The factory district at night was a graveyard of industry.

  Smokestacks rose like tombstones against the starless sky, their fires long extinguished. Broken windows stared down at empty streets like hollowed eye sockets. The air tasted of rust and old coal smoke, thick enough to coat the back of my throat even through the mask.

  I moved across the rooftops in silence, black cloak billowing behind me with each jump. Below, the occasional street lamp flickered - dying gaslight that cast pools of sickly yellow across cracked cobblestone. No one walked these streets after dark. Not anymore.

  The brewery rose ahead, a massive brick structure that dominated the block. Four stories of Victorian industrial architecture, complete with a faded sign barely visible in the moonlight.

  ASHFORD & SONS - FINE SPIRITS SINCE 1802.

  Hasn't been fine spirits in a decade at least.

  I landed on the neighboring building's roof and crouched at the edge, surveying the brewery. Most windows were boarded up or shattered. Scaffolding clung to one side like a parasite, rusted and half-collapsed. The loading dock doors hung open, revealing only darkness within.

  But there - third floor, eastern face. A window with a strip of red ribbon tied to the frame, barely visible in the dim light.

  Found it.

  I backed up several paces, then sprinted forward. My boots hit the roof's edge as I launched myself into open air.

  Wind roared past. The gap between buildings yawned beneath me - three stories of empty space above an alley strewn with broken glass and industrial refuse.

  I cleared it easily, boots slamming into brick just below the marked window. My fingers found purchase in the crumbling mortar between stones. For a moment I hung there, suspended, before pulling myself up to the ledge.

  The red ribbon fluttered in the night breeze. Up close, I could see it was silk - expensive, out of place tied to this abandoned wreck.

  I tested the window frame. Unlocked.

  Seems they're expecting.

  I pushed it open and slipped inside.

  Dust exploded into the air, illuminated by moonlight filtering through grimy windows. An office - desk buried under years of grime, filing cabinets with drawers hanging open, papers scattered everywhere. On the desk sat an old ledger. I blew across its surface.

  Final shipment to Imperial Capital - 200 barrels. Payment: 3,000 libras. Total profit this quarter: -1,847 libras.

  Fifteen years dead and gone.

  A door stood at the far end, another red ribbon hanging from its handle. I didn't linger.

  The factory floor opened before me - vast, silent, copper vats rising like sleeping giants in the darkness. Moonlight streamed through broken sections of roof, creating pools of silver among the shadows.

  I descended the spiral stairs slowly, boots clanging softly against metal.

  Still nothing.

  One barrel sat apart from the others near the center - larger, reinforced with iron bands. SINGLE MALT - 12 YEARS.

  I walked over and leaned against it, the cool metal pleasant through my cloak.

  Lucky me, I must be earl-

  Click.

  The sound of a hammer cocking.

  Cold metal pressed against my left temple.

  "Don't move."

  The voice was distorted - masculine, maybe, filtered through a vox modulator identical to mine. I held perfectly still, hand frozen halfway to my pocket.

  Something sharp pressed into my right side, just below my ribs. I glanced right without moving my head.

  Another figure in black stood there, sword point dimpling my cloak. Shorter than the one with the gun - maybe five and a half feet. Their blade gleamed even in the darkness, edge sharp enough that I could feel it through the reinforced fabric.

  "Nice blade," I said through my mask, keeping my tone light. "Weird, though. Looks exactly the same as mine."

  The sword pressed deeper, the only answer I received was the dark hue of a metallic mask staring at me.

  The one holding the pistol led the conversation, their tone betraying nothing.

  "Who are you?"

  "You go first."

  The revolver at my temple shifted slightly. "Answer the question."

  I smiled behind the mask. "Let me guess instead. You're here for the same reason I am. Meeting at the old Ashford brewery, midnight, red ribbons marking the way. How am I doing so far?"

  Silence.

  Then the one with the revolver spoke again. "If there's three of us here now, you'd probably be right."

  Three, huh? That just leaves-

  "I wouldn't do that."

  A new voice, filtered through a vox but with a lighter tone that cut through the darkness like a knife.

  All three of us looked up.

  A figure stood on the scaffolding above, leaning casually against the railing. Inquisitor gear identical to ours - black cloak, mask, the works. But there was something different about their posture. Relaxed, almost lazy, as if watching us threaten each other was mildly entertaining.

