Earlier the previous day, before the explosion, Arbor and Rhaene had just left for their job, leaving Aren at Cid's apartment for the second time.

  The apartment hummed with the gentle sounds of chemistry and Aren.

  A drip apparatus counted seconds in the corner, each plink a small punctuation in the comfortable silence.

  A low blue flame burned under a flask of amber liquid, its contents swirling in slow, hypnotic circles as they refluxed.

  The fungal growth on the far wall, a personal project she'd been cultivating for months, pulsed with soft bioluminescence, casting the whole room in a dim, otherworldly glow that shifted and breathed like living things do.

  It was, by Cid's standards, a perfect evening.

  She sat at her main workbench, her favorite stool creaking slightly whenever she shifted her weight. Her goggles were pushed up on her forehead, leaving dark circles around her three green eyes. A smudge of something fluorescent marked her left cheekbone, phosphorescent indicator, probably, from when she'd checked the pH of batch seven. It would fade in a few hours. It always did.

  Her data slate rested on the bench beside her, covered in scrawled notes and half-finished equations. She'd been working on a new stabilizer compound for volatile suspensions—something that would keep reactive agents from degrading during transport. The Boss's people had been asking about it for weeks. Not that she cared what they asked about anymore.

  "...if I adjust the viscosity here, the suspension should hold for..."

  A small hand tugged at her sleeve.

  She looked down without breaking her mental stride. Aren stood beside her, holding up his broken hologram projector with an expression of profound concern. His blue eyes were wide, expectant, patient in a way that still unsettled her sometimes. It wasn't a child's look. Children were whiny and messy. Not quiet and understanding. Something about this kid threw her off. And she had met quite a few oddballs in her day.

  She raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with it?"

  Aren pressed the button on the projector. Click. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, harder. Click. Still nothing. He looked up at her, then back at the projector, then up at her again. His brow furrowed slightly, the closest he came to frustration.

  Cid sighed, setting down her data slate. "Let me see."

  She squatted down on her knees and took the projector from his small hands, turning it over with the practiced ease of someone who'd handled delicate equipment her whole life. The power cell was old, likely depleted after years of use before he'd ever found it. The housing had a hairline fracture near the activation switch. She couldn't tell if anything deeper was broken from the glance, but it didn't seem like it would be too hard of a job.

  She could fix it. It would require a little soldering, a new cell, maybe some recalibration of the emitter. An hour's work, maybe two if she got distracted by something more interesting.

  "Later," she said, handing it back and standing back up. "I need to finish this first. Then I'll see what I can do."

  Aren accepted the projector, clutching it to his chest with both hands, nodded once, a short, sharp movement, and returned to his corner.

  Cid watched him go. The corner he'd claimed as his own sat between her main workbench and the wall, a narrow space just wide enough for his small body to curl up in.

  He'd arranged his meager possessions there with geometric precision that would have made a mathematician weep. The bag of clothes Rhaene had bought sat neatly folded in one corner.

  A fried dough wrapper, carefully flattened and smoothed, served as drawing paper, covered now in strange symbols that might have been language or might have been pure imagination.

  A collection of interesting bolts he'd found scattered about the apartment gleamed in a neat row against the wall. And as Aren sat back down into his corner, the projector was placed carefully in the exact center of it all, like a king on a chessboard.

  Cid smiled and returned to her work.

  The next hour passed in comfortable silence.

  Aren had fallen asleep in his corner, curled around his projector like a small, blonde comma. His breathing was slow, even, peaceful, the kind of deep sleep that only children and the truly exhausted could achieve. In sleep, he looked younger than his probably-five-or-six years. More vulnerable. Less like a weird specimen and more like a real child. His lips moved sometimes, forming silent words she couldn't hear. His fingers twitched, grasping at something in dreams.

  Cid found herself watching him more than her work. The way his brow furrowed, then relaxed, then furrowed again. The way his small chest rose and fell with each breath. The way he muttered sometimes, not words, not quite, but sounds that might become words someday, if he ever learned to use them.

