Everyone gathered in the kitchen, where Isaac pressed the screen on the counter. A circle glowed around his hand before the screen went black, then changed to a dark purple. It looked different than before, with white words running across the screen rapidly. Isaac's eyes followed their movement and quickly tapped five or six of them, and then placed his palm back on the screen to change it back to its normal list of missions. He'd connected with the sector's screen and chosen missions remotely.

What were the missions he supposedly "brought with him," then?

Wyze, Derek, and Hailey. You're taking Mission 0357. He tapped the screen, and the mission details were sent to their Modifiers. Leave now. At his command, the three members fizzled out of the bunker.

Dior, Trace, and Isaac stood even spaced around the counter, awaiting his next orders.

Dior, Trace. You both will accompany me on an Escort-level mission. We leave immediately. Isaac swiped his hand over the screen and the counter returned to its dark gray color. Mission details are confidential. Come to my aid when requested.

There was no female voice designating their teleportation coordinates. Instead, they disappeared into the dark abyss in silence.

They appeared in a dimly lit entrance hall to a victorian mansion. Bright golds and reds decorated the walls in framed paintings and tapestries. The lighting was provided by tall, dripping candles. Overhead, a large, glimmering chandelier swung slightly from side to side. The sounds of thudding from the upper floor were what disturbed it.

They stood in the center of a black and white marble floor, where an ornate circle expanded around them with Latin letters engraved beneath the outline and following the bent circle shape. A perfectly-designed teleportation site.

Dior, to the room on the right. Trace, come with me. Isaac's voice boomed with superiority. Dior wasted no time in obeying. She silently flew to past the flickering candles, hardly causing them to waver, as she disappeared into her designated room.

Trace followed Isaac up the grand, marble staircase. They headed up two more flights, each one nearing them closer to the pounding. It became clearer and clearer that the pounding was the cause of furniture falling to the ground. The sound of shattering porcelain and glass also filled the empty halls—too high-pitched to have been heard two levels below.

The two passed by enormous classical paintings that shook angrily against the walls as furniture continued to stampede in the room they were approaching.

Finally, Isaac stopped outside of a large double-doored room. They were red and gold, matching the rest of the mansion. Two large candles sat in sticks outside the room, long blown-out.

You are meant to observe, Isaac said firmly. He didn't look back at Trace as he pushed the heavy doors open with his arm and darted quickly into the room.

Trace followed swiftly after, staying close to the walls to avoid detection. The room was dark, lit only by the glorious moonlight that bathed it in a sheer blanket of white. But nothing about this room could imitate its elegance—not with the condition of the furniture and paintings and bodies strewn across the room.

Trace's and Isaac's entrance couldn't have been timed better—everything was silent. A couple silhouettes hunched over, breathing slowly in the shadows. Their bodies glowed red through Trace's Modifier. From their posture and slow movements, they were either exhausted and injured.

Glass was scattered across the floor, some sticking in leather furniture from an airborne break. Lamps and tables and chairs were upside down and on their sides and backs, some broken, and some about to be.

The room was so cluttered that Trace was surprised he and Isaac—let alone any normal human being—could maneuver through it. Still, he watched in amazement as one body moved toward another, albeit quite sluggishly and loudly, clamoring against broken glass and grunting when it punctured through skin.

The mobile person finally collided with the other, and their silhouettes danced in the darkness as one pressed his thumbs into the other's neck and the other wheezed for breath. But the attacker was relentless. Trace could almost hear the bones cracking under the weight of the man's tight grip, and then the other body fell against a table and stayed there.

Trace backed into the wall and watched Isaac, who was beginning to move. Something about this situation felt odd to Trace. Shouldn't an assassin try their best to stay in the shadows? Why risk being seen?

But then he saw why Isaac advanced on this lone victor. Something beyond purple glimmered in Isaac's eyes. It was dark, and it almost overtook the brilliant violet. Trace had never seen it before, but he knew it immediately.

It was bloodlust.

