A Shadow Arrives

The air in the courtyard felt still in

a way it never should have.

Even in downtime, the Slayer compound

carried motion — footfalls, banter, weight training thuds, the occasional

laughter that tried to forget blood still clung to boots. But today? Today was

quiet.

Something about a new recruit arriving

always threw things off.

Marek leaned against the QT, one foot

braced against its armored frame, lazily tossing a wrench from hand to hand. "Wonder

if the new kid's gonna be late," he said without looking up. "Probably tripped

coming off the ramp and got vaporized by the fence. Shame. I was looking

forward to hazing someone taller than Caim."

"You say that like you're not the

bottom of the pecking order," Maria replied, perched on the QT's back hatch

with a clipboard in her lap. Her tone was flat, unimpressed. "Maybe he'll knock

you up a spot."

"I don't need to be top," Marek said,

flashing a grin. "I just need someone newer to blame things on."

Claire rolled her eyes from where she

was stretching on the grass, one long leg folded over the other like a cat. "I

hope he's not boring. If we get another quiet loner, I'm going to throw myself

into the nearest Ashen and let natural selection sort it out."

"Charming," Maria muttered.

The base doors let out a hiss.

All conversation stopped.

Boots tapped onto the concrete —

crisp, deliberate, too quiet for someone not trying to be. He emerged from the

shaded entrance with a posture so perfect it could've been sculpted. Jet-black

hair pulled into a traditional low tail. Uniform ironed sharp. Katana strapped

to his side — though not quite standard. The sheath seemed to flex with hidden

segments.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned

the group.

Then he bowed. Not shallow, not lazy.

A clean, practiced arc that spoke of discipline. Of culture. Of pride.

"Transfer Slayer Kai Kazura," he said.

"Reporting for duty."

No one moved for a moment. Then Marcos

stepped forward, arms folded over his massive chest, eyes unreadable.

"You're early."

Kai didn't flinch. "By nineteen

minutes, Captain. I was told precision matters."

Marcos's grin spread, sharkish. "Only

to people worth keeping."

"Then I'll ensure I stay worth

keeping."

Marek blinked. "Oh, great. He's one of

those."

But Flare hadn't said a word yet. He

was watching — eyes sharp, jaw still. He tilted his head, as if appraising

something no one else could see.

Kai turned to him.

And for the first time, something

shifted in his expression. Not fear. Not awe. But something close to reverence.

"You're Lieutenant Flare Nacht," he

said, quieter. "It's… an honor. At the compound, your mission stats are…

studied. Your Omega Sweep data is used to calibrate real-time kill response

AIs. Even some instructors train against your recorded simulations."

Flare blinked once, then gave a short

nod. "You do know I'm not actually those numbers, right?"

Kai's lips quirked. "I suspect you're

far more dangerous than numbers allow."

Claire snorted from the grass. "Okay,

nerd."

"I like him," Caim murmured, quietly

enough that only Flare heard.

Maria closed her clipboard with a

sigh. "Well, at least he didn't faint."

Marek elbowed her. "Give it time."

Kai's gaze swept across the rest of

the squad — fast, but not dismissive. He seemed to clock every stance, every

position, every minor tell. Military eyes. Old soul.

"I've studied all of you," Kai said,

voice calm but steady. "Captain Marcos, tactical brawler, twin kukri.

Lieutenant Flare, elemental charge and shield-style. Maria Belmonte — medical

expertise and mid-range restraint tactics. Claire, speed and corrosion, joint

targeting. Caim, explosive pressure control. Marek, long-range oversight and

vehicle deployment."

Claire blinked. "Dude. We have trading

cards now?"

Kai shrugged. "You should. You're the

highest-performing squad across the Northern hemisphere."

A silence fell over the group again.

This time… less uneasy.

Flare glanced at Marcos. "Wanna take

bets on how long until he finds out how weird we actually are?"

Marcos grinned. "Oh, I give him three

days. Tops."

Kai tilted his head. "I'm fairly

confident I can adapt."

Flare's smile was subtle — but real.

"You better. You're with us now."

Evening had finally settled over the Slayer compound.

The lights had dimmed to their usual soft amber hue, casting long shadows in the corridor as Flare walked side by side with Claire. The faint smell of disinfectant still clung to the edges of the hallway, a strange comfort after the days they'd had. Claire had ditched her combat gear hours ago, replaced with an oversized pink hoodie and black shorts. She bounced beside him with her usual cutesy energy, talking about her plans to repaint her Ulaks with glitter-enchanted enamel—much to Flare's quiet amusement.

"…and I swear if Marek uses my combat polish again, I'll coat his arrows in laxative oils," she huffed, twirling a loose strand of her hair.

"You know that'd backfire spectacularly, right?" Flare smirked. "Literally."

