Damien felt the shift before the building even groaned—an almost imperceptible ripple through the steel frame, a wrongness in the bones of the structure. The threads of tension running through the walls snapped sharp and sudden, like a spine giving out. He didn’t need to see the collapse to know what had happened.

  The foundation had failed. Half the building was seconds from dropping.

  He stepped back with the casual grace of a man avoiding a puddle on the sidewalk. A heartbeat later, the ceiling gave way in a roaring cascade. Concrete and metal came crashing down in a violent sheet, dust exploding outward in a choking wave.

  When it finally settled, Damien stood perfectly still amid the debris, coated head to toe in pale gray powder like an offended statue. He exhaled once through his nose, slow and disappointed.

  “You cannot be serious,” he muttered at the shattered ceiling. “How incompetent can you be?”

  He brushed a chunk of drywall from his shoulder with disdainful precision. He could leave whenever he wanted—one snap, one fold of space, and the rubble would reshape itself around him. But he paused mid gesture, lowering his hand as two sets of light footsteps approached.

  He turned.

  And standing a few feet away was the Twin Hounds.

  The Dawn Hound dressed in white and silver-blue, the Dusk Hound in black and crimson-gold. Complementary colors, perfectly balanced silhouettes—an irritatingly aesthetic design choice.

  They’d come to rescue him.

  Damien’s amusement curled warm and sharp in his chest. Of all the people in all the collapsing structures in this city, fate had decided he would be the one these two found. If he weren’t careful, he might have laughed.

  But their arrival also meant restraint. He couldn’t use his abilities, couldn’t risk even a flicker of orange light. If they realized who he really was, if they saw even a hint of Echo… everything would fall apart.

  So he slipped easily into the role of the irate civilian.

  “Oh,” he said dryly. “The Twin Hounds.”

  The Dawn Hound approached with smooth, measured steps, voice modulated into polite calm. “Are you okay, sir?”

  “Absolutely not,” Damien said, brushing more debris off his sleeves. “The structural integrity of this entire building is abysmal. Truly haphazard. Whoever approved these renovations should be ashamed.”

  The Dawn Hound paused as if actually considering the complaint. The Dusk Hound stood still but attentive, head tilted slightly.

  Damien regarded them both, smugness pacing lazily beneath his skin. They had no idea—their greatest enemy standing right here, dust covered and unimpressed, fully within reach. And now that they were close, he could observe everything: posture, vocal tone, the way they coordinated their movements. Anything could be useful later.

  The Dusk Hound stepped forward with an obliging gesture. “We’re here to escort you to safety, sir. This way, please.”

  Damien waved a hand dismissively as he strode ahead. Even as a civilian, he refused to be herded like a lost pet. If anything, it was their job to keep up with him.

  “I’d hope that would be the least you can do,” he said crisply. “Now, enough talking. Get to it.”

  They flanked him like silent bodyguards as he led the way forward through the unstable ruin. He could feel their eyes on him—assessing, tracking, waiting for something he did not intend to give them. He kept his posture collected, matching the role of a perfectly ordinary civilian caught in an unfortunate architectural disaster. Acting casual was not difficult.

  But pretending not to sense the architecture bending toward collapse was.

  A subtle shift tremored through the beams ahead, a pressure change in the bones of the building. The floor just beyond him had seconds before giving way. He could have sidestepped it easily. Could have slowed down, redirected his path, or even used the smallest twist of his power to reinforce it. But that would be suspicious. And the point of a disguise was not to draw the slightest question.

  So Damien kept walking.

  He stepped directly onto the doomed patch of flooring. The structure groaned in protest—then collapsed inward with a thunderous crack.

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  A hand seized his shoulder from behind, iron strong and fast, yanking him back from the edge just as the ground vanished under his next step. Damien stumbled, dust bursting around his feet. Everything had played out exactly as he predicted.

  He steadied himself, barely brushing off the Dawn Hound’s grip before it could linger. Irritation flickered at the base of his throat. Being manhandled by vigilantes—by them—rankled more than he cared to admit.

  Then the Dawn Hound spoke.

  “Careful,” the modulated voice said evenly. “You wouldn’t want to fall off again… sir.”

  Damien blinked.

  Again?

  For one stretched, disbelieving second, his mind emptied. Then, unbidden and unwelcome, the memory slammed into him: the auditorium platform, his dramatic monologue, the perfect cadence of his speech—interrupted by a small, infuriating projectile smacking him directly in the forehead before he tumbled off the platform.

  His brow twitched.

  He slowly turned his head, fixing the Hound with a flat, narrow eyed stare. “Excuse me?”

  The Dawn Hound only stared back—silent, unreadable. The modulator and mask smoothed every nuance from his expression. The Dusk Hound shifted subtly to the side, a soundless movement that somehow reeked of stifled amusement.

