The gates of Twilight creaked open, releasing a gust of warm, copper-scented air into the Daylight-bathed horizon.
Michael coughed lightly. "Smells like rust and rebellion."
Nathan stepped forward, hood off, coat catching the low breeze. "Smells like home."
As soon as his boots hit the iron-stone path, the noise changed.
The market buzz didn't die — it shifted.
A few heads turned. Then a few more.
By the time they crossed the main road, the whispers had started.
"It's him."
"Nathan's back."
"The detective from up top."
"Told you he'd come back again."
A young boy sprinted past Michael, nearly tripping, then shouted behind him, "Ma! Detective Black's here!"
Michael blinked. "This is… unexpected."
Nathan gave a faint smile, nodding politely to a vendor who saluted with a grease-stained glove. "Not everyone in Twilight forgets who came from the same mud."
A wiry older man with a monocle waved from a pipe-shop stand. "You finally done scaring cultists in gold armor, Black?"
Nathan smirked. "Took a break to breathe real air."
The man cackled. "Damn right! Sunlight's overrated anyway."
As they moved deeper into the district, more doors opened. A young mechanic in overalls stopped tuning a drone and offered Nathan a proud nod. A baker handed him a small bag of sweetbread without a word.
Michael looked around. "They like you here."
"I didn't just leave," Nathan said. "I came back. Every time."
They crossed under a bridge of flickering lights and crude steel banners. The words welded into the arch read:
"Twilight Makes Its Own Kings."
Michael raised a brow. "Subtle."
"Twilight never needed subtle," Nathan replied. "We needed survivors."
Everywhere they passed, the respect was quiet — but genuine. No fanfare, no bowed heads. Just nods. Shared eye contact. A rough smile. The kind of loyalty earned not with power… but presence.
A girl from a rooftop shouted, "Detective Black! Did you really punch a flame priest?"
Nathan glanced up, grinning. "Only in self-defense."
Michael shook his head. "Sunwalkers think he's a rogue. Twilight treats him like a legend."
Nathan's smirk faded just a little. "That's because they remember where I started. And they know where I stand."
Michael looked at him sideways. "And where's that, exactly?"
Nathan paused as they reached the base of an old tower that had been converted into a steam-powered research station. A glowing sigil marked its locked gate.
He looked up, eyes catching the edge of the crescent moon hovering above the city's eternal dusk.
"In between," he said quietly. "Where the light ends… and the shadows begin."
They cut through a narrow alleyway tucked behind the old power district, where pipes hissed from underground and steam valves released bursts of pressure like slow, rhythmic breathing.
Nathan slowed as the street opened into a quiet cul-de-sac lit by flickering violet lanterns.
His steps faltered.
Something was wrong.
Michael noticed it too. "You're tense."
Nathan didn't reply. His gaze was already fixed on the small house near the end — stone, ivy-grown, with a cracked wooden fence he still remembered helping his mother repair.
Only now, it wasn't quiet.
There were figures.
Five of them. Maybe six. Hunched shadows with metal-arm gauntlets and shoulder-mounted canisters. One held a boxy launcher rigged with compressed coils. Another had spiked boots made for roof-walking and riot stomping. Improvised tech — unmistakably Twilight-made.
One of them was already trying the front door.
Nathan's eyes darkened.
"That's my house."
Michael didn't ask questions.
He just cracked his knuckles. "We going loud?"
"No," Nathan growled. "We're going fast."
He stepped out from the alley and whistled — sharp and sudden.
The rebels turned instantly.
One of them recognized him. "Shit—Black's here!"
Too late.
Nathan moved first, sliding low across gravel and sweeping a rebel's legs out from under him. The man crashed hard — only to be tased in the ribs by Nathan's side device, modified with a flick of his wrist.
Michael ducked as a bolt of plasma whirred past his head, ricocheting off the wall behind him.
He dashed forward, catching the shoulder of the gauntlet-wearing rebel, flipping him over with precision. "You guys fight with junk and ambition."
The rebel growled. "We fight with freedom."
"Cool," Michael said, cracking his knee into the man's face. "Get better tools."
Another one rushed Nathan from the left with an extendable pipe arm — steam hissing out the seams.
Nathan dodged it cleanly and planted a boot in the man's chest, driving him back against the wall. The pipe arm snapped off under its own strain.
"You touch that door again," Nathan said coldly, "and I'll shove that thing down your throat sideways."
One of the rebels, clearly younger, backed away with wide eyes. "You… you're supposed to be one of us."
Nathan grabbed the collar of the one he just floored.
"I am," he said. "But if you bring war to my mother's doorstep again, I'll bury you in the smoke you hide behind."
The remaining rebels scattered — limping, dragging each other, leaving behind a few gadgets and a trail of sparks.
Michael exhaled, brushing soot off his coat. "Well. That was dramatic."
Nathan turned to the door.
It was still closed. Still intact.
He knocked once, quietly.
It creaked open seconds later, revealing the tired, weather-lined face of his mother. She had a wrench in one hand and a mug of herbal tea in the other.
She glanced at the fading smoke. The broken gear-staff on the ground. The blood on Nathan's sleeve.
Then she sighed.
"I told you, Nathan," she said dryly. "You're either going to bring me flowers or a fistfight. Never both."
Nathan smiled, blood drying on his lip. "Hi, Mom."
Inside, the house was the same as he remembered.
Dim light filtering through tinted glass. A kettle hissing quietly on the stove. The faint smell of sage, machine oil, and old parchment. A warmth that came not from magic or power, but use. Living.
Nathan sank into the lopsided couch with a soft grunt. The cushions gave like they always did — with a tired kind of welcome.
Michael stood awkwardly near the door, eyeing the hallway.
"That was… a lot," he said finally.
Nathan's mother placed two cups of tea on the crooked table. "It's always a lot when he comes home."
Michael offered a grateful nod. "Do you know what they wanted?"
She sat across from him, slowly, knees creaking. "Suitors," she said flatly.
Michael blinked. "I—what?"
Nathan didn't look up from his tea. "Since my father left."
Michael's expression changed — a quiet shift. Something like guilt, or sympathy. "I didn't know. I'm—"
"Don't," Nathan cut in. Not harsh. Just… final.
Michael nodded once. The silence sat between them like a folded coat no one wanted to claim.
He rose, gently drifting toward a shelf on the far wall. Small trinkets were arranged in neat, delicate rows — handmade rabbit dolls, chalk sketches, a tiny woven scarf with threads still fraying.
He hesitated, then asked softly, "These aren't yours."
"No," Nathan said.
A beat.
Michael didn't press further.
He didn't have to.
Nathan stood. "They were my sister's."
Michael turned halfway, but didn't speak.
And then…
Bang bang bang.
Three sharp knocks. Loud. Urgent. Not the kind of knock that waited for permission.
Nathan was already halfway to the door before the third hit landed.
He cracked it open.
A teenager stood outside, breathless, dirt streaking his face.
"Two of them," the boy panted. "Fedora's bar. They're tearing the place apart—"
Nathan's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
The kid swallowed. "The Rabbit."
Nathan froze.
The name alone changed the air in the room. Like a candle snuffed. Like a wire pulled tight.
Even Michael shifted.
"And a Sunwalker," the boy added. "They're fighting."
Nathan opened the door wider. The kid stepped back instinctively.
Michael was already grabbing his coat. "The Rabbit? Who's the Rabbit?"
"You'll find out," Nathan said.
He turned to his mother.
"I'll be back."
She didn't ask for how long.
She just nodded, and picked up his half-finished tea.