The Author's Draft

Chapter 99 - 18:

The Hunter Association headquarters caught the first rays of dawn across its glass and steel facade, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the marble lobby floor. Security guards stiffened at their posts as the automatic doors parted. Three executives huddled by the elevator paused mid-conversation, their coffee cups suspended halfway to their lips.

Aiden stepped through the threshold, the overhead lights reflecting off his mask’s obsidian surface. The crimson eyes glowed with an inner fire that pulsed slightly with each breath. A receptionist dropped her pen. Someone whispered something urgent into a comm device. The mask’s angular cheekbones and pointed chin jutted forward as he approached the security checkpoint, hoodie pulled low, hands buried deep in his pockets.

The guard at the scanner swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing once before he gestured Aiden through with a quick jerk of his chin. His partner’s gaze flicked to the makeshift name tag—a white sticker with "AIDEN" scrawled in permanent marker—then away again, suddenly fascinated by the floor tiles.

At the far end of the marble lobby, behind an angular reception desk of polished obsidian with edges sharp enough to slice paper, three figures huddled over a tablet. The older woman’s knuckles whitened around its edge. The younger woman’s lips moved in barely audible syllables as her eyes darted between the screen and Aiden’s approaching form. Aiden stopped before them, his mask’s reflection fragmenting across the desk’s glossy surface. The young man with the ruler-straight hair part set the tablet down, his left hand trembling just enough to make his silver cufflink tap once against the stone.

The older of the women straightened in her chair. "Good morning, sir. How can we help you?" she said, every word precise and layered with well-practiced neutrality.

"I have a meeting with the Chairman," Aiden said. His voice, filtered through the mask’s subtle reverb, sounded like it belonged to a much taller man.

The younger woman double-checked something on her tablet, then looked up, mouth slightly open. "Your name?"

"Aiden," he replied. There was a three-count as the name processed, then both women seemed to get it at once. The younger man stared at Aiden, then at the tablet, then at Aiden again. The older woman smiled, but with all her teeth.

"One moment, please," she said, and pressed a button under the desk.

After a minute of whispered phone conversation and three more glances at his mask, the woman hung up and turned back to him. "The Chairman will see you now, Mr. Aiden. I’m told to send you directly to the executive elevators." She motioned to a corridor guarded by two Association security in navy suits and mirrored glasses.

Aiden thanked her—he’d always found civility cost nothing, and sometimes even bought you things. He strode to the corridor, the security men stepping aside with robotic precision. One pressed a button, the elevator doors opening in silence. Aiden stepped inside alone.

The elevator rose with the hush of a padded cell. Floor numbers ticked up in gentle blue LEDs, bypassing every floor between the lobby and the top except the penultimate, where it paused, lingered for a heartbeat, then continued. As the car arrived, the doors opened directly onto a reception foyer made of walnut and black glass, all polished to a shine you could see your conscience in. There was a second reception desk, this one manned by a single staffer who smiled, then gestured him down a hallway toward the Chairman’s office.

The door was already ajar.

Aiden stepped through.

Chairman Reginald Cross stood by the window, looking down at the city as if he owned it, which was not technically true but close enough in the Hunter community. He wore a suit so dark it drank light, and his hair, while perfectly white, had the disciplined shape of a man who cut it weekly. He turned as Aiden entered, smiled, and moved forward to offer a handshake.

Aiden took it, surprised at the old man’s grip—not crushing, but cold and electric, the skin dry as parchment.

"Mr. Aiden," the Chairman said, voice warm and modulated. "Or do you prefer to be called by another name?"

Aiden let go, then shrugged. "Aiden is fine. Jus, if you want the full version."

The Chairman’s eyes did a quick flicker—he’d known, of course, but appreciated the confirmation. "Thank you for coming in on such short notice," he said, gesturing to the high-backed chair across the desk. "You can remove the mask, or not, as you wish. This office is private."

Aiden kept it on and sat, spine straight. The Chairman appreciated this and seated himself, producing an elegant carafe of water from a sideboard and pouring them both glasses. Aiden did not touch his.

