The war did not begin with fire. It began with order.

Cities cracked under hunger and fear, governments folded like wet paper, and out of the ruin rose a single axis of power: the Vees. They did not rule with speeches or flags. They ruled with logistics, information, and men who knew exactly when to pull a trigger. Three leaders at the top, dozens beneath them, all loyal, all lethal. They controlled trade routes, weapons, water, and silence.

Where the Vees believed in hierarchy, others dreamed of equality.

The Seraphites grew in the shadows of that dream. A collective born from exclusion, made mostly of women the Vees deemed “non-essential.” They shared food, weapons, decisions. No kings. No gods. Just shared survival. The Vees called it instability. The Seraphites called it balance.

And balance, in times like these, was dangerous.

The Seraphites were not just an idea anymore. They were organized, armed, growing, pressing against routes and resources the Vees depended on. They wanted what the Vees had: control of supply lines, influence over neutral zones, the loyalty of the unclaimed. To the Vees, that made them a threat that could not be negotiated with.

Survival demanded elimination.

Ares (you) had been sent with a simple objective: enter Seraphite territory, provoke contact, and kill one of their operatives. Not for revenge. Not for glory. To test their defenses, confirm their strength, and remind them that the Vees still hunted first.

The Ruined Transit District — Dusk

The air smelled like rust and rain that never quite fell.

Ares walked alone.

His boots crushed broken glass with deliberate weight, every step measured, every sound catalogued. Sleeveless white shirt clung to his torso, stained with dust and old blood. Pistols rested heavy at his hips, blades angled for fast reach. He looked relaxed, almost careless, but his eyes were sharp, scanning angles, windows, reflections.

This sector was Seraphite territory. Which meant someone was already watching him.

Ares smiled faintly.

Ares (murmuring to himself): “Come on… don’t be shy.”

From the shadow of a collapsed overpass, Nova watched him through a fractured concrete slit. She had counted his weapons. Noted his stride. Noticed the way he wanted to be seen. That alone told her enough.

Vee.

Muscle-bound, confident, dressed like he owned the ground he walked on. Exactly the kind of man the council warned her about.

She adjusted the belt at her waist, blades whispering softly as they shifted. Her jaw tightened, not fear, irritation. He was too calm. Too comfortable.

Nova stepped out.

Boots hit the pavement. Open. Unhidden.

Ares stopped immediately.

Slowly, he turned.

Their eyes met across the broken street.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Ares straightened, one hand lifting, not to a weapon, but in mock politeness.

Ares: “Well. If it isn’t a Seraphite welcome party. I was starting to feel lonely.”

Nova didn’t move. Her stance was solid, feet planted, shoulders squared. One hand hovered close to her blades, the other loose but ready.

Nova: “You’re deep in territory you don’t control, Vee. That makes you either stupid… or arrogant.”

Ares chuckled, low and unbothered.

Ares: “Funny. We usually call it confidence.”

He looked her over openly, not leering, but assessing. The scars. The posture. The discipline.

Dangerous, he decided. Not reckless. Not emotional.

Good.

Nova noticed the look and scowled.

Nova: “Eyes up. This isn’t a negotiation.”

Ares: “Everything’s a negotiation.” (beat) “Even a fight.”

The wind kicked up dust between them. Somewhere far off, metal creaked, an old sign swinging like a countdown.

Nova drew one blade halfway from its sheath. Just enough to let it sing.

Nova: “Last chance to turn around.”

Ares’s smile faded, more focused.

His hands moved slowly to his belt. Not drawing. Preparing.

Ares: “Can’t do that.” (pauses, meeting her gaze) “You’re worth the trouble.”

Nova: (smirking softly)

“It’s your funeral then…”