Chapter 45: Going on the Offensive

Chapter 45: Chapter 45: Going on the Offensive

The morning sun pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse was blinding, warm, and completely foreign.

Donald sat on the edge of the plush gray sectional couch, holding a porcelain cup of actual, freshly brewed coffee. Not the synthetic, bitter sludge from the lower sectors, but real roasted beans. On the glass coffee table in front of him sat a silver platter piled high with scrambled eggs, thick cuts of smoked bacon, and buttered toast—room service, delivered without a single question asked.

Evelyn walked out of the kitchen, wearing one of the oversized white robes provided by the hotel’s luxury service. She had a piece of bacon hanging out of her mouth and looked entirely too comfortable.

"I could get used to this," Evelyn mumbled, pulling the bacon from her teeth and chewing happily. She fell back onto the opposite end of the couch, kicking her bare feet up onto the cushions. "Nobody trying to kill us. No concrete ceilings dropping dust in my hair. Just expensive food and a locked door."

Donald took a sip of his coffee, leaning back. "It’s a nice change of pace from sleeping on a canvas cot."

"You looked terrible on that cot, by the way," Evelyn teased, a small, genuine smile on her face. Her eyes drifted down to what Donald was wearing.

Donald looked down at himself and sighed. He was still wearing the same tactical gear he’d had on since they fought Valerius. His pants were torn at the knees, the fabric stiff with dried monster ash and his own dried blood. His shirt was basically a collection of rags held together by a few stubborn threads, completely ruined by the blood-spike that had impaled his shoulder.

"I look like I got chewed up by a garbage disposal," Donald admitted, setting his coffee down.

"You smell like it, too," Evelyn pointed out. "We can’t stay up here looking like that. If we walk down to the lobby, the concierge is going to call security, assuming we crawled out of a dumpster. We need clothes. Normal clothes."

"I have the funds," Donald said, keeping the specifics of his System entirely to himself. "But we can’t just walk into a random mall. We need gear that can take a hit, just in case. Do you know a place?"

Evelyn nodded slowly, her expression turning serious. "Yeah. I know a guy. He caters exclusively to high-rank Awakeners who don’t want to walk around looking like they’re going to war. But we have to be careful. If he recognizes me, we need to make sure he keeps his mouth shut."

An hour later, after Donald managed to scrub the worst of the grime off in the rainfall shower, they slipped out of the residential tower.

The Upper District was a different world. The streets were spotless, lined with glowing holographic trees and high-end boutiques. People walked with their heads held high, dressed in pristine suits and designer dresses. Donald felt the stares on his ruined clothes immediately, but Evelyn walked beside him with total confidence, ignoring the strange looks.

They arrived at a small, unassuming storefront tucked between a luxury watch dealer and a fine dining restaurant. The sign above the door simply read: Bastian’s Bespoke.

The chime above the door rang softly as they stepped inside. The shop smelled of rich mahogany, expensive leather, and a faint trace of ozone. Racks of perfectly tailored suits and dresses lined the walls.

An older man with sharp features and a tape measure draped over his shoulders stepped out from the back room. He had a polite, retail smile on his face, ready to greet a new customer.

Then he saw Evelyn.

The man stopped dead in his tracks. The color completely drained from his face, and the tape measure slipped off his shoulder, hitting the hardwood floor.

"Ghost..." Bastian breathed, his eyes wide behind his thin glasses. "I... I saw your obituary, Evelyn. Sterling issued it himself. The Iron Vanguard had a private memorial."

"I got better, Bastian," Evelyn said dryly, stepping up to the counter. "And I need you to forget you saw me today. I need discretion, and I need your back room."

Bastian looked terrified, his eyes darting to Donald, trying to gauge who this bruised, ragged man standing next to the former Vanguard was. "Evelyn, if the Guild Master finds out you’re alive, and that you came here..."

"He won’t," Donald stepped in, his voice calm but carrying a heavy weight. He didn’t make a threat. He didn’t have to. He simply reached into his torn pocket, pulled out the solid black data-card, and tossed it onto the glass counter. "We need two full sets of urban combat gear. Top tier. but it has to look like standard civilian streetwear. Price isn’t an issue."

Bastian stared at the black card. The fear in his eyes was quickly replaced by the sheer, undeniable pull of a massive payday. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Right this way."

The back room of the shop was a hidden armory. For the next hour, Bastian fitted them with gear that looked like high-end fashion but functioned like tank armor.

Donald ended up in a pair of dark, reinforced denim jeans laced with a microscopic kinetic mesh, a plain black t-shirt made of breathable thermal-weave, and a dark leather jacket that Bastian swore could stop a C-Rank sniper round. When Donald looked in the mirror, he didn’t look like a starving kid from the slums anymore. He looked sharp, dangerous, and put-together.

