His small, blinking tablet glowed an angry red in the dim light of the battlefield, reflecting off the shattered remnants of the Patriarch’s mech. Kavakh’s arms, still possessively clamped around Mizari, tightened further, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He looked up, his eyes, usually only for her, now scanning the horizon with predatory efficiency. Mizari, in her semi-conscious state, registered the growl as a particularly loud snore. Good. Sleep was coming. Soft, inviting darkness beckoned. Before Kavakh could even formulate a response, the distinct thrum of heavy-duty air-skimmers sliced through the diesel-choked air. Five dark, armored craft, sleek and intimidating, descended from the smoky sky. Their landing struts hissed as they settled onto the pulverized ground around the fortress courtyard. Their hulls bore the stark, unyielding insignia of the Union Coalition: a stylized fist clutching a lightning bolt. Blast doors on the lead skimmer hissed open, revealing a phalanx of figures clad in polished dark-slate alloy, their weapons, a mix of plasma rifles and sonic disruptors, held at the ready. Their commander, a broad-shouldered woman with a scar bisecting her right eyebrow, stepped forward. Her gaze swept over the carnage – the smoldering remains of the mech, the scattered bodies of rival enforcers, the still-smoking artillery cannon. Her eyes narrowed when they landed on Kavakh, still cradling Mizari. Her lip curled. “Kavakh,” her voice was a low, gravelly rasp. “You’ve made quite the mess.” Kavakh didn't move. He simply shifted Mizari higher in his arms, his gaze fixed on the commander. Diesel fumes hung heavy between them. Siroc, skin ashen, fidgeted with his tablet, clearly calculating escape routes. Mizari, meanwhile, had found the perfect headrest against Kavakh’s shoulder plate and was already drifting into a truly glorious slumber. The chaos, the Guild, the looming threat – it all faded into the background hum of her perfect, coming nap. “The syndicate’s holdings,” the marshal continued, gesturing to Siroc’s tablet with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “have transferred. An unprecedented, unsanctioned asset seizure. My assessors are here to determine the legitimacy of this transfer. And to assess the… damages.” Her eyes flicked to Mizari. “And to identify the individual responsible for such a colossal disruption to Khordis’s economic stability.” Kavakh’s expression remained flat, but a dangerous glint entered his eyes. He slowly, deliberately, reached into his coat with one hand, pulling out his blood-stained, heavy-caliber hand-cannon. The escorts tensed, rifle barrels snapping up. Siroc whimpered. Mizari, jostled slightly, mumbled something incoherent about comfortable pillows. Instead of raising the weapon, Kavakh merely began to meticulously wipe it down with a scrap of cloth, humming a tuneless, low melody. He then looked at the woman. “You look thirsty,” he stated, his voice devoid of any warmth. “Siroc. Bring tea. For our esteemed guests.” Siroc blinked. “Tea? Sir? Now?” “Now,” Kavakh repeated, his voice taking on an edge that brooked no argument. “And ensure it’s the good K’thari leaf. They've had a long journey.” The commander, thrown by the bizarre offer, exchanged flat looks with her unit. They had expected a defiant stand, an armed resistance, not… hospitality. Kavakh’s unscarred face, usually a mask of stoic command, now held a terrifying serenity as he polished his weapon, the metallic tang of dried blood still faint in the air. Siroc scrambled before the quiet menace boiled over. He vanished into the wreckage of the compound gate, returning moments later, miraculously, with a battered, soot-stained serving tray, complete with steaming cups of amber liquid. The delegates eyed the tea with suspicious frowns. One even prodded a cup with the barrel of her rifle. Kavakh watched them, then took a sip of his own cup, his gaze never leaving the commander. “It’s not poisoned,” he said, his voice flat. “Not for guests. Unless they prove unwelcome.” The officer weighed his rigid stillness against the sheer absurdity of the offer, then reached out. She took a cup, her hand steady, but her eyes wary. Her team followed suit, though several visibly swallowed before taking a cautious sip. “Those family assets,” Kavakh stated, setting his cleaned hand-cannon on the tray with a soft clink, “now belong to my wife, Mizari.” He gestured with a nod towards the sleeping woman in his arms. “She cured the Ash-Blight. She prevented a city-wide catastrophe. The Kashkar family brought this upon themselves.” The commander's brow rose. Cured the Ash-Blight? The legendary Plague-Breaker? She looked at the woman in Kavakh’s arms, who was now snoring softly, a faint smile on her face. This was the person who had caused so much disruption? “The inspection stands,” the commander said, her voice softer, but no less firm. “But we acknowledge the… extenuating circumstances. The Plague-Breaker is a valuable asset to Khordis. Her contributions will be factored into our assessment.” She paused, then added, “We will require a new CEO for the seized operations. Someone to manage the medical and financial infrastructure that remains.” Kavakh’s gaze swept to Siroc, who choked on his tea. “Siroc,” Kavakh declared, his voice decisive. “You’re in charge. My wife requires uninterrupted rest. Ensure her new empire runs smoothly.” Siroc’s jaw dropped. “Me? But… I’m a double agent! I’m good at hacking, not… corporate management!” He gestured wildly at the smoldering debris. “And I’m *stressed*!” “Exactly,” Kavakh said, a flicker of something almost akin to a smirk playing on his lips. “You are experienced with high-pressure situations. And you are loyal to Mizari. That is all that matters.” He then stood, carefully carrying Mizari, and began to walk towards the Obsidian Citadel, leaving Siroc to stammer protests to the unmoving delegates. Inside the restored command chamber, Kavakh settled onto the massive stone dais. He shifted Mizari gently onto his lap, her head resting comfortably against his chest. The Ash-Blight, now a sweet memory of pink vapor across the city, was gone. The Kashkar family was ruined, their financial grid a ghost, their Patriarch imprisoned, their power dissolved. Mizari had won. And now, she could finally sleep. Kavakh looked down at her, a possessive tenderness softening his normally harsh features. He then raised his eyes to the scattered personnel who were cautiously beginning to clean the throne room, his gaze a warning. The low hum of the compound's dynamos vibrated through the floor plates. One of the engineers, moving a heavy data terminal, accidentally scraped it against the floor, creating a loud, grating noise. Kavakh’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a murderous intent that promised immediate violence. The engineer froze, his face draining of color. Kavakh’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of a hidden blade. He glared, a silent promise of swift, brutal retribution for disturbing Mizari’s peace. The engineer dropped the terminal with a muffled thud and fled. Hours later, the great chamber fell silent, save for the hum of exhaust vents. Mizari, nestled securely in Kavakh’s embrace, finally stirred. Her eyes, heavy with lingering fatigue, cracked open. She looked up at Kavakh, her vision still blurry. “If you wake me up before noon tomorrow,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, her lethargy absolute, “I’m poisoning your breakfast.”

Happily Comatose