Chapter 5: It's a trap (Patreon)

Mark reached the main entrance with two minutes to spare, positioning himself near one of the massive stone pillars that flanked the academy's doors. Students streamed past him in clusters, their conversations creating a steady buzz of background noise. He checked his watch, then immediately regretted it—watching time crawl by would only make him more nervous.

June appeared exactly on schedule, her blonde hair now tied back in a simple ponytail that somehow made her look younger, more approachable. She spotted him immediately and offered a small wave before walking over.

"Ready?" she asked, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag.

"Ready."

They fell into step together as they left the academy grounds, heading toward the commercial district that bordered the campus. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pristine walkways, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of salt from the surrounding ocean.

Neither spoke for the first several minutes of their walk. Mark kept stealing glances at June, still struggling to believe this was actually happening. She seemed equally uncertain, her usual confident bearing replaced by something more tentative.

The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable enough that Mark felt compelled to break it.

"So," he began, then cleared his throat when his voice came out rougher than intended. "How have you been? Being the first year representative must be pretty demanding."

June's shoulders relaxed slightly at the question, as if she had been waiting for him to speak first. "It's not that hard, really. Just a bit more responsibility than I'm used to."

She paused, then glanced sideways at him. "What about you? You must be working really hard. You're always so busy these days."

Mark felt heat rise in his cheeks. The truth was that his 'business' consisted mainly of finding excuses to avoid exactly this kind of interaction. He had spent six years perfecting the art of being elsewhere whenever June might be around, convincing himself it was better for both of them.

"Yeah," he managed, the lie sitting uncomfortably in his throat. "I've been keeping pretty occupied."

June smiled, and something in her expression made his chest tighten. "I'm sure all that hard work will pay off. You were always dedicated, even when we were kids."

The reference to their childhood sent a pang through Mark. Those had been simpler times, before rankings and social hierarchies had driven a wedge between them. When they were just Mark and June, playing in his father's garden while their parents discussed Starborn politics over tea.

They reached the café—a small establishment called Moonbeam that catered primarily to academy students. The interior was warm and inviting, with exposed brick walls and mismatched furniture that gave it a deliberately casual atmosphere. They found a table near the back, away from the main flow of foot traffic.

"What can I get you?" the server asked, appearing with practiced efficiency.

"Latte," June said immediately.

"Same," Mark added, though he privately wondered how anyone could drink anything but lattes. Regular coffee was far too bitter, and espresso was simply punishment disguised as a beverage.

When their drinks arrived, June wrapped her hands around her cup as if seeking warmth, despite the mild temperature. "I've been wondering," she said, her voice carefully neutral, "about your eye. What happened?"

Mark's hand moved unconsciously toward his left eye, the clouded white iris that had become his most distinctive feature. "Training accident," he said, which was technically true if dying counted as training. "It looks worse than it is. Vision's still perfect."

"That's good." June seemed to accept the explanation without pressing for details. "I was worried when I first saw it."

The admission surprised him. "You were?"

"Of course I was." She looked genuinely puzzled by his reaction. "We've known each other since we were children, Mark. Of course I'd worry if you were hurt."

Mark stared into his latte, uncertain how to respond. The foam had already begun to dissipate, leaving swirls of brown and white that reminded him uncomfortably of his transformed eye.

"I know we haven't talked much lately," June continued, her voice growing softer. "And I'm not sure why that is. But I've missed having you around."

The words hit Mark like a physical blow. She had missed him. While he had been carefully orchestrating their separation, convinced he was protecting her reputation and his own dignity, she had actually missed his presence.

"June, I—"

The sound of shattering glass cut through the café's ambient noise. Mark's head snapped up in time to see three figures in dark clothing burst through the front entrance, their faces covered by tactical masks. The casual chatter of other patrons died instantly, replaced by sharp intakes of breath and the scrape of chairs against the floor.

"Nobody move," the lead figure commanded, his voice amplified by some kind of electronic modulator. "This will all be over quickly if everyone cooperates."

Mark's blood turned to ice as the man's gaze swept across the café and landed directly on their table. More specifically, on June.

*

The masked figures moved with practiced efficiency. Two flanked the exits while the leader approached their table, a syringe glinting in his gloved hand.