Evelyn walked out of the dressing room a moment later. She wore a pair of fitted black cargo pants, sleek combat boots, and a form-fitting gray turtleneck under a cropped, dark-steel-threaded jacket. The Bloodhound’s Fang was cleverly concealed beneath the cut of the coat. She looked breathtaking, and she knew it.

"Not bad," Evelyn said, adjusting her collar. She looked at Bastian, who was happily processing the massive transaction on his terminal. "Bastian. Since you’re charging my partner a fortune, you can throw in some free information."

Bastian sighed, looking up. "What do you want to know, Evelyn?"

"Sterling," she said, her voice turning cold. "What is he doing? Has he replaced me yet?"

Bastian shook his head, keeping his voice low even though they were alone. "Not officially. But he’s getting ready to. The entire city is talking about it. Sterling is hosting the Ascension Gala this Friday night at the Apex Tower."

"The Gala?" Evelyn frowned. "He only throws that when he wants to show off."

"Exactly," Bastian nodded. "Every Guild Master, high-ranking politician, and rich elite in Genesis City will be there. Rumor is, he’s going to use the party to introduce the new front runner of the Iron Guild. He wants to show everyone that your... ’death’ didn’t slow the Guild down at all."

Donald and Evelyn exchanged a look.

"He’s comfortable," Donald said quietly. "He thinks he won. He thinks you’re either dead in a ditch somewhere, or too scared to ever show your face again."

"A massive party," Evelyn murmured, a dangerous, predatory smile slowly spreading across her lips. "Everyone will be there. The cameras, the press, the rival Guilds. He wants to cement his power in front of the whole city."

"So we break it," Donald finished, reading her mind perfectly.

They didn’t just want to survive anymore. Hiding in a penthouse and waiting for assassins to find them was a losing game. If they wanted to get Sterling off their backs for good, they had to hit him where it hurt the most: his reputation and his pride.

"Thank you, Bastian," Evelyn said, turning toward the door. "Remember. You never saw us."

---

The rain beat heavily against the reinforced glass of the private office.

Damian stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, his slanted eyes fixed on the glowing monitors of a high-end data terminal. The private secretary to the Guild Master rarely did his own typing, but for this, he trusted no one else.

The magical tracking had failed. The Upper District was blanketed in hundreds of overlapping, legal defensive wards designed to protect the rich from scrying magic. Trying to track Donald’s holy mana signature through that mess was like trying to find a single drop of clean water in a muddy river.

So, Damian had stopped looking for magic. He started looking for money.

Awakeners who could burn through A-Rank vampires did not sleep in alleys. If Evelyn and her new protector were hiding in the Upper District, they needed a roof. And a roof up here cost millions.

Damian’s fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing the city’s financial firewalls with illegal, Guild-funded decryption keys. He set the search parameters: Unregistered cash transactions. Real estate. Five million credits or higher. Past twenty-four hours.

The terminal hummed. A single result popped up on the screen.

Transaction: 5,000,000 Credits.

Broker: Silas Petekri.

Property: Penthouse 50A, The Zenith Spire.

Damian smiled. It was a cold, entirely humorless expression.

He picked up his black umbrella, walked out of the server room, and took the elevator down to the street.

Twenty minutes later, Damian walked into the high-end coffee shop where Silas conducted his business. The shop was mostly empty because of the rain. Silas was sitting in a booth in the back, sipping an espresso and counting his massive commission on a digital tablet.

Damian slid into the booth across from him.

Silas jumped, nearly spilling his coffee. He looked at the bald man in the charcoal suit, instantly recognizing the insignia of the Iron Vanguard pinned to Damian’s lapel.

"Can... can I help you?" Silas asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"You sold a penthouse this morning," Damian said, his voice smooth, quiet, and completely terrifying. "Fifty-A at the Zenith Spire. An off-the-books transaction."

Silas swallowed hard. "I respect the privacy of my clients. I don’t know who you are, but you can’t just—"

Damian didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t pull a weapon. He simply let a fraction of his A-Rank aura leak from his skin. The air in the booth instantly grew freezing cold. The espresso in Silas’s cup froze solid, cracking the porcelain. Silas couldn’t breathe. The pressure sitting on his chest felt like a cinderblock.

"I am the private secretary to Guild Master Sterling," Damian whispered softly. "And I do not ask questions twice. Tell me exactly who bought that penthouse."

"A... a kid," Silas gasped, clutching his chest, his eyes wide with absolute terror. "Early twenties. Dark hair. And a woman. Black hair... Blue eyes. She looked like... like a fighter."

Damian let the aura retract. The air returned to normal, but Silas was still hyperventilating, shaking in his expensive suit.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Damian said politely, standing up and smoothing his tie.

He walked out of the coffee shop, stepping back into the rain, and pulled out his phone. He didn’t call Sterling. The Guild Master wanted results, not updates.

Damian looked up at the towering skyline, his eyes locking onto the distant, glittering top of the Zenith Spire.

They had a safehouse. But they wouldn’t be safe for long.