The Rift Chronicles: The Neon Contract

The rain-slicked streets of Old Detroit glittered under the storm as Elias Voss drove the stolen truck through the city's core, its engine a steady growl beneath the downpour. Neon signs bled into the night, their glow fractured by the rift scars tearing across the sky—jagged purple wounds that pulsed with an unearthly light. His long black coat clung damp to his frame, the kevlar lining a familiar weight, and his gray eyes stayed fixed on the road, unblinking. The machete at his hip thrummed faintly, runes glowing a soft blue, while the rift fragment in his pocket pressed against his ribs like a live coal. The Shrike was watching—Rhea's warning and the ambush at The Iron Flask proved it. Elias didn't care. Let him watch.

Mira Kade sat shotgun, feet on the dash, flipping through Rhea's scribbled notes with a frown. "Rift traces in the ichor," she said, voice cutting through the truck's hum. "This isn't street-grade—it's engineered. Apex's fingerprints are all over it." Elias didn't turn, his hands steady on the wheel, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow catching the dashboard's glow. "Or someone using their toys," he rasped, low and flat. She shrugged, tossing the notes onto the seat. "Either way, Shrike's got friends in high places. We're walking into a nest."

The Apex tower loomed ahead, a monolith of glass and steel piercing the storm like a blade. Its upper floors glowed with cold precision, a stark contrast to the crumbling fringes Elias knew too well. He pulled into a side street a block away, killing the engine with a flick of his wrist. The rain drummed on the roof, loud in the sudden silence. "Inside?" Mira asked, already reaching for the door. He nodded once, stepping out, his coat snapping in the wind as he scanned the street—empty, save for the shadows and the distant whine of drones. She followed, her hood up, magic simmering beneath her skin like a restless ember.

The lobby was a cathedral of polished marble and muted light, its air thick with the hum of security scanners and the faint tang of ozone. Two guards flanked the entrance, rifles slung low, their faces obscured by visors. Elias strode in, Mira a step behind, her boots echoing on the floor. The receptionist—a kid, barely twenty, with nervous eyes—looked up from her console. "Appointment?" she stammered, hands hovering over the keys. Elias didn't break stride, just flashed the Apex contract card from the suit who'd hired him. It gleamed briefly under the lights, and her fingers fumbled, buzzing them through to the elevators. "Forty-seventh floor," she called after them, voice shaky. He didn't acknowledge her.

The elevator hummed upward, a sleek cage of steel and glass that reflected Elias's scarred face and Mira's sharp smirk. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You ever smile, Voss? Or is your face just practicing for the grave?" He didn't answer, just watched the numbers climb, his grip loose on the machete's hilt. The doors slid open at 47—an expanse of glass-walled offices and sterile corridors, the air cool and laced with the faint buzz of electronics. A man waited at the far end, lean and sharp in a tailored suit, glasses perched on a hawkish nose. Dr. Leon Carver, Apex's monster wrangler. Elias knew him by reputation—cold, brilliant, and dirty as the rift beasts he studied.

"Voss," Carver said, voice smooth as oil, stepping forward with a thin smile. "And Kade. An unexpected pairing." He gestured to a glass-walled office, its desk cluttered with tablets and specimen jars. Elias didn't sit when offered, just stood, gray eyes locking onto Carver's with a weight that made the man's smile falter. "Shrike's moving rift fragments," Elias said, voice low and final. "Your people know." Carver's expression didn't shift, but his fingers tapped the desk once, a tell. "Speculation," he replied, leaning back. "We track threats, not rumors."

Mira snorted, tossing Rhea's notes onto the desk with a slap. "Engineered ichor. Rift traces. Your signature's all over it." Carver glanced at the paper, unfazed, adjusting his glasses with a deliberate calm. "Coincidence. The Shrike's resourceful—repurposes what he finds. Apex doesn't play in his sandbox." Elias stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the desk, voice dropping to a growl. "Lie again, and I test how resourceful you are." The runes on his machete flared faintly, a silent threat. Carver's smile wavered, but he held his ground, leaning forward. "You're out of your depth, hunter. This is bigger than Pier 17."

A scream shattered the air—high and sharp, followed by the crash of breaking glass down the hall. Elias drew his machete in a heartbeat, runes blazing blue, as Carver paled, his composure cracking. "They're here," he muttered, fumbling for a comm device on his desk. Elias didn't wait, moving toward the door as it burst inward, hinges splintering under the force. Four figures stormed in—three in Shrike's patched tactical gear, silver talon pins glinting, and a fourth that towered over them: a hulking rift beast, skin gray and cracked like old stone, eyes glowing red through a haze of black veins. Chains dangled from its wrists, snapped at the ends, and its roar shook the glass walls.

Elias didn't flinch, lunging as the beast charged, machete slashing a glowing arc that bit into its shoulder. Black blood sprayed, sizzling on the carpet, and the thing staggered but didn't fall. Mira's magic flared, a violet bolt slamming into its flank, scorching flesh and drawing a bellow of rage. Shrike's men fanned out, rifles barking—bullets chewed chunks from the desk and walls. Elias rolled, the floor splintering where he'd stood, and came up firing—two shots from the suppressed SIG Sauer, two clean kills through visors. The third man swung a jagged blade at him, but Elias parried with the machete, steel clashing, then drove the hilt into the man's jaw, dropping him cold.

The beast roared again, swiping a claw that smashed a glass partition into shards. Elias ducked under it, the wind of the blow tugging at his coat, and drove the machete up into its chest. The runes flared brighter, cutting deep, but the creature thrashed, flinging him back into a wall with a crack that rattled his bones. Mira stepped in, hands weaving a lattice of violet energy that she hurled forward—it punched through the beast's skull, black blood erupting as it collapsed in a twitching heap.

Carver emerged from behind his desk, pale but composed, brushing glass from his suit. "You've made a mess," he said, voice tight. Elias rose, wiping blood from a cut on his cheek, gray eyes boring into him. "Your mess. Talk." Carver sighed, adjusting his glasses. "The Shrike's after a rift key. We're… exploring options to counter him. That's all you get for now." Elias sheathed his machete, the runes dimming, his silence heavier than words. "Not enough," he said, turning for the door. Mira followed, her smirk gone, magic still crackling in her palms.

The tower's alarms wailed as they hit the elevator, descending into the storm-soaked night. Rain washed the blood from Elias's hands, but the rift fragment in his pocket pulsed harder, a warning he couldn't ignore. Apex was neck-deep in this, and The Shrike wasn't just a hunter—he was a predator with a leash on monsters. Elias's jaw tightened, his resolve a cold, unyielding thing. This was his fight now.