Isaac purposefully stepped on a broken canvas and the glowing red body on the other side of the room twitched, alert. The moon made his eyes white, contrasting the sickening purple-black pulsing in Isaac's.

In an instant, the man recognised he was no match for Isaac, and so he stumbled back into the man he'd just strangled. Fell onto him and seemed to come to his senses. Or maybe he found a way to cover his tracks.

So he screamed. The sound was unlike anything Trace had ever heard—like something dying an excruciating death. He reflexively covered his ears to block out the sound, hoping that Isaac wouldn't whip around to see him.

Isaac was swift and calculative. The screaming had no effect on him, at least not that Trace could tell. In a fluid motion, he withdrew a weapon from his cloak. It was about the length of his forearm and had a magnificent round blade melded to the top. The moonlight shimmered across the metal, revealing an ornate pattern similar to the one on Alexis's weapon—maybe all Escorts had specially designed weapons.

Isaac held it lightly in his palm, and then gently rocked it back to his shoulder. He did this a few times, while waiting for the man to stop screaming.

Finally, whe it appeared the man was out of breath or no longer had the energy, Isaac laughed aloud. The sound was horrifying as much as it was glorious. A sinister, evil thing that Trace knew he wanted nothing to do with. But he still just sat and watched.

"Tell me what happened here," Isaac demanded. His eyes narrowed, the black growing wilder. "You know what happens if you don't."

The man wasted no time. He fell to his knees, rubbed his hands together rapidly, and began to cry. "Non posso, non posso." His voice shook as he spoke, wavering between his sobs.

"Perché non puoi dirmelo?" Isaac's voice fell flat, demanding an answer. Trace's Modifier translated for him.

Why won't you tell me?

The man continued rubbing his hands together and stared at the floor between his legs. He mumbled breathy Italian, stringing pleas together in his last resort to be set free.

"Sei mafioso?" Isaac asked. He was getting impatient. The axe rocked back and forth quicker, moving with the flex of his elbow.

Are you part of the mafia? Trace's Modifier translated.

The man shot his head up and inched his knees through broken glass. He shook his head furiously from side to side as tears continued to bubble out of his eyes. "No, no, no! Non sono! Non sono!"

"Don't lie to me," Isaac growled. The axe rested at last on his shoulder. "Ci può essere solo un dio in questo mondo."

There can only be one god in this world.

The man slowly stopped rubbing his hands together and his tears dried on his cheeks. His eyes widened and his jaw trembled uncontrollably. "Che dio?"

What god?

Isaac leaned the blade back further on his shoulder, balancing the handle in his springy fingers. His eyes glinted with pride. "L'Associazione."

The Association.

The man's face cripped with fear, but it was too late to do anything. It had been too late even before this mission started.

Isaac elegantly flicked the stick forward and it flipped through the air at an untraceable speed, then collided with and cut through the majority of the man's head. Trace shivered at the unexpected thudding sound it made. Pressurized blood spattered the walls and cieling briefly upon impact, but then the man collapsed and bled out normally, joining the casualties he'd assisted in killing.

Sighing, Isaac approached the man. He lifted his boot and pressed it into the man's head to build resistance while he pulled the axe from his skull. It seemed like a very deep blow, though Isaac retrieved it easily. The sound it made as he slid it from bone was like metal and rock scraping together. Trace tried his best to remain unfazed, though he was still recovering from the assault on his hearing.

Isaac looked at Trace with an almost nostalgic look in his eyes—the black wasn't completely gone, but now Trace could never see him without it.

Tell me, Trace. Isaac's tone was lighthearted as he tucked the bloodied axe back into his cloak. What do you feel when you kill someone?

Trace's jaw tightened. He wasn't prepared to answer this question. What would be appropriate? What would give him away? He couldn't lie his way through this one, so he tried the truth, though he wasn't sure this was what Isaac would be looking for.

On a mission? Accomplished, he finally answered. This answer seemed to amuse Isaac.