"I’m going to be direct," the Chairman said, leaning forward just slightly. "We were not expecting a new SS-rank, much less an independent one. The offer of Association support stands, as I said in the lobby last night, but it comes with certain expectations. I hope we can reach an understanding today."

Aiden nodded. "That’s why I came. I appreciate the offers, but I’m not here to join the Association. Not yet."

The Chairman steepled his fingers. "Then you are here for...?"

"Logistics," Aiden said. "The battle starts in thirty-eight hours. I need supplies, and I need them without strings."

The Chairman considered this, then nodded. "Reasonable. What do you require?"

Aiden rattled off a list: "First, weapons. Not the budget issue, but high-grade, S-rank or better. Swords—European long, or Chinese jian if you have it. Nothing enchanted with tracking or remote lockout." He paused for effect. "Second, armor for myself and my brother. Third, equipment that might help a Summoner class, which is what my brother turned out to be."

The Chairman showed a flicker of surprise—genuine, or as good an imitation as Aiden had ever seen. "Your brother is the Summoner? The unranked one?"

Aiden nodded.

Chairman Cross exhaled, not so much a sigh as an expulsion of some weightless vapor. "If you don’t mind my saying, I’d like him to come in tomorrow for a full orientation. We could have him set up in one of the Association’s safe houses, maybe even expedite a training session with other Summoners—"

"No," Aiden said, softly but with a finality that made the desk vibrate.

The Chairman smiled, as if he had expected nothing less. "I had to ask. I understand your wariness, but if he’s to fight, we need to assess his strengths and weaknesses. The Guilds will be—"

"He’s not fighting," Aiden said. "He’s surviving. I’ll take care of the fighting."

The room stilled. Cross’s eyes sharpened, reading Aiden’s posture like a contract.

"I see," the Chairman said. "Then you will fight as the only SS-rank not under any official chain of command, and you would do this for what, exactly?"

"Because someone has to," Aiden said, and for a moment the two men—one masked, one wizened—were equals. "And because I don’t trust anyone else to do it right."

This, finally, made the Chairman laugh. "You sound like me forty years ago," he said, not unkindly. "Very well. We will provide the requested gear, no surveillance, no strings. But you will take the fight to the worst of the rifts, the ones that threaten the city directly. Do we have an accord?"

Aiden nodded. "We do."

"Good," the Chairman said, and the handshake was more ceremonial than necessary, but they both did it anyway.

Aiden stood, ready to leave, but the Chairman called him back. "Wait," he said, reaching into a drawer. He removed a slim phone, black, unbranded, and slid it across the table. "You will need to communicate with us, at least during the battle. No GPS, no trackers, I promise you. Use it only if you wish."

Aiden took it, weighed it in his palm, then pocketed it. "Thanks."

The Chairman smiled again, that small, sharp crescent. "After the war, we will revisit the discussion. Perhaps then you’ll be more interested in what the Association can offer."

"Maybe," Aiden said. "Or maybe I’ll just retire."

The old man laughed. "You are an optimist after all."

Aiden left the room. The elevator ride down was as silent as before, the blue LED tickers counting each floor as if auditing the value of his time. When he reached the lobby, the same trio at the desk eyed him. The older woman smiled in relief, the young man visibly relaxed, and the second woman typed something into the terminal and handed over a simple manila envelope.

He took it, thanked her, and left.

Outside, the city was waking up for real, the rift-lit sky now a smoggy gray, the red on the horizon replaced by the more ordinary dangers of urban life. Aiden crossed the street, weaving through the cars and cyclists who moved with the inertia of people who’d learned to ignore the end of the world, at least until it was on their doorstep.

In the envelope: a Hunter’s provisional license, Association-grade currency cards, and a single page printout listing coordinates for the weapons cache he’d requested.

Aiden read it, then tucked it away, the demon mask catching the morning sun and making the shadows of his face seem deeper than before.

In thirty-eight hours, the barriers would fail. In thirty-eight hours, the mask would be more useful than any identity.

Aiden walked on, thinking not of the fight to come, but of the brother and mother waiting for him at home.