  Neither of them elaborated.

  Damien’s pulse thudded once, sharp and irritated. Were they mocking him? No—no, that was absurd. They didn’t know who he was. They couldn’t. The remark had to be coincidence. Vague phrasing. Nothing more.

  But as he stood with the two masked vigilantes watching him in unbroken quiet, unease curled low in his chest—tightening, insistent.

  Why does this feel so familiar? Why am I getting a sense of deja vu?

  The Dawn Hound finally broke the stillness. “It would be… really. Tragically unfortunate if it happened. Mid speech.”

  Damien’s breath hitched, just slightly. He masked it with a slow blink.

  “…Right.”

  The three of them continued through the fractured remains of the tower until the hallway split abruptly into open air. A jagged gap tore through the building’s center—an exposed chasm that plunged several stories down into shadow. Dust drifted lazily through the shaft, swirling in thin golden ribbons where the sunlight angled in.

  Damien stepped forward and peered over the edge. The drop was considerable, but it didn’t faze him. Heights never had. In any other situation, he would have simply folded space beneath himself, lowered the floor, or built a temporary staircase from thin air. Simple. Controlled. Predictable.

  But today he was playing the role of an ordinary civilian—and ordinary civilians could not casually rewrite physics.

  He glanced back at the Twin Hounds, curious to see how they planned to handle the descent.

  His curiosity was replaced by a cold bloom of dread as he watched them secure what could only be described as a battered metal utility bucket clipped onto a slanted cable. A pulley system meant for transporting tools. Not people.

  The blood drained from his face.

  “What,” Damien said slowly, “are you doing?”

  The Dawn Hound turned to him, posture straight, voice calm and maddeningly professional. “This is the most secure and efficient method of transporting you safely to the lower level, sir.”

  The Dusk Hound nodded, tone equally polite. “The route is clear. We should proceed without delay.”

  Proceed?

  Damien’s stomach twisted. Absolutely not. He was not allowing himself to be hurled down a cable in a glorified metal shoebox. He opened his mouth to object—

  But the Twin Hounds moved with terrifying coordination.

  One moment Damien was standing. The next, each vigilante had taken an arm, lifting him with smooth, horrifying ease and setting him into the bucket like he weighed nothing at all.

  He ended up seated stiffly inside it, knees bent awkwardly, hands planted on either side as if bracing for execution.

  A silent scream built in his chest.

  Vertigo. His absolute nemesis. His fighting style revolved around not moving—staying perfectly anchored in one spot while manipulating the space around him. Motion sickness was beneath him, a petty human weakness he despised acknowledging. And ever since that cursed roller coaster incident at the theme park, the very sensation of rapid descent made his stomach revolt.

  This wasn’t a sanctioned ride. There were no safety rails. No calculated engineering. Just an old utility pulley, gravity, and his growing sense of impending death.

  “Wait—don’t—”

  A single, coordinated kick struck the back of the cart.

  The pulley shrieked.

  And Damien was launched.

  The bucket rocketed down the cable with brutal speed. Air whipped his face. His stomach hurtled into his throat. The world blurred into streaks of gray and metal.

  “AAAUUWWWWWGGHHH—!”

  His voice cracked into a raw, strangled wail, echoing violently through the hollow structure. His soul felt like it was peeling out of his body. Every inch of him screamed betrayal.

  Then, abruptly, the bucket slammed to a stop.

  Damien did not move.

  He remained frozen in place, fingers locked around the metal rim in a white knuckled death grip. His mind was blank. His body was numb. His very spirit hovered somewhere outside of him, trying to recover from the freefall his physical form had endured.

  He blinked once. Slowly. The world swam.

  By the time he registered movement, the Twin Hounds were already lifting him upright—insultingly gently—and guiding him onto solid ground. His knees wobbled. His vision tilted. He let himself be escorted only because the alternative was collapsing like wet paper.

  They led him out of the building, through a break in the wall where sunlight spilled in warm and bright. As the fresh air hit him, his senses realigned, nausea fading enough for him to breathe again.

  A pat landed between his shoulder blades—friendly, almost encouraging.

  He blinked up just in time to see the Twin Hounds leap skyward in a clean, effortless arc, vaulting across a distant rooftop before disappearing into the noon horizon.

  Damien stood very still.

  Very, very still.

  Slowly, horror crept in.

  The Twin Hounds—his sworn enemies, the vigilantes he prided himself on outwitting, the masked thorns in his side—had just witnessed him utterly destroyed by vertigo. He had learned nothing from them. No insights, no weaknesses, no patterns.

  All he had gained was humiliation.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a sound that was equal parts laugh and despair.

  “…This is the worst rescue I’ve ever experienced.”

  ─ ? NEXT CHAPTER POV ? ─

  Yoru / Lyla