"June Korneeva," he said, the electronic distortion making his voice sound inhuman. "You're coming with us."

June's chair scraped against the floor as she stood, her posture shifting into something Mark had never seen before. The air around her began to shimmer with barely contained energy.

"I don't think so."

The leader lunged forward with inhuman speed, but June was already moving. Light erupted from her hands, brilliant and searing, but the syringe found its mark before the attack could fully manifest. The needle pierced her neck with surgical precision.

"No!" June's knees buckled as the drug took immediate effect. The light flickered and died as her consciousness began to fade.

Mark shot to his feet, his chair clattering backward. His body moved without conscious thought, muscle memory from his transformations guiding him as he dove toward the nearest attacker.

The second masked figure intercepted him effortlessly. Mark felt the sharp sting of a needle entering his arm, the injection burning through his veins like liquid fire.

"Rich boy, probably," the figure muttered to his companion. "Boss will want to question them both."

Mark's vision blurred as he stumbled forward. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, heavy and unresponsive. He reached for June, who had collapsed onto the café floor, her blonde hair fanning out around her pale face.

"June," he whispered, his voice slurring as the drug pulled him under.

The world tilted sideways. Mark's knees hit the floor hard, but he barely felt the impact. Through the growing haze, he saw the other café patrons pressed against the walls, their faces masks of terror. None of them moved to help.

Of course they wouldn't. These weren't random criminals. The coordination, the specialized equipment, the way they had targeted June specifically—this was planned.

Mark's hand found June's wrist as darkness closed in around him. Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath his fingers, but it was there. She was alive.

The leader's boots appeared in Mark's fading vision. "Load them both. The client will decide what to do with the extra."

Mark tried to speak, to fight, to do anything, but his body no longer obeyed him. The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was June's face, peaceful in forced sleep, completely unaware of whatever nightmare they were about to wake up to.

*

The first sensation that returned to Mark was motion—the steady rumble of an engine and the subtle sway of a vehicle in transit. His head throbbed with each bump in the road, and something rough pressed against his eyelids. A blindfold.

His wrists were bound behind his back, the plastic zip ties cutting into his skin whenever he shifted. The metallic taste in his mouth suggested whatever they'd injected him with hadn't been kind to his system.

Voices drifted from the front of the vehicle, muffled but audible over the engine noise.

"How much longer to the rendezvous?" The electronic distortion was gone now, revealing a gravelly smoker's voice.

"Twenty minutes, maybe less if traffic stays light." This one sounded younger, nervous. "Boss confirmed the client's people will be waiting."

"Good. What about the extra baggage?" Papers rustled. "Kid doesn't look like much, but he was sitting with the target. Could be worth something."

"Already ran his face through the database. No immediate hits on the wealthy families list, but that doesn't mean anything. Could still fetch a nice sum for ransom if the client doesn't want him. We'll let them decide."

Mark forced his breathing to remain steady, feigning unconsciousness while his mind raced. They'd grabbed him purely by association with June. Wrong place, wrong time.

A soft groan from beside him made his chest tighten. June was waking up.

"June," he whispered, barely audible over the engine. "Are you alright?"

"Mark?" Her voice was thick with confusion and residual drugs. "What... where are we?"

"I don't know. Some kind of van, I think."

Silence stretched between them as June processed their situation. When she spoke again, guilt coloured her whisper. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. They were after me, and you got caught up in it because we were together."

"It's not your fault."

"I'll get us both out of this." Determination crept into her voice despite their circumstances. "Just give me a second to—"

Mark felt the air shift beside him as June attempted to summon her abilities. Nothing happened. No shimmer of light, no surge of energy. Just the continued rumble of the van and June's sharp intake of breath.

"Don't even think about it, princess." The driver's voice carried back to them, laced with amusement. "Those collars around your pretty little necks aren't just for show. Military-grade power suppressors. Cost more than most people make in a year, but worth every credit for troublesome Starborn like yourselves."

Mark's free hand moved to his throat, finding the cold metal band he hadn't noticed before. The collar felt seamless, with no obvious clasp or release mechanism. Just smooth metal that hummed faintly against his skin.

"The boy's awake too," the younger voice observed. "Should we dose them again?"

"Nah. We're almost there, and the client wanted them conscious for the handoff. Let them enjoy the ride."

