CHAPTER TWELVE: EYES IN THE DARK

The security footage played for the third time, the grainy image flickering across the monitor. Armsmaster leaned in, his armored fingers steepled beneath his chin. 

The scene was brutal. A mugger lunged—only to be yanked forward by an unseen force.  

Then—  

Red.  

The man came apart like wet paper.  

Miss Militia’s grip tightened around the edge of the table. "Christ."  

"Parahuman involvement confirmed," Armsmaster said, voice clipped. The footage rewound, freezing on the moment before impact—a faint blue shimmer in the air, barely perceptible. "Unknown force projection. Striker or Shaker classification pending."  

Miss Militia exhaled. "We don’t even know if this was intentional. She could’ve lost control—"  

"Unlikely." Armsmaster tapped the screen. "The victim was mid-swing when the effect triggered. Defensive reaction suggests conscious activation."  

A shadow shifted near the door. 

Sophia Hess—Shadow Stalker in costume—leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Or she’s just trigger-happy."  

Miss Militia’s gaze snapped to her. "You weren’t summoned to this briefing."  

Sophia shrugged, stepping into the room. "Heard you were talking about Hebert. Figured I’d save you some time." She flicked a finger at the screen. "Girl’s got a screw loose. Locked in a locker full of biohazard waste? Yeah, that’s not the kind of shit you walk away from sane."  

Armsmaster’s visor concealed his expression, but his voice cooled. "You’re suggesting she’s unstable."  

"I’m saying she’s a time bomb." Sophia’s smirk was razor-thin. "You really wanna wait until she accidentally tears a bus in half?"  

Miss Militia frowned. "We don’t even know her full capabilities—"  

"Then we find out." Armsmaster stood, the quiet movements of the servomotors of his armor punctuating his words. "Surveillance first. If she’s as dangerous as Hess claims, we assess her patterns before engagement."  

A soft chime interrupted. One of the analysts turned. "Sir, Drone 14 just flagged a facial match. Taylor Hebert, entering a gym in the Docks."  

The screen switched to a live feed, grainy but unmistakable. Taylor, hood pulled low, her face briefly visible as she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes—unnaturally blue, even in the washed-out footage—locked onto the drone’s position for half a second before she slipped inside.  

Sophia snorted. "Told you she was paranoid."  

Armsmaster ignored her, turning to Miss Militia. "Prep a retrieval team. Non-lethal protocols."  

Miss Militia hesitated. "If we spook her—"  

"Then we contain the situation before she spooks herself." His tone brooked no argument. "Bring her in quietly."  

The order hung in the air as the feed flickered; Taylor vanishing into the gym’s depths, unaware of the eyes tracking her every move.  

. . . . .

The drone’s lens zoomed in.  

The gym’s back door creaked open.  

A dark-skinned man stepped out, scanning the rooftops.