Marie sat in the back of a different vehicle, wrists bound in front of her instead of behind — some small mercy, though it hardly felt like one.
Two guards flanked her on either side, both silent, both armed, neither looking at her directly.
She kept her eyes on her own hands, on the thin black gloves still covering them.
At least they hadn’t taken those.
“Where’s Marcus?” she asked, voice smaller than she wanted it to be.
“Is he okay?”
Neither guard answered.
“Please. Just tell me if he’s alright.”
Still nothing.
She swallowed and looked down again, focusing on breathing, on not falling apart in front of two strangers with guns.
The vehicle slowed, then turned, tires humming over a smoother stretch of road.
Through the tinted glass, faint shapes of tall buildings slid past, blurred and colorless behind the dark tint.
“Where are you taking us?” she tried again.
This time, one of the guards actually looked at her — not unkindly, exactly, just tired, like he’d heard the same question a hundred times from a hundred other people in her exact position.
“Somewhere you’ll be looked after,” he said.
“That’s all I can tell you.”
…
Marcus had been working his wrists against the zip-tie for the last half an hour, alone in the sealed rear compartment, no one to hide the movement from except himself.
The plastic was cheap — not military-grade, just something grabbed fast for a routine snatch.
A little sweat, a lot of twisting, and the give was finally starting to show.
With one last hard twist, the tie snapped.
His wrists came free.
For a second he just sat there, flexing his fingers, half-surprised it had actually worked.
Okay.
Small win.
A soft chime rang out behind his eyes.
[Store Refresh: 04:52]
Under five minutes.
Whatever showed up in that shop, he’d know soon — and it needed to be worth something, because free hands or not, one guy locked in the back of a sealed SUV wasn’t exactly in a strong position.
He sat with his hands loosely together in his lap, watching the timer count down in the corner of his vision.
Four minutes.
Three.
The SUV took another turn, smoother road now, the kind of pavement that belonged to somewhere private — a compound, maybe, or a parking structure under some building he couldn’t see.
Two minutes.
Come on.
One minute.
The timer hit zero, and the whole interface shuddered, blue light scattering and reforming into a fresh menu.
[System Shop — Refreshed]
[Current Balance: 150 Merit Points]
Instills functional muscle memory equivalent to 2–3 years of consistent martial arts and close-quarters combat training.
Permanent.
Does not include weapon proficiency beyond basic handling.
Cost: 120 Merit Points
[2.
Mind Immunity] – [FREE — Host Passive]
Grants complete immunity to telepathic intrusion, mental domination, and psychic scanning.
Cannot be removed, blocked, or bypassed.
Active by default as a baseline Host protection.
Cost: FREE
[3. Assault Rifle — Unlimited Ammo]
Materializes a fully automatic rifle with unlimited ammunition for 5 minutes.
Weapon and ammo vanish once the timer expires.
Cost: 90 Merit Points
[4. EMP Pulse — 20ft Radius]
A single-use pulse disabling all electronics within 20 feet — locks, cameras, comms, vehicle systems.
Does not affect firearms or manual restraints.
One-time use.
Cost: 60 Merit Points
Marcus stared at the list, running the math.
Combat Training.
A hundred and twenty points.
His eyes lingered on it a moment.
Two, three years of fighting experience, permanently in his head, for just under his entire balance.
He moved down to the second option.
[Mind Immunity] – [FREE — Host Passive]
He blinked at it.
Read it again, just to make sure he wasn’t misreading the price tag.
Free?
Since when does this thing give anything away for free?
He almost laughed.
Every purchase so far had cost him something.
Free.
He blinked, then moved on — no reason to think twice about something that cost nothing.
His eyes dropped back to the real decision.
Combat training.
The rifle.
The EMP.
A hundred and fifty points, one shot to spend them right. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
“First option. Buy.”
The rifle and the EMP would burn out in minutes.
His aim was garbage — he didn’t trust a gun to get him out of this situation.
Combat training would stay with him after tonight ended, one way or another.
The points vanished from his balance.
A second later, his hands just… knew things.
Stance, weight distribution, how to throw a punch that wouldn’t break his own wrist.
He flexed his fingers, testing it.
Huh.
Mind immunity was already his.
Which just means he’s immune to manipulation by Frost — and that’s the best part.
The SUV rolled to a stop.
Somewhere ahead, a heavy gate ground shut, sealing them in.
A door opened at the front, followed by footsteps circling around to the back.
The rear door swung open, cold air rushing in along with the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Two guards stood waiting, rifles low but ready.
“Out. Slowly.”
Marcus kept his wrists pressed together behind his back, hiding the fact that the zip-tie had snapped over an hour ago.
He shuffled forward across the seat, deliberately clumsy, playing the part of someone still very much restrained.
“Yeah. Moving.” He swung his legs out, planting his feet on concrete, keeping his shoulders hunched, his face somewhere between exhausted and scared — not exactly hard to fake, given everything.
A hand closed around his upper arm, guiding him forward.
“This way.”
He let himself be steered, eyes tracking the space without moving his head much.
Parking garage, low ceiling, concrete pillars, a camera mounted every few feet.
No windows anywhere.
Wherever they were, it was buried well below street level.
Ahead, another vehicle sat empty, its rear door hanging open.
…
Marie stood in a small, windowless room, her wrists finally free of the zip-tie but the space itself doing the job just fine — a single door, a camera in the corner, and nothing else.
No chair.
No window.
Just white walls and the low hum of fluorescent light.
She’d been in here alone for what felt like twenty minutes, maybe longer.
No clock to check.
The door finally clicked, and it opened.
The woman who stepped through was exactly as composed as her voice had sounded through that hallway earlier — platinum-blonde hair, a white suit that looked more expensive than everything Marie had ever owned combined, and an expression that gave away absolutely nothing at all.
“Marie,” the woman said, her voice smooth, almost pleasant.
“My name is Emma Frost. I believe we have quite a lot to talk about.”