Svetra moved with a precision born of pure, cold training. Drask’s Kordian pistol, still smoking, was aimed at the floor, but his intent was clear as the Kraga smog. Kavol, frozen in place, had his hands raised, Liska clinging to his leg, her face buried in his soot-stained trousers. Matya, disoriented by Radek’s sudden collapse, scrambled back, bumping into the wall. The reek of gunpowder and fear hung heavy. “The girl,” Drask repeated, his voice devoid of any inflection, a flat declaration of ownership. “Sign her over, or the engineer dies.” Svetra’s gaze flickered between the pistol, Kavol, and then Matya, who was now openly staring at Liska with a greed that surpassed even her fear. No one, not ever, would lay claim to what was hers. Not again. *The scent of disinfectant and stale coffee clung to the sterile room. Svetra, younger, sharper, leaned forward, her voice a low balm. “Just tell me where he is,” Svetra had urged. “We can help him. No one has to get hurt.” The young woman clutched a photo of her brother, the hostage taker. “They’ll kill him,” she whimpered, pointing to the heavily armed tactical team arrayed outside the warehouse window. “The Negotiator told me... she said they wouldn’t go in.” The air turned bitter in Svetra’s throat. The lead negotiator. Her superior. She’d explicitly promised the informant the tactical team would hold their position. She’d told Svetra to build trust, to promise anything. Svetra had believed her, had conveyed the promise. A sudden bang, then screams, erupted from the warehouse. The sister stared at Svetra, betrayed, before collapsing into hysterics. Her brother was dead. Svetra had been a fool. Trust was a weapon. Loyalty, a weakness. Never again would she cede control.* Drask took a step closer, the cold glint in his eyes unwavering. “Decide, Vorzina. A widow’s life in the Slums, or a future… without complications.” Svetra’s fingers brushed the pendant beneath her tunic. The smooth stone felt warm, a slow thrum against her skin. Her mind raced, a thousand possibilities, calculations, probabilities. She had no weapon, no leverage. Except one. Kavol’s prototype. The steam-pressure engine, hidden in the dark dimension, pulsed with raw, untamed energy. “You’re mistaken, Inspector,” Svetra said, her voice steady, almost conversational, despite the tremor in Liska’s small body. “I don’t negotiate for what is mine.” Drask’s cruel smile widened, a flash of white in the smog. “Then you’ll watch him bleed.” He leveled the sidearm, aiming it directly at Kavol’s head. “No!” Matya shrieked, a sudden, surprising burst of self-preservation. She didn’t want Kavol dead; he was a valuable pawn, a tool to be exploited, not discarded. But her cry was drowned out. Svetra closed her eyes for a fractional second, picturing the prototype. The unstable valves, the overloaded pressure gauges. She mentally strained, focusing, willing a catastrophic rupture. A deep, vibrating groan resonated from beneath the floorboards. The entire apartment shuddered. Dust rained down, thicker now, mingling with the drifting smog. A high-pitched whine began, growing louder, more frantic, like a dying beast. Kavol blanched, recognizing the sound. “The prototype!” Kavol yelled, his voice strained. “Svetra, no! It’s unstable!” Drask’s head snapped towards the sound, his cruel smile faltering. “What in the blazes…?” There was a moment of excruciating, drawn-out silence. Then, with a deafening *CRUMP*, the floor directly beneath Drask’s feet buckled. A geyser of superheated steam, accompanied by shrapnel and fragmented metal, erupted upwards. The air screamed with the force of the blast. Drask let out a choked cry, a sound of pure agony. He stumbled back, dropping the iron weapon. The steam, scalding hot, had enveloped his face and outstretched arm. Flesh blistered and peeled away in sickening sheets. A raw, red mess replaced his immaculate features. He clawed at his face, his elegant uniform now shredded and soaked, the cloth fused to his skin in places. His eyes, though still visible through the ruin, were no longer cold; they burned with an infernal, homicidal rage. “You… witch!” he roared, his voice thick with pain and fury. “I’ll flay you alive! I’ll boil that girl’s bones for broth!” Svetra didn’t wait. “Kavol! Liska! Now!” Kavol, pulling Liska, lunged for the door. Matya, her face pale with shock, hesitated for a second, then scrambled after them, her greed forgotten in the face of such raw, explosive violence. The dense Kraga smog, already thick, became their ally, swirling into the apartment, obscuring Drask’s enraged, flailing form. They burst out into the grimy alley, the bitter cold a welcome shock. The screams of Drask, mingled with the hiss of escaping steam, echoed behind them. Svetra scanned the labyrinthine passages, her mind already calculating escape routes. Ahead, a shadowed figure waved frantically. Yennya. “This way!” Yennya hissed, her face streaked with tears and soot. “I have a place! A safehouse! Directorate protocols, they won’t check it for days!” Svetra didn’t question, didn’t hesitate. Kavol gripped Liska tighter, following Yennya into the shifting grey curtain of smog. The air tasted of ash and fear, but beneath it, a desperate hope flickered. They ran until their lungs burned, until the Kraga Slums faded into a distant, angry murmur. Yennya led them through a series of crumbling market stalls, across a choked, waste-filled canal, and finally down a narrow, forgotten laneway. A heavy, unmarked steel door, rust-pitted but solid, stood against a crumbling brick wall. Yennya fumbled with a set of keys, her hands shaking. “It’s deep,” Yennya gasped, shoving the door open. “Under an old fuel depot. They decommissioned it after the ’48 Blight. Just… just get in.” They stumbled inside, the door clanging shut behind them, plunging them into absolute darkness. Yennya fumbled for a moment, then a dim, flickering emergency lantern cast long, dancing shadows across a small, cramped room. A cot, a chipped basin, a lone, locked metal cabinet. It reeked of stale air and forgotten things, but it was solid, secure. A temporary reprieve. Liska immediately curled into Kavol, sobbing quietly. Matya slumped against the wall, muttering curses under her breath, her eyes still wide with fear. Yennya stood by the door, her shoulders heaving, guilt etched onto her face. Svetra watched them all, her gaze unreadable. She reached for the pendant. The obsidian pulsed, a hot, insistent beat against her chest. She closed her eyes, her consciousness pulling into the Obsidian Acre. The world within was no longer merely black, nor grey. It was a violent, pulsing, blood-red. The pitch-black soil churned, roiling with an invisible energy. Crimson tendrils, thick as her wrist, snaked from the earth, reaching, grasping, and then retracting, as if gorging themselves on an unseen feast. The air thrummed with a savage, joyous vibration. It drank the hatred. It craved the fury. Drask’s hatred. It was immense, boundless, a geyser of pure, unadulterated rage, and the Acre was… singing with it. The soil was vibrant, terrifyingly alive, drinking deeply from the depths of his wrath. And it was all hers. All to command. Svetra smiled, a slow, chilling curve of her lips in the darkness. Inspector Drask had just made the biggest mistake of his life, and she would make sure he knew it. Every scar on his ruined face would be a mark of her victory. She would ensure his rage would feed her until he had nothing left but a burning husk of a soul. She would bleed him dry. She would make him pay for every single ounce of terror he had inflicted upon her family, until the very last drop of his blood…

Pressure Point