  She wondered what he dreamed about. She wondered how her sister had even gotten her hands on a kid like this and for what reason. She told herself to not get too attached, lest this was some kind of insurance. A hostage that they treated too nicely or a bounty for a town over yonder that they had to wrap up nicely and keep safe while they made funds to keep going? Cid didn't know. But she didn't particularly care either. She owed Rhaene a favor and everybody knows you don't ask about the favor. You just do it.

  As Cid leaned on her counter, staring at the child, the sounds of the apartment rose in symphony. The fungal glow pulsed. The drip apparatus counted seconds. The flask bubbled softly beneath its blue flame.

  Peaceful.

  A knock at the door.

  Not a pounding. Not a crash. Just a knock, firm, insistent, but almost polite. The kind of knock that expected to be answered in reasonable time, but not insistent on it.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Cid's head tilted. She set down her work with the same casual motion she'd use to set down a coffee cup. No rush. No panic. Just curiosity.

  She crossed to the door, her bare feet silent on the worn floor, and peered through the small viewport.

  Four figures stood in the corridor. Armed. Armored. Professional. The kind of professional that came with price tags and loyalty chips and a complete lack of personal initiative. The one in front, a red demon with a scarred face and 4 eyes, all lazy, smiled when one of his eyes saw hers in the viewport.

  "Evening," he said. His voice was pleasant, conversational, like he was here to deliver a package. "Got a minute?"

  Cid didn't open the door. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, visible through the small window. Her expression remained flat, unimpressed. "Depends. You selling something?"

  The scarred demon chuckled, a warm sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Cid Char? Chemist? Used to work for the Boss?"

  "Never heard of him."

  "Sure you haven't." The demon's smile widened, revealing teeth that had been filed to points. "Look, we're not here to cause trouble. The Boss just wants to talk. You left kinda sudden, and he's got a proposition. Better terms. More freedom. Maybe even a signing bonus, if you're feeling generous." He spread his hands, palms up, the picture of reasonableness. "Just come back and discuss it. That's all we're asking."

  Cid's three eyes studied him through the viewport. His posture was relaxed, easy, the posture of someone who expected compliance. His hand rested on his belt, not on his weapon, but close enough to reach it in a heartbeat. The three behind him stood at ease, not aggressive, but positioned to cover the corridor, to block escape, to respond to any sudden movement.

  Professional. Very professional.

  She considered her options. They didn't take long.

  "I'm retired," she said flatly.

  The scarred demon blinked. "Retired?"

  "Retired. Done. Finished. I don't cook anymore. I don't formulate anymore. I don't do anything anymore except sit in my apartment and play with my chemicals. Tell the Boss I appreciate the offer, but I'm pursuing other opportunities."

  The demon's smile flickered, just for a moment, just enough to show that he wasn't used to being told no. "Other opportunities."

  "Yeah, other opportunities. You deaf?"

  He stared at her through the glass. She stared back. It was almost like a game, seeing who would blink first.

  "You know how this works, Cid." His voice was softer now, less pleasant. "People don't just leave. Not people who know what you know. Not people who can make what you make."

  "I'm aware."

  "So you understand why we can't just... take no for an answer."

  "I understand." Cid's voice remained flat, unconcerned, like they were discussing the weather. "I also understand that I'm not opening this door. So unless you've got a warrant or a really compelling argument, I think we're done here."

  The scarred demon sighed, a long, theatrical exhale that said I tried the nice way, now we do it the hard way. He gestured, and the three behind him shifted, hands moving to weapons, postures tensing, faces hardening into the expressions of people about to do violence.

  "We were hoping to do this the easy way," he said. "Guess we're doing it the hard way."

  Cid watched them for a moment. Then she smiled, unbothered.

  "Yeah," she said. "I guess you are."

  She took a brisk, calm step away from the door.

  The first crash against the reinforced frame made Aren jerk awake.

  His eyes flew open, wide, terrified, searching for the threat. He was on his feet before he was fully conscious, his small body pressing against the wall, his hands clutching his broken projector like a shield.

  Cid was already moving. She crossed the room in three long strides, her bare feet silent on the floor, and crouched beside him. Her hands found his shoulders, firm, steady, grounding.

  "Listen," she said. Her voice was calm, conversational, the same tone she used to explain chemical reactions. "Don't panic. Don't scream. Just do exactly what I say. Understand?"