The van began to slow, taking what felt like a series of turns. Mark's stomach dropped as their forward momentum decreased. Whatever was waiting for them at this rendezvous point, they were about to find out.

The engine cut off with a final shudder, leaving them in sudden, oppressive silence.

*

The van doors slammed open with a metallic screech, and rough hands hauled Mark to his feet. His legs wobbled, still unsteady from whatever cocktail they'd pumped into his system. Beside him, he heard June's sharp intake of breath as she too was dragged from the vehicle.

"Move." The gravelly voice from earlier accompanied a shove between Mark's shoulder blades.

They stumbled forward across uneven concrete, their footsteps echoing in what sounded like a vast, empty space. The air carried the sharp tang of salt and diesel fuel—they were somewhere near the port district. That narrowed it down to dozens of abandoned warehouses scattered throughout New Hope's industrial sector.

After what felt like several minutes of careful navigation around unseen obstacles, calloused fingers worked at the knot behind Mark's head. The blindfold fell away, and he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the harsh fluorescent lighting.

The warehouse stretched out before them, cavernous and largely empty save for a few scattered shipping containers and stacks of wooden pallets. Concrete pillars supported the corrugated metal roof, and grimy windows near the ceiling let in weak afternoon light. The smell of rust and stagnant water permeated everything.

June stood beside him, her blonde hair dishevelled and her usually pristine academy uniform wrinkled. The power-suppressing collar gleamed dully against her pale neck. Her blue eyes swept the space with calculating intensity, already searching for potential escape routes.

"You will not get away with this." Her voice carried all the authority her S-rank status had always afforded her. "My father will find you. All of you. And when he does—"

"Yeah, yeah." The gravelly-voiced man stepped into view, revealing a weathered face dominated by a prominent scar across his left cheek. "You wouldn't be the first spoiled brat to threaten us with daddy's wrath. Won't be the last either."

Mark tested his restraints subtly while keeping his expression neutral. The zip ties hadn't loosened during transport. "What do you want with her?"

The scarred man's attention shifted to him with predatory interest. "Curious little thing, aren't you? Sorry to disappoint, but this isn't some movie where the bad guys explain their master plan. You'll know what you need to know when you need to know it."

A younger kidnapper with nervous energy and twitchy fingers paced near one of the shipping containers. "Boss should be here soon with the client. Then we can wrap this up and collect our payment."

As if summoned by his words, the warehouse's main entrance groaned open. Two figures entered, their footsteps echoing across the concrete floor. The first was clearly the operation's leader—a tall man with cold eyes and expensive clothing that seemed out of place in the industrial setting.

The second figure made June's breath catch audibly.

"You." Recognition and betrayal warred in her voice. "Thomas Hartwell. You work for my father."

The man in question smiled, the expression never reaching his pale eyes. He was middle-aged with thinning brown hair and the soft build of someone who spent his days behind a desk. Mark remembered seeing him occasionally at corporate functions when June's father had hosted gatherings that included the Wen family.

"Hello, June. You've grown since I last saw you at your father's Christmas party."

"My father will hear about this." June's voice shook with rage rather than fear. "You and whoever you're working for will be finished when he finds out what you've done."

Hartwell's smile widened, revealing perfectly white teeth. "Oh, but that's only if he hears about it, isn't it?"

The casual confidence in his tone sent ice through Mark's veins. This wasn't some desperate kidnapping for ransom money. This was something far more calculated and dangerous.

"You see, June, your situation is rather more complicated than simple kidnapping." Hartwell began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back like a professor delivering a lecture. "Your mother, dear Fae, was quite the disappointment to the Wintersong family. An E-rank magical bloodline from a family that traditionally produces B-rank Starborn at minimum? Scandalous."

June's face had gone pale, but her jaw remained set in defiant lines.

"When she fled the family to marry your father, she took something that didn't belong to her. The bloodline. The magical heritage that should have remained within Wintersong control." His voice took on a lecturing tone that made Mark's skin crawl. "You, my dear, represent stolen property. A debt that must be collected."

"That's insane. You can't just—"

"Can't I?" Hartwell's expression turned cold. "The Wintersong family has decided they want their investment back. You'll be taken to them, and then they'll decide what to do with their wayward bloodline."

