The gym buzzed with cheers and polished squeaks of fencing shoes on the glossy floor. Polaris Academy's final match against East Carthage had come down to the last few bouts. A team of three. Nine bouts total. Every match built toward a race to 45.
Ethan's final bout was up first in the sequence. Bout 7.
He had started the match strong—winning his first bout against Koji with a slick disengage and counter-riposte that brought Polaris ahead early. But the momentum hadn't lasted. He'd dropped his second bout to Roarke, and now, fencing against Bell, it was clear the momentum had turned against him.
The referee raised his hand. "Prêt? Allez!"
Ethan lunged—quick, clean. Isaiah Bell parried, then beat Ethan's blade aside with a clean bind. He advanced with discipline, point extended. Ethan retreated too sharply. His back foot caught. Bell closed in.
Touch.
"Halt."
Ethan reset. Raised his blade again. "Prêt? Allez!"
He tried to regain control of the tempo, beating Bell's blade and going for a flick to the torso—but Bell had established right of way. He stepped in, point landing squarely.
Touch.
Polaris trailed. Ethan lowered his blade. He breathed out slowly through clenched teeth. Stepping back, he lifted his mask with a bitter exhale before stepping off the piste. The team score ticked up on the overhead screen.
Polaris: 30 | East Carthage: 35
He turned to Marcus, giving him a quick nod.
"Sorry. I messed up. Go get it back, man."
"Don't worry about it," Marcus muttered as Ethan stepped off the strip. "I've got this."
He said it with the same leveled confidence he always carried—half bravado, half belief. Fazian, watching quietly from the bench, offered nothing more than a nod. His eyes were already scanning the floor, running invisible plays in his head.
Marcus rolled his neck and stepped forward.
"Holloway vs. Koji. Bout 8."
His opponent: Hiro Koji, the cool and agile opener from East Carthage. Koji had speed. But Marcus had rhythm.
"Prêt? Allez!"
They began. Koji pressed the attack early, trying to catch Marcus flat-footed. But Marcus gave ground deliberately, baiting him.
Koji lunged. Marcus parried. Riposte—clean.
Touch.
31–35.
They reset. Koji came again, this time drawing Marcus into a double feint—he slipped past Marcus's parry and landed a shot just under the arm.
Touch.
31–36.
Marcus wiped his forehead. "Prêt? Allez!"
This time he was the aggressor. He kept Koji guessing—high, low, side-to-side. He beat Koji's blade, lunged forward—
Touch.
32–36.
Reset. He circled, changing tempo. Koji advanced. Marcus timed it—retreated, baited again, launched a stop-hit.
Touch.
33–36.
They both panted now. The pace had ramped.
"Prêt? Allez!"
Marcus burst forward, blade low. He drew the parry—looped around it.
Touch.
34–36.
Through his final exchanges, Marcus needed one more to bring Polaris to 40.
He waited.
Koji lunged.
Marcus parried. Riposte.
Koji did the same. The tip landed.
Touch.
Polaris: 39 | East Carthage: 40
The final bout. Bout 9. Fazian Gross versus Jalen Roarke.
Fazian's hand gripped his foil tightly as he approached the piste, his footfalls steady but heavy with the weight of the moment. The buzz of the crowd seemed muffled, fading into the background as his focus narrowed to the strip ahead.
Marcus was already there, waiting by the edge of the piste, his eyes sharp, his expression unreadable. He stepped forward as Fazian neared, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Don't think about the score or anything else. Just do what you do." His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of something else—maybe desperation, maybe a kind of faith that spoke louder than any words could.
Fazian nodded, his jaw clenched. "Easy for you to say." His voice was low, but Marcus caught the edge of his words, the doubt beneath them.
Marcus squeezed his shoulder once, his gaze never leaving Fazian's eyes. "Listen, you're ready. Forget the pressure. Forget the crowd. Just go out there, and fence like it's any other day."
Fazian took a deep breath, nodding again, though the tension in his shoulders hadn't fully relaxed. His gaze flickered toward the other end of the strip, where Roarke was already preparing. "And if I can't—"
"You will." Marcus interrupted, his tone firm. "And if you can't? We lose together, but not because you didn't give it everything you had."
Fazian paused, looking at his teammate for a long moment. A breath escaped him, a little heavier than he intended. He looked down at his blade, steadying his grip. Then, finally, he nodded once more. "Alright."
With that, Marcus stepped back, his hands in his pockets, his face impassive. "You've got this, Cap."
Fazian gave him a slight, almost imperceptible nod before moving onto the piste, his thoughts sharpening.
Jalen was steady. Not flashy. His technique was clean and minimalistic. Fazian had the talent to match him—had beaten Koji handily in his first bout, and had stumbled against Bell in his second—but this was different.
The referee raised his hand. "Prêt? Allez!"