Claire burst into a peal of laughter, the sound echoing faintly.

Then, ahead—just past the rec room doors—someone stepped out of the hallway shower unit. Steam rolled out behind him, curling along the floor like fog on a moonlit field. It was Kai. His long black hair was damp, slicked partially behind his ears, a towel slung over his shoulder, and his night pants hung low at the hips. His bare chest was lean and defined, glistening from the steam.

Claire slowed. Her eyes narrowed in brief confusion. She tilted her head, expression flickering between curiosity and concern.

"Wait…" she said aloud, blinking.

Flare glanced at her, then back to Kai.

"…Where's your scar?" Claire asked plainly, pointing at Kai's exposed torso.

Kai paused, caught mid-step. "Huh?"

Flare's heart stopped for half a beat. The breath in his lungs came to a dead halt. He stared.

She was right.

There was no scar.

There was no scar.

Every Slayer had one—had to—on their upper left chest, just under the clavicle. A tight circle of raised skin where the microbomb implant had been embedded. A requirement. A law. A failsafe.

But Kai's skin was smooth. Pristine.

That single second shattered something quiet in Flare's mind.

And then—he moved.

No warning. No hesitation.

Flare lunged.

Before Kai could register what was happening, he was slammed back against the wall. Hard. The force echoed through the corridor. A loud crack of shoulder meeting reinforced titanium.

Kai grunted in pain, eyes wide in utter confusion.

"What the hell—?!" he managed.

Flare had him pinned, one arm braced across Kai's collarbone, the other gripping his wrist tight enough to turn knuckles white. His breath was heavy, eyes wild, searching Kai's features for something—anything—that made this make sense.

Above them, quiet mechanical clicks sounded.

Turrets.

Hidden plates along the ceiling and wall panels recessed open, revealing sleek gunmetal barrels sliding forward with eerie silence. Three units, fully locked on. A glowing red ring lit up around the targeting arrays.

The system was waiting.

Holding breath.

One wrong move and Kai would be ash.

"Flare!" Claire shouted, backing off, hands raised. "What the hell?!"

"Where's your scar, Kai?" Flare growled, voice low and rough, laced with fury.

Kai blinked. "What are you—"

"Answer me!" Flare barked.

From down the hall, pounding footsteps. The sound of boots slamming on tile. And then—

"Stand down!" came a familiar voice.

Marcos.

The captain skidded into the hallway, shirt half-buttoned, eyes blazing. His hand went instinctively toward his blade out of reflex, but paused the moment he saw the turrets.

The scene froze.

Flare.

Kai.

Claire.

And now Marcos, staring at the lockout alarm that had not triggered an instant kill.

"Flare, what the hell is going on?" Marcos demanded.

Flare didn't move. His jaw tightened. "He doesn't have the scar."

Marcos's expression darkened, the weight of those words slamming into him like a freight train.

Kai's voice finally cracked through, strained and honest. "I… I didn't know it was required—I swear—my handler never said anything about the implant."

"That's not possible," Flare snapped. "It's standard protocol. It's in the damn orientation handbook. It's the first thing you go through before leaving the compound."

Kai looked panicked now, breath catching, eyes darting from Flare to the ceiling turrets. "Please, I swear—whatever this is, I didn't know! You think I'd just—not get it on purpose? I'm not suicidal!"

Claire stepped back in, slower now, eyes flicking between the men. "Could it have been sabotage? Paperwork faked?"

"Doesn't matter," Flare muttered. "This isn't just a rule-break. It's a goddamn threat to all of us."

Marcos held up his hand. "Flare. Let go."

"He could be a walking time bomb."

"I said—let him go."

Flare's breathing slowed, shoulders still tense.

He hesitated.

Then slowly… he pulled back, releasing Kai's wrist and stepping away—but not by much.

The turrets didn't retract.

Not yet.

Kai slumped to the floor, chest heaving, visibly shaken. "I didn't… I didn't mean to cause anything. I just wanted to join the squad. I looked up to you guys—both of you. Flare Nacht and Captain Marcos. You're legends. I wanted this."

His voice broke there. Something real in it. Something raw.

Flare's gaze flickered. He didn't speak.

Marcos stepped forward finally, placing himself between the two men, then slowly raised his voice.

"HQ will need to be informed. If it really was an oversight, they'll run a full trace on his records."

Flare nodded tightly. "And if it wasn't?"

Marcos didn't blink. "Then he'll never leave this compound."

Kai swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I understand."

The turrets finally retracted with a hiss, disappearing back into the walls.

The silence that followed was brutal.

Claire muttered softly, "Well… that got intense."

Flare's voice was low as he walked away: "It's going to get a lot more intense if we don't figure out how that implant got skipped."