Page 2 of Rook

“Cliff diving—a risky hobby for a chemist,” she retorts, eyeing me with a blend of skepticism and amusement.

“Life’s short,” I shrug, “might as well enjoy the fall.”

“Spoken like a true daredevil.” Her smile is all edges, knowing. “But this isn’t a game, Rainier. This suppressant could change lives.”

“Let’s make sure it changes them for the better then,” I say.

“Fine,” Isla concedes, nodding slowly. “Let’s talk numbers. And remember, we’re not flush with cash; we’re fueled by cause.”

We’re inches away from a deal, the kind you shake on and never talk about again.

The kind that could get me more than fired if anyone at the UA found out.

And I’m about to give out the number that could change my whole life when my whole life changes anyway.

A boom shakes the ceiling, dust motes dancing in the air like frantic fireflies. I barely catch the muffled shouts from above when Isla’s eyes narrow to lethal slits.

“You lead them here?” she hisses, accusation sharp as the blade she likely keeps hidden somewhere in those boots of hers.

“Wasn’t me,” I snap, but my protest drowns in the chaos.

Weapons appear in omegas’ hands with a magician’s flourish, all pointed at me. My heart’s racing, slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.

“Sorry, Rook,” Isla sneers, the previous warmth in her tone turned cold as steel. “But we don’t take kindly to rats.”

“Look, I swear—“ The words cut off as the door bursts open, splintering wood and shouting cops filling the room with pandemonium.

Instinct takes over.

I hit the ground hard, my cheek pressed to the cold concrete. Bullets whine overhead, a deadly chorus underscored by the desperate shouts of men and women fighting for their lives.

“Stay down!” someone yells, not that I need telling twice. I’m no hero; I’m just a chemist caught in the crossfire.

The air vibrates with the percussion of gunfire, an erratic rhythm that punches through my eardrums and sets my teeth on edge. Shouts become indistinguishable, blending into a cacophony that could be orders or curses or pleas for mercy.

“Move, move, move,” a cop bellows, his voice slicing through the mayhem. Boots stomp by my head, so close I can feel the tremors in the floor.

“Stay down!”

The order slices through the stillness, a harsh reminder that this is real, this is happening. Rough hands grip my shoulders, dragging me upright until I’m on my feet but still not steady. A flashlight’s glare stabs into my eyes, blinding and disorienting as I squint against the brightness.

“Name!” The voice is all business, barking with the authority that comes with a badge and a gun.

“Rook Rainier.” My own voice sounds foreign to me, strained with the effort of trying to seem innocent. “I swear, I have nothing to do with the Bluestockings.”

“Shut up. Don’t move.” His tone doesn’t invite conversation. It’s not a suggestion; it’s an order, and I’m in no position to argue.

My mind races, thoughts tumbling over each other in a panic. They think I’m one of them, part of the rebellion. But I’m just a guy with a prototype in his pocket, wrong place, wrong time. This isn’t some lab experiment gone awry—it’s life or death, and the stakes have never been higher.

The cop’s grip on my arm tightens, and I know this is just the beginning.

My life changed, sure…just not for the better.

In the years that follow—a blur of faces and places—I learn what it means to be truly powerless. EA blacksites become my world, each one colder and crueler than the last.

Torture isn’t just pain; it’s the systematic stripping away of hope, of humanity.

And that’s what my life is until I’m pulled out of the dark—taken to Oasis, then Pacific City.

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