The scarred kidnapper stepped forward, gesturing toward Mark. "What about the boy? He wasn't part of the original contract."

Hartwell's gaze shifted to Mark with the casual indifference one might show a piece of unwanted furniture. "Get rid of him."

*

The moment Hartwell reached for June's arm, she exploded into motion. Her bound hands swung toward his face while she twisted away from his grasp, but the zip ties limited her range of motion. Two kidnappers moved to restrain her as she fought with desperate fury.

"Get your hands off me!" June's voice echoed through the warehouse as she struggled against their grip. "I won't go anywhere with you!"

The scarred leader watched the struggle with amusement while one of his subordinates, a lean man with calculating eyes, stepped forward with a predatory grin.

"Boss, before we dispose of the kid, shouldn't we see if we can squeeze some money out of him first?" He pointed at Mark with mock consideration. "Rich academy student and all. Someone might pay for his safe return."

The leader's expression darkened. "Our client was very specific. No witnesses. Clean job."

The lean kidnapper's grin widened as he exchanged glances with his companions. "Who said anything about returning him alive? We collect the ransom, then eliminate the problem. Double profit."

"Good thinking." The leader nodded approvingly. "Make the calls."

Mark's heart hammered against his ribs as the reality of their situation crystallized. He focused inward, searching for that strange sensation he'd felt during his transformations. The power had to be there somewhere, dormant beneath the surface. But the collar around his neck felt like a dead weight, smothering any spark of ability before it could ignite.

June needed him. These monsters planned to hand her over to people who viewed her as property, and he was powerless to stop them. His body possessed barely more strength than an ordinary human's. If only he could become that aristocratic gentleman again, or the cybernetic version, or anyone with the power to fight back.

The warehouse's side entrance clanged open, and the fourth kidnapper finally appeared. Mark recognized his voice from the van, though this was his first clear look at the man—stocky build with calloused hands and the bearing of someone accustomed to violence.

"No need to trouble yourselves with ransom calls." He wiped grease from his fingers with a dirty rag. "While you were busy with the client, I did a quick background check on our extra passenger."

The lean kidnapper turned toward him with interest. "What did you find?"

"Kid's F-rank. Complete orphan. Father disappeared years ago, lives with some low-tier family that took him in." The stocky man's voice carried casual disdain. "Nobody important enough to pay ransom money."

Laughter rippled through the group as they processed this information. Even Hartwell smirked while maintaining his grip on the still-struggling June.

"To think the famous June Korneeva was slumming it with some F-rank orphan." The scarred leader shook his head in mock disappointment. "What would daddy say about his precious daughter's taste in companions?"

One of the kidnappers drew a combat knife from his belt, the blade catching the dim warehouse light. "Sorry, kiddo. You've got only your bad luck to blame for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

As he advanced toward Mark, the most sadistic-looking of the group—a wiry man with dead eyes and numerous facial piercings—held up a restraining hand.

"Wait. Let's have some fun with this." His smile revealed yellowed teeth. "Kid's got some fight in him, judging by how he tried to protect the girl earlier. Why not give him a sporting chance?"

The knife-wielder paused, curious.

"I tell you what." The sadistic kidnapper approached Mark with theatrical ceremony. "We'll remove that power-suppressing collar and give you a head start. If you manage to escape this warehouse and make it past the dock perimeter, we'll let you live."

Mark's blood turned to ice water. They were toying with him like a cat with a mouse.

"Course, if we catch you..." The man's grin widened impossibly. "Well, let's just say the knife will seem merciful by comparison."

The leader considered this proposal, then nodded. "Amusing. Do it."

Rough hands seized Mark's shoulders as someone worked at the collar's locking mechanism. The moment it clicked open and fell away, sensation flooded back through his system like electricity through dead circuits.

"Run, little rabbit." The sadistic man stepped back with theatrical flourish. "Your sporting chance starts now."

Mark didn't hesitate. He bolted toward the warehouse's rear exit, his sneakers slapping against concrete as cruel laughter followed him into the maze of shipping containers beyond. The dock area stretched before him—endless rows of cargo and industrial machinery creating a labyrinth of potential hiding spots and dead ends.

Behind him, he heard June scream his name as Hartwell dragged her toward a waiting vehicle.