And with that, the match began.
They clashed early—an aggressive start. Fazian caught Jalen's advance with a high parry and landed a sharp riposte.
Touch.
40–40.
Reset. Roarke counterattacked. Fazian advanced, lunged—missed. Jalen side-stepped and landed clean.
Touch.
40–41.
Another reset. Fazian flicked to the chest—Touch.
41–41.
He was pushing the pace now. But the rhythm broke when Fazian tried a second flick on the advance and stepped off-piste in the process.
"Halt."
The referee issued a P-yellow. A warning.
They resumed.
This time, a failed beat attack gave Jalen the window.
Touch.
41–42.
Fazian attacked again. Landed it.
Touch.
42–42.
Jalen answered.
Touch.
42–43.
The pace slowed.
Twenty seconds passed.
Neither fencer moved. The gym's atmosphere shifted, thick with tension, as both combatants seemed to weigh their next moves carefully. The sound of each footstep, each shift of the feet, felt amplified.
Another halt.
The referee's arm shot up. "Non-combativity."
The crowd's murmurs rippled through the room as the referee signaled the penalty. Both fencers received a P-yellow card.
It was Fazian's second—his earlier warning now turned into a P-red.
"A point to East Carthage."
The score was now 42–44.
Reset. Only seconds remained.
Fazian's eyes narrowed, the sting of that penalty sinking deep into his chest. He exhaled sharply, trying to clear his thoughts. His hands trembled as he reset his stance, but he had no choice now. This was it. Three touches away from victory—or one from defeat.
"Prêt? Allez!"
The command rang out, sharp and final, and the final bout was on.
Fazian advanced first, taking the initiative. He was quick, calculated. Jalen, the cool and steady counterattacker, stepped back, clearly anticipating the press. But Fazian was too fast. He feinted high, then dropped low, catching Jalen off-guard with a quick thrust to the chest.
Touch.
The crowd erupted. Polaris had pulled it back to 43–44.
The energy shifted as both fencers reset.
Fazian's movements were sharp now, his focus absolute. He wasn't going to let this slip away. He pressed forward again, aggressive. Jalen's defense was solid, but Fazian was relentless. With a beat of Jalen's blade, he opened up the space just enough for a quick, precise flick to the shoulder.
Touch.
44–44.
The match was tied. It was a deadlock. Only one more touch would decide it all.
Both fencers squared up once more, each poised, breathing in sync with the rhythm of the match.
"Prêt? Allez!"
Fazian pushed forward again. His feet moved fast, almost gliding across the floor as he closed the distance. He feinted with a high thrust, drawing Jalen's attention upward, and then dropped low. The flick of his foil was like lightning, but Jalen anticipated it, slipping to the side and leaving an opening.
In that moment, Fazian's mind wandered. He saw Kai's face, her smile, and the sudden distance between them that had grown over time. The thought of her pulled him away from the match, just for a second.
That brief moment of hesitation was all Jalen needed. He darted forward with a quick flick of his foil to the back of Fazian's shoulder.
The touch was clean.
The finality of it struck like a thunderclap.
Final Score: 44–45.
East Carthage had won.
Fazian stood still at the end of the piste. His blade dropped slowly. The gym's noise seemed distant. A ringing sensation filled his ears as the final touch—the one that cost him the match—echoed in his mind. His team's loss was now his burden, and the realization hit him hard.
He turned away from the piste without waiting for the official call. His head hung, but not out of shame—no, it was something deeper. The distraction, the thought of Kai, had been enough to break his focus.
Ethan was already off the bench, arms crossed, pacing.
Marcus followed after Fazian, catching up to him at the edge of the sideline, towel draped over one shoulder. "Hey," he said gently, "it's alright, man. That match was brutal."
Fazian dropped his foil into the gear bin without a word.
"We were one touch away," Marcus said. "You fought hard. Don't let that overtime call eat you alive."
"You hesitated," Ethan cut in, blunt. "You never hesitate. You froze."
Marcus shot Ethan a quick look, but Fazian beat him to a response.
"I know," Fazian snapped, not yelling, but loud enough to turn a few heads. "I know I froze. That's not news."
Ethan didn't back down. "Then what happened? You had that third bout in the bag."
Fazian's eyes flicked down. "I was thinking about her."
There was a pause. Marcus exhaled.
Ethan groaned under his breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Seriously? Fazian, she ghosted you. Hasn't replied in what, weeks? And you're still letting her mess with your head during a match like this?"
Marcus stepped in again, voice calm. "You don't know what she's going through either, Ethan. It's not that simple."
"She didn't even watch the match," Fazian said quietly, like he was just now realizing it aloud.
"She's probably got a lot on her plate," Marcus offered carefully. "You said yourself she's been stressed. It might not even be about you."