  "I wouldn't be threatening that person if I were you." the figure continued, gesturing down at me with one gloved hand.

  The revolver withdrew from my temple. The sword point left my ribs.

  Both of them stepped back, creating distance but maintaining alert stances. I straightened slowly, hand drifting to my own weapon mechanism.

  "Are you my new boss?" I asked, looking up at the figure.

  "Handler," they corrected. "I'm the new handler for all three of you. And I'm here to supervise the creation of your cell."

  The one with the pistol shifted slightly. "What's the next step?"

  The handler pushed off from the railing, standing upright. Even from this distance, I could feel their gaze sweep over us, assessing, measuring.

  "Starting the moment I finish speaking," they said, voice carrying clearly through the empty factory, "you three are going to fight for the position of commander of this cell."

  Then they pointed directly at me. Despite the mask they wore, I swore I could see a grin peak out of the darkness of their coat.

  "By the way, he's the strongest out of the three of you. So personally, I'd gang up on him if I were you."

  Red flooded my vision before they even finished talking.

  What bullshit-

  Before I could finish the thought, a premonition flashed. A blade. Arc of dark silver light. Aimed at the back of my neck.

  Shit-!

  My hand clenched. The mechanism in my sleeve triggered and the hilt dropped smoothly into my palm. I squeezed.

  The gemstone embedded in the guard bled black. Darkness erupted along the blade's length, shadows coiling and writhing as they unfurled into deadly edges.

  I spun.

  Metal shrieked against metal.

  My shadow-wreathed blade met a sword crackling with golden lightning. Electricity arced across the point of contact, illuminating the factory floor in stuttering flashes. The person wielding it was fast - despite their small stature, the power from their strike caused my knees to buckle under its weight.

  But my shadows were stronger.

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  Black crawled along their blade like hungry serpents, devouring the lightning, consuming it, turning gold to darkness inch by inch. The electricity sputtered and died.

  The lightning wielder backed off immediately, boots scraping against concrete as they put distance between us.

  Smart.

  Red vision flared again.

  Bullet. Ice-wreathed, crystalline - piercing straight through my right eye.

  I moved.

  The shot passed so close I felt the temperature drop, frost forming on my mask where the round had been. My skin went numb where it passed, cold burning like fire.

  I looked forward.

  Both inquisitors faced me now. The one with lightning - smaller than me by half a foot - held their blade in a two-handed grip. Electricity crackled along its length, brighter than before, casting their masked face in flickering gold.

  The taller one held their revolver in a professional stance. Ice crystallized around the barrel, forming geometric patterns that gleamed like diamonds.

  "He really is stronger," the one with ice said, voice filtered but carrying a note of grudging respect.

  Lightning nodded once, choosing not to speak.

  I rolled my shoulders, feeling the divine energy sing through my veins. The shadows around my blade pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. A rush of andrenalin filled my brain, my excitement only growing wider by the second.

  "Concede," I said simply. "I'd rather not hurt you two by accident."

  Lightning's grip tightened on their sword. They spoke one word, flat and emotionless.

  "Arrogant."

  Then they charged.

  Fast. Faster than the last attack. Their blade came in low, aimed at my legs, electricity turning the air blue-white. I blocked, shadows meeting lightning in an explosion of dark and light.

  CRACK!

  A barrel exploded behind me - ice bullet punching clean through wood and copper. Liquid sprayed across the floor, the smell of old whiskey flooding the space.

  I looked back in disappointment.

  What a waste.

  I pushed Lightning back, then jumped.

  I dashed three meters left, behind another vat. Ice's next shot punched through the vat, shots ringing past my ear as the ice slowly corroded my cover.

  Lightning pursued immediately. No hesitation, no wasted movement. Their blade swept horizontally, cutting through the barrel like it was paper.

  I watched the disintegration with both awe and regret as the liquid flowed to my feet.

  They're definitely not bad. Seems I wasn't paired up with rookies like I expected.

  I blocked a follow-up strike, our swords locked for half a heartbeat. Close enough to see the red glow of my eyes reflected in their mask's lenses.

  "You're good. Really good." I admitted.

  They disengaged without responding, already moving to flank while Ice positioned for another shot.

  I couldn't but smile.

  I haven't had this much fine in a while. Not having to fear for my life while fighting sure has its perks.

  Three more exchanges. Lightning pressed the offense while Ice provided covering fire, forcing me to dodge or block constantly. Since this was a formation of a cell, they wouldn't have had worked together yet.