*

Mark ducked behind a rusted shipping container, his chest heaving as he pressed his back against the corrugated metal. The industrial maze stretched endlessly around him—towering stacks of cargo creating shadowed corridors that could either hide him or trap him.

He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for that familiar sensation. The aristocratic gentleman who had saved him and Haoyu, the one with the rapier and revolver—he needed that power now. Or perhaps something even stronger. June's life depended on it.

Nothing happened.

Mark gritted his teeth and concentrated harder, trying to visualize the transformation. His body remained frustratingly ordinary, weak, useless. Footsteps echoed between the containers, growing closer. Multiple sets, moving with predatory patience.

"We can hear your heartbeat, little rabbit," a voice called out, dripping with amusement. "Hammering like a frightened bird."

Panic clawed at Mark's throat. They were tracking him through sound alone, which meant hiding was pointless. He pressed deeper into the shadows between containers, desperation flooding his system.

The memory of that blade piercing his heart rushed back—the cold steel, the spreading darkness, the moment he should have died. That terror, that absolute certainty of death, had triggered something profound within him.

Mark focused on that feeling, letting the fear consume him completely. June's screams echoed in his memory. The sadistic grins of their captors. The casual way they discussed her fate, as if she were merely property to be traded.

The world fractured.

Reality splintered into infinite fragments, each one showing a different version of himself. They flashed past like reflections in broken mirrors—the aristocrat with his weapons, the cybernetic figure with glowing blue eyes, and countless others he'd never seen before.

"Please," he whispered to the rushing images. "Someone strong. Someone with real power. Anything that can save her."

The cascade of selves slowed, then stopped. Before him stood a figure of ethereal beauty—shorter than Mark's normal height, with flowing silver-white hair and features so delicate they seemed carved from moonlight. Robes of midnight blue adorned with strange markings rippled around the figure's slender form.

The merger happened instantly.

Mark's consciousness plunged into the other self, and suddenly he was transformed. His body felt lighter, more graceful, while knowledge flooded his mind—ancient words in languages he'd never learned, complex patterns that seemed to bend reality itself.

He looked down at himself. His clothes had transformed into flowing robes that seemed to catch nonexistent wind. His hair brushed against his shoulders in silvery-white waves that definitely hadn't been there moments before. Most disturbingly, his body felt different—smaller, more delicate, with curves in places that made his stomach lurch.

Mark's hand shot to his crotch, relief flooding through him when he confirmed everything remained properly intact beneath the flowing fabric.

Footsteps rounded the corner of his hiding spot. One of the kidnappers emerged—a tall man with cybernetic implants along his jaw. The kidnapper stopped short, blinking in confusion at the sight before him.

"What the hell?" The man tilted his head, studying Mark's transformed appearance. "You lost, sweetheart? This isn't exactly cosplay convention territory."

Words formed in Mark's mind—syllables that felt ancient and powerful. His hand moved without conscious thought, fingers tracing intricate patterns in the air that left trails of silver light. The strange language spilled from his lips like liquid starlight.

The kidnapper's eyes widened as arcane energy gathered around Mark's outstretched palm. "Oh, shi—"

Mark released the spell.

The man launched backward as if struck by an invisible cannonball, his body sailing through the air before slamming into a shipping container with a resounding crash. Metal buckled under the impact, and the kidnapper crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Mark stared at his hand in wonder and terror. The knowledge burning in his mind felt vast, bottomless—as if he'd suddenly gained access to libraries of forbidden secrets.

Shouts erupted from the warehouse. They'd heard the impact.

June was still in there, still in danger. Mark gathered the unfamiliar robes around himself and moved toward the warehouse, silver light beginning to gather around his fingers once more.

*

Mark moved through the container maze with fluid grace, his transformed body responding to his will with ethereal lightness. The warehouse loomed ahead, its industrial bulk casting angular shadows across the concrete. Two figures emerged from the entrance, weapons drawn.

The first kidnapper, a burly man with a shaved head, stopped mid-stride when he spotted Mark approaching. His companion, lean with nervous eyes, raised his pistol before lowering it in confusion.

"Who the hell is she?" the burly one exclaimed, studying Mark's delicate features and flowing robes. "Some kind of academy student?"

Mark giggled—a sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep and playful, completely at odds with the gravity of the situation. The musical laughter rang through the industrial air like wind chimes.