  He stared at her for a long moment, his blue eyes huge in his pale face. Then, slowly, he nodded. His body stopped trembling. His grip on the projector loosened, just slightly.

  Another crash. The door frame splintered.

  Cid grabbed a gas mask from the hook by her workbench, standard safety equipment, required for handling volatile compounds, and shoved it over Aren's head. The mask was too big, comically large on his small face, the straps fully tightened, yet a little loose on the face. Slipshod, but it would work. It would keep him alive.

  "This stays on," she said, her voice muffled through the mask's filter. "No matter what. Even if I tell you to take it off. Even if it feels like you can't breathe. Even if the whole world is ending around you. It stays on. Understand?"

  He nodded. His eyes, behind the mask's lenses, were steady.

  Good. Good.

  She turned to her workbench.

  Her three eyes swept across the rows of bottles, vials, containers, years of work, years of collecting, years of perfecting compounds that could dissolve metal, melt flesh, erase evidence. Oxidizers in their amber glass. Reductants in their cobalt blue. Catalysts in their clear crystal. Stabilizers in their dark brown.

  She started grabbing things.

  Not carefully. Not precisely. Not with the measured deliberation she used for her real work. Just grabbing, armfuls of chemicals, containers of all sizes, anything that looked reactive. She carried them to the center of the room and unceremoniously dumped them in a pile. Oxidizer next to reductant. Catalyst next to stabilizer. Things that should never, ever be mixed, thrown together like salad ingredients.

  Another crash. The door frame gave way completely. The scarred demon's voice echoed through the corridor: "CID! LAST CHANCE!"

  She ignored him. Her eyes landed on the ceramic harvesting tool in her drawer, sterile, sharp, meant for collecting samples from dangerous substances without contaminating them. She grabbed it.

  Aren watched her from his corner, silent and still. The gas mask made him look absurd, like a child playing dress-up in a apocalypse. But his eyes were steady.

  Cid looked at him. At this strange child who had somehow become her charge.

  "I need you to remember something," she said. Her voice was calm, conversational, like she was explaining a chemical reaction. "When they find this place, when they find what's left, they're going to need to think we're dead. Both of us. That's important. You understand?"

  Aren's brow furrowed behind the mask. He didn't understand. Not really. But he nodded anyway.

  "Good." She positioned the ceramic tool at the base of her left horn, the big one, the visible one. "This is going to look bad. It's going to smell bad. But I need them to find this. Need them to think it's all that's left of me. So I need you to close your eyes and stay behind me."

  Aren nodded and huddled his head into Cid's chest.

  He was warm.

  The door crashed open.

  Four figures poured through, weapons raised, ready for a fight. The scarred demon led, his dead eyes scanning the room, finding Cid, finding the pile of chemicals, finding the child in the corner.

  "What the-" he started.

  Cid pressed the tool down and cut.

  The pain was immense, white-hot, blinding, a scream building in her throat that she refused to release. She broke through horn and flesh and nerve with one calm, precise incision, her vision swimming, her body convulsed, but her hand steady. Blood poured down her face, hot and sticky ichor, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

  The horn came free with a wet, sickening crack.

  She bit her tongue and kicked the horn into the chemical pile.

  The reaction was immediate. The horn, demon keratin, nearly impervious, packed with latent energy, hit the mixture and set it all off. The pile began to bubble, to smoke, to scream in a chemical voice that had no mouth.

  The scarred demon's eyes widened. "She's-she's-GET BACK!"

  Cid grabbed the heavy tarp from under the cot, fire-retardant, chemical-resistant, her last line of defense, and held Aren closer. She wrapped them both in its thick folds, dragged them into the farthest corner, behind the storage lockers, and pressed herself against the wall with the child crushed against her chest.

  The tarp covered them completely. Just the two of them, breathing together, heartbeats pounding against each other.

  "Cover your ears," she whispered.

  Aren cupped his little fingers over his ears.

  Outside the tarp, the chemicals screamed louder. The scarred demon was shouting something, orders, warnings, prayers, but she couldn't hear him over the roaring.

  Didn't need to.

  The world turned white.

  BOOM.