“Apron?” Nestra’s voice was a reedy whisper, barely audible over the hum of the centrifuge. Her vision pulsed, graying at the edges. The golden vial in her hand felt impossibly heavy. Korgan’s groans were a wet, sloshing sound against the metallic floor. Her own blood painted the nickel lid, a stark, glossy contrast to the dull sheen of the lab equipment. Vangrim’s smile was a thin line, sharp as a fresh razor. “A pity to ruin such a vibrant shade. Though, I suppose it suits you, Miss Nestra. The color of a sunset, or perhaps… something more vital.” His left hand, still holding the wine, made a dismissive gesture. The right, however, moved with alarming speed. Before Nestra could register the shift, his palm was a blur, striking her wrist. The vial of serum flew from her grasp, arcing through the air like a captured firefly before clattering against the plasteel counter, rolling precariously close to the edge. Her severed flesh flared white-hot as the joint wrenched. She stumbled backward, but Vangrim was already there, his presence a suffocating shadow. He caught her by the shoulders, not with violence, but with a firm, inescapable grip. His silver eyes, once merely calculating, now blazed with an intensity that made the chill in her bones deepen. “No more games, Miss Nestra,” he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her, robbing her of breath. “Tell me who you truly are. Tell me what you are.” “I… I don’t understand, Praetor,” she stammered, forcing a wide-eyed, vacant expression onto her face, clinging to the last vestiges of her act. “I just… I just came to clean the centrifuges. And that man… he attacked me!” She gestured vaguely towards Korgan, her voice cracking with feigned fright. Vangrim’s grip tightened, his fingers biting into her flesh. “Clean the centrifuges?” A soft, humorless chuckle escaped him. “With a vial of a newly synthesized, highly unstable antidote derived from a unique immune response, no doubt. Tell me, secretary, did you also 'clean' the biometrics with your lipstick? Or ‘accidentally’ duplicate a vault key? Your clumsiness, it seems, has a rather lethal pattern.” The air seemed to thicken, pressing down on her. Her mind raced, a frantic scramble for another escape. The serum, her only hope for Tollo, lay tantalizingly close, yet impossibly far. She had to break free. She had to fight. With a surge of desperate adrenaline, Nestra twisted, aiming a knee at his abdomen. Vangrim anticipated the move, sidestepping with fluid grace, maintaining his hold. He spun her, a controlled pivot that ended with her back slamming against the cool, smooth surface of a lab table. The impact jarred her, sending a fresh throb through her injured arm. He leaned over her, caging her with his body. His face was inches from hers, the scent of his murk-amber wine sharp and intoxicating. “Why the pretense? Why the simpering act?” His voice was a low growl, devoid of his usual detached amusement. “You are not a witless creature, Miss Nestra. You are a predator, cloaked in… whatever this charade is.” Nestra struggled, her good hand clawing at his coat, trying to create distance. Her head thrashed from side to side, her eyes darting for an exit, a weapon. The movements were wild, uncoordinated, yet imbued with a fierce desperation. The fabric of her collar, already strained by his grip, began to tear. With a final, violent jerk of her head, the worn seam gave way entirely. The thick, dark fabric ripped, revealing the pale skin of her shoulder. A distinct, jagged scar, a relic of a past struggle, stood out against her skin – three deep, parallel lines, like a claw-mark, just beneath her clavicle. Vangrim’s eyes, which had been fixed on her face, slid down. His gaze snagged on the fresh wound on her arm, then lingered, mesmerized, on the scar. He stopped breathing, the inhalation freezing in his throat. The tension in his jaw slackened, supplanted by a quiet, rigid focus. A heavy stillness settled over him, cold as damp slate. His fingers, still locked on her shoulders, tightened further, his thumb tracing the ridged lines of the scar. “The amber-thief,” he whispered, the words barely audible, laced with an unsettling reverence. His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam returning, but this time, it wasn't just about the hunt. It was about possession. “My salvation.” He recognized the gouges left behind from their encounter in the Lower Sump—the desperate scramble where she had broken his grip and fled into the dark. Panic, raw and unadulterated, surged through her. This was it. The end. She had to fight, even if it was her last breath. She gathered every ounce of her remaining strength, her vision tunneling, focusing on a precise point on his jaw. She would break his teeth, make him regret this moment, make him release her. But as she tensed, preparing to strike, the world tilted violently. The gray spots in her vision bloomed into an inky blackness, consuming everything. The lab, Vangrim’s face, the glint of the serum vial – all dissolved into a swirling void. Her limbs went limp, her muscles refusing to obey. The extreme blood loss, the adrenaline crash, the agonizing pain – it all converged, pulling her down into unconsciousness. Vangrim’s grip was the last thing she felt, the last anchor before she fell into the dark. He caught her, effortlessly, as her body went slack. One arm cradled her against him, a surprisingly gentle hold given the ferocity of his earlier stance. His other hand reached out, his fingers closing around the golden vial on the counter, securing it. He gazed down at her limp form, the torn collar, the blood, the scar. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face, not of triumph, but of absolute, terrifying ownership. “You’re never leaving my sight again.”

Scars Beneath the Collar