And how about off-script? Isaac pondered. The question came out like dripping magma, hot and rugged. He seemed to relish every moment of Trace's squirming. . . if he could tell Trace was squirming, that is.

I've never killed anyone outside of Phantom protocol. This was also the truth. Was Isaac expecting him to be a bloodthirsty monster on and off the clock?

Interesting, he said as he walked toward Trace. His eyes were sparkling, but they weren't beautiful. At least, not to Trace. I have much to teach you, then.

#

Dior, Isaac called out. The other member appeared from the room she'd been designated, eyes alert and bright.

Yes, sir. She wasn't visibly shaken, nor did it seem like she'd completed any sort of mission to rival theirs,

How was your cup of tea? Isaac's question dripped with satire. While Trace had to witness perhaps the most gruesome murder he'd ever seen, Dior was tasked with drinking the Italian mafia's tea?

A bit bland, Dior answered, then caught herself. Excuse me for my poor taste. I have a stronger appreciation for coffee.

Isaac ignored her banter, though it answered his question, and turned to Trace. Shall we head back?

Trace was unsure if he was even able to express how much he wanted to leave this dreadful, dark mansion. He settled with a curt nod. Isaac nodded back and they returned to the circle in the marble at the bottom of the staircase.

#

Your two hours of Modifier-free time begin now. As soon as he'd said it, each member's bodies physically relaxed and their eyes returned to their normal color. It was clear that everyone was exhausted from the constant control.

Isaac disappeared to Hailey's old suite and everyone else stayed near, but silent.

Wyze was first to speak, but it was hardly audible. "I don't even know where to start." The fragility in her voice was enough to snap the last string holding everyone together, but it somehow it stayed strong.

"I didn't know Peter was our leader," Trace mumbled. "But I guess it explains a lot."

Derek raised a fist, but Hailey stopped him with a weakened arm. She turned to Trace. "I'm sorry for not being transparent; most members find out sooner or later. He was a leader by title, but not by choice or actions. Naturally, the duties fell to me."

"He was a leader," Trace repeated. He felt heat move down to his hands and he balled them into fists. "You say that like he's already dead."

Hailey laughed softly at this, though it carried no humor. "You're right. At least, the Peter we all knew and loved is."

"Love?" The word felt foreign on Trace's tongue. He didn't know which disturbed him more—the complex and gooey emotions of the people in his group or the unrelenting hostility in Isaac. He didn't want either, but he also felt like he had to choose. His voice softened. "I mean, how could you love someone here? Isn't Phantom the place people go to throw everything away?"

Hailey blinked at this notion. The other members seemed to be shocked as well. "Who told you that?"

Trace didn't see why they were so enthralled by this fact. "My Mentor. James."

Dior and Wyze looked between one another, then said in eerily the same tone and time: "Loyalty to Phantom is what keeps us here, not our past regrets."

Loyalty, huh? Then what was with all of the rule breaking? Maybe Phantom didn't know, or maybe WP-0770 didn't consider their actions to be dangerous. But to Trace, any infraction could mean the end of the world.

"And to each other," Derek chimed in. His voice grew weak. "But now that an Escort is in charge, I'm not so sure we will have that anymore."

"Human relationships," Hailey said softly. "It's what Peter desperately wanted all of us to have. Before him, we were as good as empty shells walking Phantom's empty streets."

Every word she said felt wrong and right at the same time. Trace couldn't choose whether he agreed or disagreed. He shook his head and let out a sigh. "You loved Peter. Is that correct?"

Hailey nodded at once. The rest of the group followed suit.

"And Phantom allows this?" Trace's composure was crumbling. His anger was boiling to the top.

"Hey," Dior said sharply. "We obey Phantom to a T. There's no reason why we shouldn't be allowed personal lives, right?"

"No," Trace growled. "You can't." He glared at each tired and confused member. He spoke the words like they were acid he needed to get off his tongue. They weren't all his, but they weren't completely foreign either. "Not when you've sold your souls to the Association."