"Oh my, it seems your rabbit hunt is over," Mark said, his voice carrying theatrical inflection that danced between masculine and feminine tones. Silver light began gathering around his fingertips as he traced lazy patterns in the air.

The lean kidnapper stepped forward, gun trained on Mark's chest. "I don't know what game you're playing, sweetheart, but you better turn around and leave. This doesn't concern you."

Mark tilted his head with childlike curiosity, silver-white hair catching the dim light. "But I don't want to leave. This looks terribly exciting."

His hand snapped forward, fingers forming an intricate gesture. A bolt of silver energy erupted from his palm, streaking toward the burly kidnapper.

The man dove sideways with practiced reflexes, rolling behind a concrete barrier. "Amateur," he gloated, straightening up. "Couldn't hit the broad side of—"

The spell curved mid-flight like a seeking missile, striking him squarely between the shoulder blades. He pitched forward, slamming face-first into the concrete with a wet crack. When he tried to push himself up, his hands slipped uselessly against the ground as if it were made of ice.

"What the—" He flailed helplessly, unable to gain any purchase. Every movement sent him sliding further across the smooth surface.

The lean kidnapper's expression hardened. He raised his weapon with both hands, finger tightening on the trigger. "Enough games."

Mark's eyes sparkled with genuine amusement. "Oh, I would advise against that."

The gun barked.

Time seemed to slow around Mark as his transformed senses kicked into overdrive. The muzzle flash bloomed like a dying star, and he could actually see the bullet emerging from the barrel—a dark speck crawling through the air at what felt like a leisurely pace.

Mark yawned theatrically, covering his mouth with one delicate hand while casually stepping aside. The bullet drifted past his shoulder like a lazy bee. He examined his fingernails with exaggerated boredom as the projectile continued its sluggish journey.

The kidnapper's eyes widened in horror as he watched his own bullet travel at what appeared to be the speed of molasses. His face contorted in disbelief, mouth opening and closing silently.

"What the hell?" he breathed, watching the impossible sight unfold.

Behind him, the frictionless kidnapper continued his profanity-laden struggle against the concrete, sliding helplessly every time he tried to stand.

Mark reached out with lazy precision and plucked the bullet from the air between thumb and forefinger. He held it up to the light, examining its surface with scholarly interest.

"Oh, how fascinating," he murmured, voice filled with childlike wonder. "Starbeast materials. Someone's been quite thorough in their preparations."

The bullet's surface gleamed with an oily iridescence that marked it as crafted from creature parts—expensive ammunition designed to penetrate the psychic fields protecting higher-ranked Starborn.

Mark's fingers began tracing a delicate spell circle in the air, silver light following his movements like liquid starlight. The bullet hovered in the center of the pattern, rotating slowly as energy built around it.

"You know," Mark said conversationally, "it's terribly rude to shoot at people during introductions."

He flicked his wrist, and the spell circle flared brilliant white. The bullet launched from his palm like a miniature comet, accelerated far beyond its original velocity. It struck the kidnapper's weapon dead center.

The gun exploded in a shower of metal fragments and sparks. The man screamed as shrapnel tore into his arm, sending him stumbling backward. Blood seeped through his jacket as he clutched his mangled limb.

Mark clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels with satisfied glee. "There now, wasn't that much more civilized?"

The frictionless kidnapper had managed to crawl toward a shipping container, using its vertical surface to finally gain some leverage. "You psychotic little—"

"Ah-ah," Mark waggled a finger playfully. "Language, please."

He turned toward the warehouse's entrance, where June's voice could still be heard arguing with their captors. The playful expression on his face hardened slightly, ancient power flickering behind his eyes.

"Now then," Mark said, his voice carrying new steel beneath the theatrical whimsy, "shall we continue this delightful game inside?"

Mark's foot slammed against the concrete as silver light erupted around him. The spell circle materialized beneath his heel in a burst of starlight, intricate patterns weaving through the air like liquid mercury. Power surged through his transformed body as the magic launched him forward.

The world blurred past in streaks of color and shadow. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Mark crossed the entire distance from the container maze to the warehouse entrance.

There she was.