  Which meant they were incredibly capable, and had good chemistry to top it off.

  I used the environment, ducking behind vats, using pipes as cover. Lightning's blade sliced through metal like cloth, sending sparks flying with each cut. Ice's bullets punched holes in anything I tried to hide behind.

  Then Ice holstered their revolver.

  The hilt of a sword dropped into their hand from their sleeve, a blade unraveling from it. This one gleamed like frozen starlight as ice crystallized along its length.

  The real fight would begin.

  It seems they used the start as a way to exhaust me. Assuming I would have less stamina than the one with lightning.

  A bold assumption.

  They came at me together. Lightning high, Ice low. Coordinated assault, properly timed. I blocked Lightning's overhead strike while twisting to avoid Ice's thrust.

  My blade screamed through the air, shadows trailing like black ribbons. I cut through Lightning's next attack, then blinked behind them.

  Ice was already there, predicting the movement. Their frozen blade nearly caught my throat. Nearly.

  I blocked, our swords locked. Cold radiated from their weapon, frost crawling up my blade's length.

  Lightning's next cut opened a massive barrel I hadn't noticed.

  Water this time. Gallons of it, flooding across the floor in a rushing wave.

  "Shit-"

  Ice thrust their blade into the ground.

  Frost exploded outward. The water around my boots crystallized instantly, ice climbing up my legs, freezing me in place. I tried to move but the ice held firm - creeping higher, past my knees, locking me in position.

  Lightning didn't hesitate as they came in for the killing blow. One hand gripped their sword, lightning crackling so bright I had to squint behind my mask.

  I brought my blade up to block.

  Our swords met with a sound like thunder.

  Then I noticed.

  Lightning only held their blade with one hand.

  Their other hand was at their hip.

  I looked down as I felt a prodding at my abdomen.

  A revolver. Aimed at my stomach. Point-blank range.

  Lightning's vox-filtered voice cut through the noise.

  "Concede."

  I stared at the pistol for a moment, then at the ice encasing my legs.

  Then I smiled behind my mask.

  "Good job," I said, genuine praise in my tone. I would have clapped if not for the revolver aimed at my gut. "You two work pretty well together. Which is going to make my job much easier."

  Ice's posture shifted slightly. "What-"

  I blinked.

  Relity transitioned as I met Ice's back, their focus still being on the area I had left.

  My boot swept Ice's legs before they could react. They went down hard, frozen sword clattering across concrete. I kicked it away, sending it spinning into the darkness.

  Lightning quickly turned around and fired.

  The bullet would've taken me in the chest, but my precognition had already shown me the trajectory. I twisted, shadows from my blade forming a barrier that caught the round mid-flight. The lgihtning infused bullet penetrated deep, but my shadows slowly consumed it - dissolving it into black mist.

  I blinked again.

  Lightning swung their blade behind them in a desperate arc. Electricity screamed through the air, lighting up the entire factory floor.

  I blocked easily, shadows consuming lightning. My free hand came up.

  Revolver pressed against the back of their head.

  I laughed lightly, unable to help myself. "Concede."

  For a moment, Lightning held their position. Then their shoulders sagged.

  The sword dropped from their grip, clattering to the floor.

  "I concede."

  Applause echoed through the factory.

  Slow, deliberate clapping.

  The handler descended the spiral stairs, boots ringing against metal. "The results aren't exactly surprising. Then again, you faced two fresh inquisitors. So it can hardly be celebrated. You win."

  I lowered my pistol, shadows retreating back into my blade's gemstone. The weapon collapsed, hilt retracting as I slid it back into my sleeve mechanism.

  Both Lightning and Ice got up to stand next to me as the saluted to their chests, bowing simultaneously.

  "I apologize for my failure." Ice said, voice tight.

  "Save it." The handler's vox made it impossible to read emotion, but their tone suggested dismissal. "Now that you've both failed, your fate is no longer in your hands."

  A blade dropped from their sleeve.

  Not like mine - this one unfolded differently, segments clicking into place like a puzzle box opening. When it finished, they held a straight sword with an edge that seemed to drink the light around it.

  Energy radiated from the weapon. Not visible, but felt - pressure that made my skin prickle and my divine blood react instinctively as my eyebrows furrowed.

  What the hell kind of power is that?

  The handler pointed their blade downward at the two bowing inquisitors.

