The shrill beeping of monitors, the sterile tang of antiseptic mixed with the fading scent of blood and herbs… Alan felt sensory-deprived, adrift in a fog of shock. Grandfather lay on a hovering stretcher bathed in eerie blue light, surrounded by Warden medics in sealed suits and specialized visors. Unfamiliar tubes and wires snaked across his body. Alan could only see the terrifying pallor of Grandfather's face and the grim, rapidly communicating eyes behind the visors.
"Vitals critical! Soul core integrity compromised! High concentration Entropic Anima residue detected! Initiate 'Sanctuary' protocol! Prep soul-stasis chamber! Stat!" a woman's voice, coldly efficient, commanded.
Alan lunged forward, desperate to reach Grandfather, but a large, stern-faced Warden operative gently yet firmly blocked him. "Mr. Shaw, please remain here. Your grandfather requires our most advanced emergency care. Trust us." The operative's voice was impersonal, authoritative.
"Will… will he be okay?" Alan's voice was a raw croak, tears welling again.
"We will do everything possible." The reply was noncommittal, the operative's eyes scanning Alan like a hazardous object.
Grandfather was swiftly transferred from the shattered shop into a discreet black van humming with hidden medical tech. Alan was ushered into another unmarked black sedan. Tinted windows severed the outside world. Numb, he sat in the back, watching the familiar neon glow of Chinatown blur and recede as they crossed the Thames into the glass-and-steel canyons of the City. The car finally stopped in an alley behind a nondescript, slightly shabby Victorian apartment block. An unassuming metal door slid open, admitting them to a spacious underground garage.
The safehouse? Inside, the contrast was jarring. Futuristic silver-grey tones replaced the drab exterior. Soft white light emanated from hidden sources. The air hummed with filtration systems. Walls of smooth composite material pulsed faintly with embedded energy channels. No windows, only holoscreens mimicking natural light. It was a sealed bunker.
Alan was led to a clean, functional room – bed, ensuite, small sitting area. He cleaned off the grime and blood, changed into plain grey sweats. But comfort was alien. Only icy numbness and helplessness remained. His repeated inquiries about Grandfather were met with the same refrain: "Critical care ongoing. You will be updated."
Time crawled in an agony of waiting. Finally, the door slid open. Lena White stood there, expression unreadable in her grey uniform.
"Alan Shaw. With me." Her voice held no inflection. "The Director will see you now."
Alan's stomach dropped. The moment had come. He took a shaky breath, forcing composure, and followed Lena down the quiet, softly lit corridor. Sealed metal doors lined the walls, marked only by faintly glowing status lights. The air crackled with tension.
They stopped before a heavy, unadorned silver-grey door. Lena raised her hand; a blue light scanned her palm. The door slid aside silently.
The room beyond was compact yet radiated immense pressure. It wasn't the high-tech command center Alan expected, but a blend of classical study and modern power. Dark wood paneling covered one wall, inset with floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with ancient scrolls, heavy tomes, and faintly glowing artifacts. The opposite wall was a vast screen displaying complex, flowing runic data streams – London's Anima monitoring network. At the center stood a large, minimalist black desk of unknown material. Light came from recessed ceiling strips and a fist-sized, steadily glowing white crystal suspended on the wall behind the desk.
And behind the desk sat a man.
He appeared around fifty, features sharply defined as if carved from granite. Iron-grey hair was cropped short and precise. He wore an impeccably tailored dark grey suit, devoid of insignia, yet exuding an aura of absolute, ingrained authority. His eyes were a deep, penetrating ice-blue. When his gaze settled on Alan, it felt like an X-ray, stripping away layers to the core. Merely sitting there, he seemed to thicken the air, demanding silence. He was the head of the London Wardens, "The White Tower" – Oliver Thorne.
"Sit, Mr. Shaw." Thorne spoke, his voice a deep, resonant baritone, calm, even carrying a hint of avuncular warmth, as if inviting a young relative for a chat. Yet an invisible pressure accompanied the words, constricting Alan's breath.
Lena melted back to stand guard by the door like a statue.
Alan sat stiffly in the chair opposite the desk, hands gripping his knees, knuckles white.
Thorne's gaze held Alan for a moment, the ice-blue eyes flickering with an unreadable assessment. "Firstly, regarding your grandfather, Mr. Shaw." His tone was level. "He suffered a vicious 'Soulrend' attack. Direct trauma to the animating soul-core. Our medical team is utilizing the most advanced soul-stabilization and life-support technology. His condition… is critical. Recovery depends on his own resilience and will. We are giving him our utmost care."
Alan's heart clenched as if gripped by an icy hand. Grandfather… might never wake? Grief and terror surged anew.
"Thank you…" Alan rasped.
"Unnecessary." Thorne inclined his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Now, let us discuss the events at 'Bai Cao Tang' last night. And… you." He leaned forward slightly, hands steepled on the desk, an action that amplified the pressure exponentially. "Forensic analysis and Anima residue indicate a highly trained, ruthless assault with specific objectives. They deployed prohibited biological constructs, toxic augmentations, and… a practitioner skilled in dark entropic energies. This was a high-caliber, premeditated strike. Who were they? What was their objective? What was inside the sandalwood box they took?"
