Six years later.
Rain battered the bar's rusted roof like an omen. Neon smeared across puddles of oil and broken glass. The air reeked of ozone and burnt fuel—heavy with smoke and silence.
This wasn't shelter. It was purgatory with drinks.
Through the grimy window sprawled the city—towers of steel stitched from old tech and desperation. No stars. No peace. Exilium never slept.
In a side alley—three blunt impacts. A short, torn-off scream. Silence followed.
By the firepit outside, scouts checked their ammo in silence. Men in ragged coats exchanged rusted parts like prayers. Children ran barefoot over cold metal, too young to know this world had no future for them.
Inside, Agito leaned against the bar counter, absently swirling a glass of amber liquid. His right eye was hidden beneath a black strip of cloth. He smiled—or at least, his mouth did. His gaze held nothing warm.
"You've still got that smug look on your face, Agito."
Ryx's voice cut through the low murmur, dry as ever. The glint of his cybernetic eye flickered in the neon.
"What is it today? Looking for trouble, blood, or both?"
Agito shrugged, eyes never leaving his glass.
"Maybe both," he said lazily. "But your serious face is already the third threat I've run into today."
Ryx didn't smile. He wiped the counter with a rag that didn't need wiping, hands pausing a moment at the edge before moving, slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed over his left wrist, like checking a scar no longer there.
"Someday your sarcasm will choke you," Ryx muttered. "And I won't be the one cleaning it up, for once."
Agito smirked.
"You're a pain, but I like you anyway," Ryx grumbled.
Agito's gaze slid toward Vaelith. Calm, precise, her violet hair pinned tight. She wore her technician suit streaked with oil, grafts pulsing faintly.
"Vaelith? Alone?" Agito asked dryly. "Thought your kind thrived in company."
Her cold eyes didn't blink.
"I have standards. You don't qualify."
Agito feigned hurt.
"Right. Forgot you prefer machines."
"Machines don't bruise egos."
He chuckled softly.
"Almost sounds like bonding."
Vaelith's lip twitched slightly—almost a smile.
"You wouldn't be the first idiot who thought so."
SLAM.
The bar doors burst open.
Conversations cut out mid-sentence. Chairs creaked anxiously. Eyes darted to the exit.
Cain's massive silhouette filled the frame, radiating raw menace. Two meters of twisted muscle and monstrous mutation. Organic armor coiled grotesquely around half his body, his left arm a nightmare of sinew and sharpened plating that clicked ominously with every subtle movement. Scars traced jagged spirals across his flesh, pulsing faintly with lingering energy. His claws twitched restlessly, sharpened bone upon bone. And those eyes—red, burning in the darkness like coals refusing to die.
Even in Exilium, Cain looked dredged up from a darker hell.
Ryx froze mid-wipe, cloth pressed forgotten against the counter, his cybernetic eye—a dull-red lens embedded in a blackened socket—tracking Cain with cautious precision.
"You trying to scare off the last of my clients?" Ryx finally muttered, barely audible.
Cain stepped forward, each footfall heavy as steel against stone.
"A squad's gone missing."
Silence fell—thick, suffocating, oppressive as Exilium's dust.
Agito's grip on the glass tightened just slightly, unseen by anyone but himself.
"Near the ruins," Cain added grimly. "Where it all began."
Vaelith hissed a curse under her breath, slammed down her drink, and headed for the door.
"I'll check the gear," she snapped bitterly. "Let's see if your junkyard tech's even fit to move."
Agito didn't look up, swirling his glass slowly as though Cain were just another irritation.
"Well?" he muttered coldly. "Sounds like your problem."
Cain clenched his jaw tightly.
"I need you."
Agito finally raised his gaze, one brow arched lazily—then waved dismissively toward Ryx.
"Grab a drink. Might feel better."
Cain stepped closer, his shadow engulfing the counter.
"Cut the shit," he growled. "I don't have time for your games."
Agito met his eyes at last, smirk widening dangerously, like pouring oil on flame.
"Time?" He drew the word out like a joke only he understood. "Strange. Six years ago, you said we had plenty."
Cain didn't flinch. "Six years ago, we weren't buried this deep in shit."
"We've been in it," Agito said with a dry laugh. "I just learned to enjoy the smell."
CRACK.
Cain's fist smashed into the counter. Glassware rattled. Voices died.
Agito slid his glass away, slow and deliberate. His expression didn't change—but his fingers flexed slightly on the wood.
"For fuck's sake, Agito!" Cain roared. "These were our people!"
The silence that followed was a blade. Sharp. Pressed to the skin.
Agito set the glass down. For a brief second, his hand clenched—as if he considered crushing it. He squinted sharply and stood up.
"They weren't mine."
Cain stared at him. Hard. Without another word, he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Lightning cracked outside. Thunder tore across the skyline like war drums.
At a side table, a few rough-looking men exchanged glances. They stood, followed Cain into the storm. Not in a rush. Not his soldiers. But they followed.
Ryx's disappointment echoed loudly in the quiet.
"You're a fucking asshole, you know that?"
Agito drained the last of his drink. The burn barely registered.
"I know, Ryx," he said softly. "I know."
He left the glass on the bar and stood, stepping toward the door without a backward glance. Behind him, two figures rose quietly, shadows trailing his steps into the night.