The Rift Chronicles: The Neon Contract

The truck's engine growled as Elias Voss drove into Old Detroit's fringes, the Riftlands' mud giving way to cracked asphalt under a sky streaked with fading rift scars. Dawn had broken, gray and cold, washing the neon haze of the city's skyline into a muted glow. His gray eyes stayed fixed on the road, unblinking, the scar over his eyebrow sharp in the dashboard's light. The machete rested on the seat beside him, runes dull beneath crusted blood, while the SIG Sauer hung empty at his hip, its weight a silent reminder of Breachpoint's cost. His tactical gear was torn, blood dried on his arm and back, but he moved steady, unyielding—exhaustion was a burr he'd shake off.

Mira Kade slouched in the passenger seat, her magic flickering violet in her palms as she flexed her bruised hands. Her jacket hung in tatters, her side stiff from the fight, but her smirk flickered back, faint but sharp. "Home sweet hell," she muttered, eyeing the slums that sprawled ahead—rusted tenements, flickering signs, the distant hum of drones. Elias didn't reply, just shifted gears, the truck jolting over a pothole as the city swallowed them. The Shrike was dead, the gate cracked, the Wraith Queen driven back—but her voice—"This isn't over"—gnawed at him, a promise he'd meet with steel.

The truck rolled past a checkpoint—guards in Apex gear waved them through, too bored or too scared to check the battered vehicle. Elias aimed for the docklands, the suit's contract still a thread to pull. "Apex won't like this," Mira said, voice low, glancing at him. "Shrike gone, gate messed up—messy job." He grunted, a rare sound, gray eyes narrowing. "They'll pay. Messy or not." She smirked, leaning back. "My kind of optimism."

The dockside diner loomed ahead, its chipped Formica and buzzing lights a relic in the neon sprawl. Elias parked, stepping out, machete sheathed but close. Mira followed, her limp fading, magic dim but restless. Inside, the air stank of grease and stale coffee, the same waitress from nights ago eyeing them warily—two blood-streaked figures in a quiet dawn. Elias slid into the corner booth, gray eyes scanning the room, while Mira ordered coffee, her voice sharp despite the fatigue.

The suit arrived minutes later—pale, twitchy, same cheap cologne—sliding in across from them, his briefcase rattling on the table. "Voss," he said, voice tight, eyeing the blood on Elias's gear. "Report." Elias didn't answer, just pulled The Shrike's cracked mask from his coat and dropped it on the table—metal clinked, blood flaking off. The suit paled, hands trembling as he opened his case. "Dead?" he stammered. Elias nodded once, voice flat. "Dead. Rift's quiet. For now."

Mira sipped her coffee, smirking over the rim. "Your boy Carver might disagree—things got loud up there." The suit's eyes flicked to her, then back to Elias, fumbling with a tablet. "The… asset?" Elias leaned forward, gray eyes piercing, the weight of his silence forcing the man to shrink. "Gone," he rasped. "Gate's cracked. Deal with it." The suit swallowed, sliding a credit chip across the table—triple pay, as promised. "Apex appreciates discretion," he muttered, standing fast. Elias took the chip, gray eyes unyielding. "Tell Carver he's next if he lies again."

The suit scurried out, briefcase banging his leg, and Mira laughed, low and sharp. "Think he wet himself?" Elias didn't reply, just pocketed the chip, his mind on Carver—the scientist's evasiveness, the engineered ichor, Apex's fingerprints on Shrike's mess. The diner's hum faded as he stood, machete in hand, and headed for the truck. Mira followed, coffee in hand, her smirk steady. "What now? Bar? Bed?" He grunted, starting the engine. "Gear. Then hunt."

The truck rolled through the docklands, past Pier 17's rusted cranes, toward a safehouse Elias kept—a squat garage buried in the slums, its walls tagged with faded runes. Inside, he dumped his gear—machete on a workbench, coat in a heap—gray eyes scanning shelves of ammo, blades, and alchemical vials. Mira slumped into a chair, kicking her boots off, magic flaring as she patched a cut on her arm. "You live like this?" she asked, eyeing the bare concrete. He reloaded the SIG Sauer, voice flat. "Works."

A low hum broke the quiet—not the truck, not the city. Elias froze, pistol up, gray eyes narrowing as the runes on his machete flickered blue. Mira's magic flared, violet light casting shadows. "Rift?" she whispered, standing fast. The hum grew, vibrating the walls, and a crack split the floor—purple energy erupted, a rift tear, small but alive. Something clawed free—a rift shade, humanoid but twisted, its form shimmering with corruption, eyes glowing purple like hers.

Elias fired—two shots, clean through its chest—but it flickered, bullets passing through, and lunged, claws slashing. He sidestepped, machete slashing its arm—runes blazed, black blood spraying, and it shrieked, recoiling. Mira's violet bolt hit its core, shattering it into smoke, the rift tear snapping shut behind it. The silence returned, heavy with the stench of ozone. Elias wiped the machete, gray eyes on the floor where the crack lingered. "Her," he rasped, voice low, a verdict.

Mira's smirk vanished, her magic dimming. "Wraith Queen. She's reaching out." Elias nodded, sheathing the machete, the hum still faint in his skull. The gate wasn't sealed—just sleeping—and she was testing them, her promise alive. He pulled a vial from the shelf—rune-etched, filled with a clear liquid—and tossed it to Mira. "Cleanse," he said, voice flat. She caught it, frowning, then nodded, pouring it over her hands—rift energy hissed, fading from her skin.

The safehouse settled, but the air felt charged, the city's neon bleeding through the cracks. Elias sat, gray eyes on the machete, cleaning it by habit, the runes glowing soft as he worked. Mira watched, her voice low. "She's not done with us—Breachpoint was just the start." He grunted, wiping blood from the blade. "Good. I'm not done with her." She smirked, faint but real, and leaned back, the vial empty in her hand. "Guess we're stuck together then."

He didn't reply, just finished the blade, sheathing it with a click that echoed in the quiet. The Wraith Queen was out there, rift-bound but alive, and Apex's shadow loomed—Carver, the ichor, the lies. Elias stood, gray eyes on the city beyond the door, the hunt a quiet, unyielding thing in his bones. The truck waited, the road called, and he'd meet her again—blade ready, silence his shield.