Each question landed like a hammer blow. Thorne's calm gaze was terrifyingly penetrative. Alan's throat tightened; his palms slicked with sweat. He couldn't mention Ouroboros. Couldn't mention the Prime Glyphs. Couldn't reveal the scroll! Grandfather had died protecting that secret! And were the Wardens truly allies? Lena's coldness, the suffocating surveillance… How were they different?
"I… I don't know who they were…" Alan forced out, a tremor in his voice. He met Thorne's eyes, forcing himself not to flinch. "They… broke in… monsters… They wanted… an old box of my grandfather's… He said it was… just some useless old medical texts and notes… passed down…" He willed the lie to sound plausible, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Thorne listened impassively, his face a mask. Only those ice-blue eyes, deep and unreadable as Arctic ice, reflected Alan's tense image. Alan felt utterly exposed. The "Harmonizing" power within him, sensing his master's distress, began its familiar, unsettling hum beneath his skin. He fought to suppress it.
"Medical texts and notes?" Thorne's lips might have twitched in the faintest ghost of a smile – derisive or otherwise. "Worth such an extreme response? Even deploying 'Soulrend'?" The calm tone held an iron thread of skepticism. "And what of you, Alan Shaw? The core Anima-nullification signature at St. Martin's art centre was traced to you. Last night at 'Bai Cao Tang,' during your grief and rage, the uncontrolled, destructive energy surge you emitted… What was that?"
Thorne tapped a finger lightly on the desk. It illuminated instantly, projecting two crisp energy signatures. One showed the art centre's crimson peak annihilated by the transparent wave. The other displayed the chaotic peak from Alan's emotional outburst in the shop. Though wildly different in expression (one precise null, one chaotic blast), their core spectral signatures bore a disturbing similarity!
"It's… an ability… to absorb ambient Anima passively… and it… explodes uncontrollably when I'm… very upset…" Alan looked down, avoiding the soul-piercing gaze, his voice dropping. "My grandfather… taught me some… Eastern breathing exercises… for health… but I never got much from it… until recently… it started… going wrong…" He hedged, mixing truth with omission, blaming recent awakening and lack of control.
Silence descended. Only the soft, rhythmic tap of Thorne's finger on the desk remained, counting down the seconds on Alan's frayed nerves. The air felt frozen.
"Passive absorption… extreme emotional catalyst…" Thorne repeated slowly, his ice-blue eyes unfathomable, studying Alan as one might a rare artifact or an unstable explosive. "A manifestation… of an exceptionally rare and unique 'Anima Harmony' affinity. Profoundly unstable, potentially self-destructive and hazardous to surroundings… yet… possessing extraordinary potential."
He stopped tapping, leaning back in his imposing chair, hands clasped before him. His gaze refocused on Alan, his tone becoming even more "reassuring," yet carrying the weight of an ultimatum.
"Alan Shaw, your ability is like unrefined ore. It holds immense promise, but also harbors unpredictable peril. Last night's assault proves that the Hounds lurking in shadow are already drawn to your light." Thorne's voice took on a persuasive note. "In your current state, untutored and uncontrolled, you endanger not only yourself but those around you, potentially even uninvolved civilians. Your grandfather… is a stark testament to that."
The mention of Grandfather was a knife twist in Alan's gut.
"The London Wardens exist to maintain the stability of 'The Veil,' to protect this city from supernatural threats, and to protect… unique individuals such as yourself." Thorne's tone resonated with solemn duty. "We possess advanced facilities, expert mentors, and the resources necessary to maintain order. We can offer you sanctuary. Systematic training. Guidance to understand and master this extraordinary power within you, preventing further tragic loss of control. And we can shield you from the… predatory forces that covet your ability."
Sanctuary. Guidance. The words sounded so reasonable, so tempting. A safe haven. A chance to control the power. The possibility of justice for Grandfather… It was a lifeline to the drowning, exhausted Alan.
Yet, beneath the surface of Thorne's apparent benevolence, the glacial calculation in his eyes, the aura of absolute control, and Lena's cold, watchful presence by the door screamed a warning: this "sanctuary" was a gilded cage. This "guidance" meant surveillance and assessment of his value. Stepping inside meant ceasing to be Alan Shaw, becoming a Warden asset.
"I…" Alan's voice cracked. He needed time. He needed news of Grandfather. He had no choice, yet he recoiled from this predetermined path.
"No need to decide immediately." Thorne seemed to read the struggle, offering a thin, almost paternal smile that felt utterly rehearsed. "Your grandfather remains in care. You need rest and time to process. Agent White will see to your accommodations. Here, you are safe."
He gestured dismissal. Lena stepped forward immediately.
"Alan Shaw. This way. Your temporary quarters are prepared." Lena's voice remained ice.
Alan rose like an automaton. He cast one last glance at Thorne. The "White Tower" was already looking down, attention absorbed by the data streams floating above his desk, as if the interview had been a triviality. But the icy-blue gaze, as Alan turned to leave, felt like twin spotlights locked onto his back – assessing, evaluating, filled with the absolute will to understand and ultimately, to control the unknown power he represented.
The safehouse door slid shut behind Alan, cutting off Thorne's suffocating regard, but firmly sealing him within the Wardens' invisible web. The path ahead was shrouded in mist, fraught with unseen perils.