Lazeril's gaze hardened as the flickering images on the surveillance grid glitched out—one by one, whole corridors vanished in pixelated sparks.
"They've started," he murmured, voice clipped, eyes gleaming.
He rose slowly from his high-backed chair and turned toward his loyal guards.
"Vanguard formation. Lock down all gates. And the boy?"
He paused at the sealed obsidian door.
"Double the watch. Personally. Kael will come."
Behind the door, Arlen lay unconscious.
Elsewhere, in the underbelly of the lair...
Renji crouched behind a console, fingers flying across his interface. His portable screen blinked wildly with lines of encrypted code.
"Looping corridors C3 through D7. Scrambling heat signals. Disrupting surface reflections," he muttered under his breath.
Static hissed in his ear. The compound's system was fighting back.
"Typical cult software," he grunted. "Arrogant and outdated."
Then, a whisper of static from the mirrors.
Renji froze.
A chill slid down his spine, and his breath caught.
Click. Drag. Click.
He turned.
A man stepped into view—a skeletal figure in a pristine white coat stained with blood at the cuffs. His eyes were voids, his grin stitched tight and twitching at the corners.
"Well, well, well," the man drawled, dragging a mirrored staff behind him, the sound screeching against the floor. "You're the little rat chewing through my wires."
Renji straightened slowly, already calculating every reflective surface in the room.
"So you're the reason the network's having a seizure," Renji muttered. "I expected something taller."
"Oh, I like you already." The man smiled too wide. "You break in, blind my system, and think you'll walk out? Adorable."
The chamber shifted. Mirrors slammed into place around them, distorting space.
"You've entered my theater," he whispered. "And I always write tragedies."
The first strike was instant—a pulse of reflective energy that sent Renji sprawling across the floor. His ribs shrieked in protest.
He coughed, blood painting the floor beneath him.
"Still with me?" the man cooed. "Good. I want you awake for this."
Renji clutched his side, trembling. His memory loop powers were sputtering—scrambled by the frequency pulses bouncing off the mirrored dome. It wasn't just a reflective field. It was a deliberate, engineered counter to his gift.
"You're using dampeners," he gasped. "You knew I'd be here."
"Oh yes." The man twirled his staff lazily. "We've been watching the little tech boy for weeks. We designed this just for you. Isn't it lovely?"
He lashed out again. Renji barely rolled aside as mirrored shards embedded in the ground.
"See, I'm not just here to kill you." The man crouched beside him. "I'm here to make you suffer. Pain is art. And you? You're my masterpiece."
Another strike.
Renji's vision blurred. His shoulder dislocated from the blow. His fingers twitched as he reached for the side panel.
"You're just a puppet behind a screen," the man hissed. "But here—where wires don't matter—what are you?"
Renji grit his teeth, blood sliding down his chin. "Still smarter than you."
He jammed a spike into the mirror beside him. It flared.
"Hidden frequency burst," he rasped. "Unstable, untested... but hey—" he smirked weakly, "desperate times."
A scream.
The field distorted wildly. His opponent staggered as the echo feedback backfired into his own mental frequencies. His smile cracked—real pain flashing across his face.
Renji seized the moment.
His body was barely working, but he forced himself forward, using the mirrored environment against him. He grabbed the psycho's staff and triggered a voltage overload he'd hardwired into his gloves.
Electricity surged. The staff shattered. The man collapsed, twitching.
Renji fell beside him, gasping.
Smoke curled around them.
His comms buzzed weakly.
"Renji, status." Echo's voice. Calm but urgent.
Renji dragged his bloody hand to his earpiece.
"Neutralized... room's fried. I'm alive, somehow."
"Good. Extraction route's open."
Renji stared at the broken mirrors above him.
Pain radiated through his entire body. His vision dimmed.
But he was alive.
And he'd won.
Not cleanly. Not easily.
But he'd made it hurt—for the man who loved hurting others.