The mechanical chime above the door echoed as Neo stepped into Red Ember Relics. He expected to find the usual clutter—shelves groaning under the weight of obsolete trinkets, brass-cased timepieces ticking out of sync, and the faint scent of aged wood and machine oil.
But the air had changed.
Still. Heavy.
As if something had plugged the atmosphere, leaving everything in suspended suffocation.
Then he saw them.
Six figures stood in quiet formation between the antique aisles, bodies coiled with tension. Their uniforms were a seamless blend of ceramic armor and carbon fiber fabric, dyed a deep blue-black that shimmered faintly under the showroom lights. Silver etchings curved along their sleeves like storm paths. Each one wore an angular, smooth-faced helmet with a tinted visor—matte, featureless, and silent. Their shoulders bore an emblem: a six-winged blade embedded in a disc of stylized cloud metal.
The Martial Sky Guard.
Neo's mouth went dry.
He had seen them from a distance, standing sentinel during processions or escorting high-clearance transports. They weren't meant to be inside civilian businesses. Their authority sat several tiers above local governance. They patrolled not to protect—but to enforce, and their arrival often preceded silence, not justice.
And now they were here.
In his workplace and from the looks of it, they are here for him.
He stepped back instinctively, but the glass door had already sealed behind him. A faint hiss betrayed a locking mechanism far more advanced than any human merchant should have access to.
Then, from the staircase leading to the upper floor, came the click of shoes. Measured, deliberate.
Boss Lann emerged like a man stepping onto a private stage. His robe today was far too luxurious for a relic merchant—gold thread embroidered along the cuffs, and a pendant swinging from his neck that hummed faintly when he moved. His smile was polished, his eyes gleaming with opportunistic venom.
"There he is," Lann said, voice syrupy with false sympathy. "The thief himself, arriving right on time."
Neo blinked, unable to understand. "Boss, what are you—"
"I told them everything." Lann turned to the guards. "He stole it. The relic I was preparing to hand over to Central Authority. Disappeared right after his shift ended."
Neo's brain raced. "I never even touched that relic. It was sealed—"
"Oh?" Lann's voice sharpened. "Yet now it's gone. Only one person had the access codes to that floor besides me. And that person is standing here."
The tallest of the guards stepped forward. Unlike the others, his armor had crimson lining under the plates, and his right arm bore a band that pulsed faintly every few seconds. A rectangular glass device was embedded along his forearm—thin as paper, nearly translucent, mounted in a sleek chrome bracket. Its surface displayed scrolling data in light-blue script, constantly updating.
"Neo," the Guard said. His voice was metallic, but not entirely artificial—amplified, as though carried by a voicebox too controlled to allow emotion. "Citizen record confirms basic residence and work permit. Clearance level: minimal."
Neo stayed still. His legs itched to run, but something was wrong. The Guard had taken three steps in nearly ten seconds.
Too slow.
Artificially slow.
Neo's eyes flicked between the guards. Their hands hovered near their weapons—slim batons clipped to magnetic belts, no visible switches. Their boots, matte-black and reinforced with pressure anchors, made no noise against the wooden floor.
They were moving in rhythm—not as soldiers reacting to a suspect, but as predators herding prey into a trap. Every shift of their limbs, every angle of their stance, whispered one message:
Run.
They wanted him to.
Neo's heart hammered in his chest. If he ran, they could act—deploy lethal force and reduce him to a smear on the floor. And it would all be legal. Resistance was justification.
He swallowed dryly, cold sweat tracing the curve of his spine. His hands were trembling, but he slowly raised them, fingers spread.
"I yield," he said. Quietly. But clearly.
For a moment, the room was silent.
Even Lann looked momentarily thrown off. His brows twitched, just a fraction.
The lead Guard's head tilted, almost imperceptibly. "Acknowledged."
Two guards advanced. Their movement was fluid now—no hesitation, no lag. They moved like gears returning to motion.
Neo didn't resist as they stepped close. One of them removed a thin, metallic card from a hip compartment and brushed it along a reader embedded behind Neo's ear—a contact panel most citizens didn't even know was standard. The other scanned his face using a handheld lens-like device, mounted on an extendable arm that folded out from their wrist.
"Identity confirmed. No anomalies," the guard reported. His voice, too, was controlled—unemotional, as if reading from a script carved into his bones.
Another Guard opened a comm-line. A glass strip wrapped over from his right ear to his eye lit up, displaying silent data waves pulsing outward like smoke rings.
"Subject acquired," he said, voice flat. "Minimal resistance. Awaiting transport."
Neo watched them silently. He noticed something odd on the rear of the tallest Guard's helmet—engraved beneath the emblem, almost burned into the metal—Unit 7-H: Talon Division.
The Talon Division were rumored to be the executioners of the Martial Sky Guard—activated not for criminal capture, but for high-risk subduals and black flag retrievals. They didn't investigate crimes. They ended them.
Neo's eyes narrowed. That relic—it wasn't valuable. No was it was sensitive.
Someone clearly wanted to ise that as an excuse.
---
Outside the Shop…
The lead Guard walked into the alley beside the building, his glass panel still glowing softly on his wrist. A faint breeze rustled his coat.
He raised his arm and pressed a code.
A voice answered. Raspy. Detached.
"Report."
"Target apprehended without incident. No flight response. Awaiting orders."
A beat of silence.
"…Unfortunate. But expected. Proceed to containment. Ensure the young master receives a satisfactory report."
"Yes, Director."
The screen faded.
The Guard glanced back at the shop entrance, his posture unreadable.
"All this," he muttered under his breath, "for a relic that was never supposed to be found."
---