Leon stepped through the splintered doorway, boots crunching glass underfoot. The air inside the penthouse was thick with magic residue and the acrid sting of ozone—remnants of the chaos he'd carved through every floor below. Smoke trailed from his coat. Ash clung to his gloves. His gun was already raised.
Tobias Virell didn't flinch.
He was sitting behind a sleek obsidian desk, backlit by a wall of broken glass overlooking the smoldering skyline. One leg crossed over the other, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the armrest. Calm. Collected. Dressed in a blood-black coat stitched with guild authority and lined in spell-imbued thread.
Leon didn't speak.
He pulled the trigger.
The mana bullet flashed blue—compressed arcane energy shaped like a spearhead, shrieking through the air with lethal intent.
Tobias moved his left hand half an inch.
