dropping the gun, but kicked free, retreating to the console. "She's awake," he snapped, voice sharp. "And Apex owns her now." He slammed a lever, the shard flaring, and the tear widened—tendrils lashed out, wrapping a crate, dragging it into the rift. Elias rose, gray eyes piercing, and charged—machete slashed Carver's leg, blood gushing as he fell, screaming. "End it!" Mira shouted, magic blasting the console—it sparked, shattering the shard, and the tear snapped shut, tendrils vanishing.

Carver groaned, clutching his leg, glasses askew. Elias loomed over him, machete at his throat, gray eyes unyielding. "Talk," he growled, voice ice. Carver laughed, ragged and desperate. "Wraith Queen—she's rift-bound, but we fed her. Breachpoint was the start—scars are her veins, and we're the blood." Elias pressed the blade, drawing red. "Where?" Carver's laugh faded, eyes glazing. "Everywhere… Apex tower… top floor." He slumped, unconscious, blood pooling.

Mira limped over, magic dim, wiping blood from her arm. "Bastard's deep in it—Apex isn't just playing, they're her priests." Elias sheathed the machete, gray eyes on the vats—ichor still bubbled, rift energy faint but alive. He smashed one with the machete's hilt, black liquid hissing, and kicked the console's remains into the mess. "Tower's next," he rasped, voice flat, heading for the truck. Mira followed, her smirk faint. "Guess we're climbing."

The truck roared to life, rolling from the warehouse as sirens wailed in the distance—drones converging, Apex's cleanup crew. Elias drove, gray eyes on the neon skyline, the vial's glow pulsing in his pocket. The Wraith Queen wasn't just reaching—she was being summoned, and Apex was her altar. The hunt burned in his bones, a quiet, unyielding thing, and he'd carve through it, one seam at a time.