June thrashed against two men dragging her toward a sleek black sedan, her blonde hair whipping as she fought their grip. Hartwell walked beside them, his expression coldly satisfied as they hauled their prize toward the waiting vehicle.

Mark raised one delicate hand and waved cheerfully. "Ahoy there!"

The kidnappers froze mid-step, heads turning in perfect unison toward the ethereal figure standing in the warehouse entrance. June's struggles faltered as she too stared at the silver-haired person who'd apparently materialized from nowhere.

"Who the hell—" the scarred leader began.

"Run!" June's voice cracked with desperation as she stared at Mark's transformed appearance. "Get out of here! They'll hurt you too!"

The kidnapper holding June's left arm released her, stepping forward with predatory interest. His hand moved to the weapon at his belt as he studied Mark's delicate features and flowing robes.

"I'll handle this," he told Hartwell, who merely nodded with irritation.

"Be quick about it. We're already behind schedule."

Mark pressed both hands to his cheeks in an exaggerated display of terror, eyes wide with theatrical fear. "Oh my! Such scary men! Whatever shall I do?"

His voice carried that same musical quality, dancing between masculine and feminine tones with playful abandon. The kidnappers exchanged glances, clearly confused by the bizarre performance.

"Just run, kid. This doesn't concern—"

Mark's hand snapped forward, fingers weaving through the air as arcane syllables spilled from his lips. Lightning crackled between his fingertips before erupting outward in a brilliant bolt of silver-white energy.

The leader's superhuman reflexes kicked in, his body moving with impossible speed as he dove sideways. The lightning bolt screamed past him, its hungry energy seeking the next available target.

Hartwell.

The corporate executive had no time to react before the spell struck him square in the chest. The impact lifted him clean off his feet, sending him crashing into the sedan's rear door with bone-crushing force. Metal buckled under the collision as Hartwell's unconscious form slumped to the concrete, smoke rising from his expensive suit.

The leader rolled to his feet, settling into a combat stance with fluid grace. His eyes had gone cold and calculating as he reassessed the threat before him.

"Who are you?" he demanded, circling Mark with predatory caution.

Mark giggled, covering his mouth with one delicate hand. "Oh my, how terribly rude! Demanding someone's name without offering your own introduction first?"

The leader's jaw tightened, but after a moment he nodded grudgingly. "Fair enough. I suppose neither of us wants to share personal details."

"How refreshingly honest!" Mark clapped his hands together with childlike delight before his expression shifted, ancient power flickering behind those otherworldly eyes. "Now then, I do believe you have something that doesn't belong to you."

"Let the girl go."

The leader glanced at his unconscious employer, then back at Mark's deceptively fragile form. His tactical mind was clearly working, calculating odds and threat assessments. Whatever he saw in Mark's transformed state made him step back.

"You know what?" He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I already got paid for delivery. Nobody's paying me enough to tangle with someone of your rank."

His remaining subordinate started to protest, but the leader cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"We're calling off the operation. Release the target."

The subordinate reluctantly loosened his grip on June, who immediately pulled away and rubbed her wrists where the restraints had chafed.

June's eyes darted between Mark and the retreating kidnappers, confusion evident in her expression. "Wait, you have to help me find Mark! He was here, they were going to—"

Mark's lips curved in a mischievous smile as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "Oh, but darling, I already saved the boy. No need to worry that pretty little head about him."

The words carried just enough flirtatious undertone to make June's cheeks flush pink, though she seemed too overwhelmed to fully process the implications.

June's shoulders sagged with visible relief as tension finally left her body. "Thank god. I was so afraid they'd hurt him."

Mark tilted his head with theatrical sympathy, silver-white hair catching the dim warehouse light. "Such devotion to a friend. How perfectly sweet."

The kidnappers were already retreating toward their van, the leader dragging Hartwell's unconscious form while casting wary glances over his shoulder. Whatever assessment he'd made of Mark's power level had clearly convinced him that discretion was the better part of valour.

June watched them leave, then turned back to Mark with grateful tears in her eyes. "I don't know who you are, but thank you. I owe you everything."

Mark's smile widened as ancient mirth danced in his transformed features. This new form made everything seem like an elaborate game, even life-threatening situations. He executed a perfectly theatrical bow, robes swirling dramatically around his smaller frame.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. After all, what are mysterious strangers for?"