Ethan snorted. "Or maybe she's outgrown you, and you're still sitting here acting like she's gonna magically text back with an apology and a playlist."
Fazian gave him a sharp glare.
Marcus spoke up again, quieter this time. "Or maybe… she's not ready. Doesn't mean she's done with you. You just have to give her time."
Fazian shook his head. "I'm not waiting anymore. I'm not letting her—or anyone—get in my head like that again."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "So what now? You go full robotic? Join the government track and swear off emotions?"
"If that's what it takes," Fazian muttered.
Marcus tilted his head. "You sure you're doing this for you, and not against her?"
Fazian didn't answer. Instead, he pulled on his warm-up jacket and started walking.
"Just don't quit fencing," Marcus called after him. "We've still got six months left. Still time to win something worth remembering."
"Whatever," Fazian shrugged them off as he continued to walk away. "I've got government internships to keep searching for."
--
The driverless Polaris shuttle curved down the tree-lined avenue toward the Gross residence—a sleek, low-lit house of modern brick and matte paneling that sat just outside the city center. Spotless lawn. Smart lights glowing along the path to the front door.
Inside, everything was quiet.
Fazian slipped in through the side door, letting it click shut behind him. The house smelled faintly of ginger and cedar from one of the automatic diffusers in the hallway. It was the kind of place that always felt clean—not because of effort, but because it was designed to stay that way.
His mother's voice called from the dining room: "You're late."
Fazian didn't even blink. "We ran over."
She appeared a second later, silk robe tied perfectly at the waist, holding a mug of red tea. "How bad was it?"
He dropped his duffel at the foot of the stairs and didn't answer.
She didn't need him to. "There's halibut and rice in the warmer."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be. Later, when you're mad at yourself and can't sleep."
He ran a hand through his hair, the stiffness of dried sweat still in it. "It was overtime. I froze. I lost."
"You're human. Not a machine."
He exhaled through his nose, quiet. "I should've been better."
His mother sipped her tea. "Then be better tomorrow. Or the day after that. You've got time."
He nodded once, barely.
She set the mug down on the countertop and walked past him, pausing just long enough to brush a hand over his back. "Get some sleep, okay? You don't have to spiral tonight."
He said nothing, just turned and climbed the stairs.
Upstairs, Fazian entered his room, the quietness of the house settling around him like a thick fog. His room was spotless, like always. The walls were clean, shelves sparse—just a few trophies, fencing medals, and an old photo of him and Kai at a summer tournament, long before things got complicated.
His phone was already in his hand, the chat thread with her still open.
Kai – [last seen: 6 days ago]
He stared at it for a while. The blue glow made the room feel colder somehow.
The last message she'd sent was a week or so ago. Just a soft: Hey, things are kinda overwhelming right now. Hope you're good. I'll text soon.
He'd reread it so many times he could recite it backward.
Finally, he typed:
Can we talk soon? Just… whenever you have space. Doesn't have to be about anything specific.
He hovered over Send. Deleted it. Rewrote it:
Match didn't go well. Would be cool to talk. No pressure.
Deleted it again.
Eventually, he settled on something short, clean, distant:
Hey. Got time sometime soon?
He didn't delete it this time, instead hitting Send before he could rethink it. He just sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, phone dangling between his fingers.
The silence buzzed louder than the ceiling fan.
After a while, he flopped back across the mattress, arms spread wide, eyes fixed on nothing.
He didn't feel dramatic. Just… tired.
--
Kai saw the message immediately.
It sat there on her screen, waiting—quiet, expectant.
She looked at Fazian's text. Read it twice.
But her fingers didn't move.
She stared at his name. Heart hitching.
She knew what he wanted. Or thought he wanted. But what could she even say?
That she was being watched? That Director Noriko had summoned her, and she was under a microscope for mingling with some new secret friends of hers? That talking might mean dragging him into something worse?
Or that she missed him? That the silence didn't mean she didn't care?
That every time she wanted to talk to him, she felt guilty for not knowing how.
Her finger hovered over the reply window.
Then slowly lowered.
She set her phone down, powered it off, and rolled onto her side.
The message went unanswered.
--
Elsewhere: New Jericho.
Silas stepped out of the transport shuttle and into the high-rise air of New Jericho, a single duffel gripped to his side, another slung over one shoulder. Wind tugged at his coat as the city pulsed around him with still-unfamiliar energy.
He took his first deep breath in weeks. The air was sharp. Cleaner than he remembered.
He straightened his coat, the EPSA insignia sharp on the lapel, and headed toward his assigned complex.
The case files had already been delivered to his room. They were waiting, and so was everything he didn't know yet.
The real work was just beginning.
Back in the field. Back on the Zteel case. No more chasing rumors.
This time, he had a target—and a new city full of cracks and crevices to search through.