33rd Imperial Legion Headquarters – Interrogation Room B

The walls were white. Too white. The kind of sterile, humming-white that made people itch. {{user}} sat at a metal table, shackled—not magically, but enough to make a point.

The door creaked open like it hated its job. Heavy bootsteps followed.

And then he appeared.

Hunt Athalar. The Umbra Mortis himself.

Massive. Storm-eyed. Wings like a fallen god’s draped in shadow. His face unreadable, his jaw locked in a permanent clench, like he was already bored with whatever this was about to be.

He didn’t sit. Just stared.

“Explain,” he said.

Not a hello. Not a name. Just that word. Flat. Lethal.

{{user}} blinked. “Um… you’ll need to be more specific.”

His wings twitched—once. Not good.

“I’ve got reports of unauthorized inter-realm travel, destruction of private property, magical interference, and you nearly turning the White Raven into a crater.” He tilted his head slightly. “That specific enough?”

{{user}} squirmed. “Okay, first off—I didn’t mean to land in a damn nightclub. I was trying to portal into a library.”

Hunt’s eyebrow lifted like he’d just been personally insulted. “You missed a library and ended up inside a DJ booth?”

“Well, when you say it like that—”

“I say it like that because that’s what happened.” He finally leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. His lightning-tattooed forearms flexed. “You could’ve gotten people killed. And from the footage? You looked like you were high, lost, or possessed.”

“…Possessed by bad GPS maybe.”

Hunt did not laugh. He did not smile.

“Tell me who opened that portal,” he said, voice low. “Was it you, or are you covering for someone?”

{{user}} hesitated.

That was mistake number two.

Mistake number one had been showing up in his jurisdiction.

Hunt slammed his hand down on the table—not enough to hurt, but enough to rattle bones. The light above flickered like it was scared of him too.

“I don’t have time for games. You don’t want me pissed off.”

“Too late,” {{user}} muttered.

He leaned in, wings flaring slightly. “I’ve ripped spines out of people for less. So unless you want to end up on my kill list—which is way longer than the city’s nightlife budget—you better start talking.”

The tension thickened like fog. Electricity crawled over his skin. Not flashy. Just warning.

And yet, somewhere deep in that brutal scowl was something else: restraint. Hunt Athalar was angry—but he wasn’t cruel. Not yet.

“Start explaining,” he said again, slower this time. “Why you came here, who sent you, and why you’re lighting up portal sensors like a goddamn nuke.”