  "Kneel."

  The word carried weight beyond its meaning.

  Both Lightning and Ice collapsed. Not voluntarily - their bodies simply dropped, driven down by invisible force. Their knees hit concrete with meaty thuds. Grunts of pain filtered through their masks.

  The pressure increased. I could see it in how their bodies trembled, how their hands pressed flat against the ground as if trying to push back against something impossibly heavy.

  I had to admit, I was more than a little shocked.

  Gravity. Shit, that's pretty rare.

  The handler turned to me. Even through the mask, I felt their gaze, judging, calculating.

  "Now," they said calmly, "it's up to you."

  They gestured at the two struggling inquisitors with their free hand.

  "You won, which means you decide whether to spare them..."

  They paused.

  "...or kill them."

  The factory fell silent except for the labored breathing of the two pinned inquisitors.

  I stared at them. At the handler. At the blade still pointed downward, maintaining that crushing pressure.

  The handler pulled a revolver from their coat - their one similar to mine, the difference being a grey gemstone embedded in the hilt.

  They invited me to grab it, holding it out to me as if the decision to kill the two inquisitors was nothing but menial in their eyes.

  "Well?" the handler prompted. "Make your choice, Commander."

  I stared at the gun in their outstretched hand. At the two Inquisitors pinned to the ground by crushing gravity, struggling to breathe under the pressure.

  Then I looked up at the handler's mask.

  "Strange."

  The word hung in the air.

  "Strange?" The handler's vox carried something almost like curiosity.

  "The Inquisition's unofficial philosophy is pragmatism," I said flatly. "Cruelty without reason would make us no different to the heretics we fight so gruelingly against. Killing capable operatives because they lost a sparring match is wasteful, not to mention stupid."

  The handler tilted their head slightly, seemingly amused by my push-back. "And if I told you that killing them would mean I'd assign you stronger teammates? More experienced operatives who could actually keep up with you? I know what I would do."

  I snorted underneath my mask. "Then I'd ask why you wouldn't have assigned me those stronger operatives in the first place."

  The handler tilted their head.

  "This test doesn't make tactical nor rational sense. A true betrayal of Inquisitorial ethics." I continued, watching their body language carefully. "Which means it's not really Inquisitorial code at all, is it?"

  The handler's shoulders shook slightly. A laugh - quiet, filtered through the vox into something distorted.

  "Amusing." They lowered their blade slightly, though the gravity pinning Lightning and Ice didn't ease. "Tell me, Damian. Your master - what would he do, given the same offer?"

  The question seemed casual. But something in their posture shifted when they said 'him.' The slightest tension in their shoulders. A tightness to their voice that hadn't been there before.

  I caught it. I wasn't stupid.

  They know him. The better question is - how do they perceive him?

  "He's not my master." I said carefully. "More of a teacher - and it seems you know each other?"

  "Ah. I guess you could say we are antiquated." The handler's hand clenched around their blade's hilt - just for a moment, so brief I almost missed it. "You're his prime guinea pig, are you not? The one he's been grooming so perfectly."

  The words carried an edge. Not directed at me.

  They turned slightly, gesturing at Lightning and Ice with their free hand. "These two are also a couple guinea pigs of his. Short term projects. That's probably why you've been selected for this cell. He likes to keep all his pigs in the same cage, it seems."

  My eyes narrowed, ignoring the obvious provocations.

  "Are you working for him?"

  The handler didn't answer. Instead, they took a step closer, blade still pointed downward at the pinned Inquisitors. When they spoke again, their voice had changed - controlled, but with something cold underneath. Something I noticed hidden behind the mask.

  Is it hatred, or jealousy?

  I don't know which ones better, in all honesty.

  "What do you think he would want you to do in this situation? Hm?"

  They paused, and I saw their hand twitch - fingers flexing once before going still.

  "Remember who you serve, Damian. Remember who you answer to."

  They extended their other hand, offering the revolver again.

  I took it slowly. The weight was familiar - similar to my own weapon, but with subtly different balance. I broke it open, checking the cylinder.

  Six rounds. Fully loaded. The bullets gleamed dully in the moonlight.

  The handler waited, utterly still.

  I closed the cylinder with a soft click. My eyes glowed as I smiled underneath my mask.

  I think I know the answer.

  My expression dropped as I raised the gun and aimed it directly at the handler's head.

  "Fuck you."

  The hammer fell.