Chapter 20: The Reunion.

The door swung open with a creak, and Talon was hit by a wave of noise and motion that felt like a physical blow. He paused for a split second at the threshold, his senses overwhelmed by the garish opulence of the hall that stretched before him. The room was a twisted parody of the per-collapse world, mimicking the grandeur of old-world casinos with its gaudy decor and wealth on display. Lavish, faded paintings hung on the walls, and holographic projectors flickered, casting ghostly scenes of the past—images of a world long lost, now reduced to mere shadows.

Talon’s chest tightened as he stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor. The room seemed alive, pulsing with the murmur of negotiations, the clatter of poker chips, and the distant echo of laughter. But it wasn’t the sounds that gnawed at him. It was the weight of the past, pressing down on his shoulders as he walked deeper into the den. The scent of cigar smoke mixed with the sharp tang of fear—an undercurrent that ran through the room, invisible but ever-present.

His escort, a guard who had eyed him suspiciously since he arrived, led him through the chaos with practiced ease. Talon’s mind was racing, his heart pounding in his chest. **This place... this whole operation... and it’s right here, so close to Green Arbor. How didn’t I see it?** The realization hit him harder than any physical blow could. The Syndicate, his father, had been this close all along.

As they weaved through the crowd, Talon’s eyes flicked over the faces of the people around him. Some were old-world elites, or what was left of them—men and women who had thrived on the collapse of society. Others were hardened criminals, their faces etched with the brutality they had witnessed or delivered. But one thing united them: they were all part of the Syndicate’s machine. His father’s machine.

The guard stopped abruptly at a secluded table tucked away from the main throng of activity. "There's a Sentinel here to see you," he announced, his voice cutting through the background noise.

The man at the table didn’t look up immediately. His attention was locked on the cards in his hand, his expression calm and composed as he played his game. "Sit. Play a hand," he said, his tone casual, as though this were just another business meeting.

Talon’s heart thudded in his chest as he slid into the chair, the weight of the years since their last encounter crashing down on him. His eyes scanned the table, but they settled on the one person he both dreaded and expected—Holts, his father. The man who had shaped his childhood, who had taught him everything he knew about survival, ruthlessness, and the darker side of the world.

Holts hadn’t changed much in eight years. His hair was grayer, his face more lined, but there was no mistaking the cold, calculating gaze that had haunted Talon’s nightmares. The man who had tried to mold him into a killer. The man he had run from.

Holts tossed his chips into the pot with a careless flick of his wrist, his gaze still not meeting his son’s. "So, Talon, have you finally come to your senses?" he murmured, his voice low but laced with that familiar edge—sharp, commanding, dangerous. A voice that had once made Talon tremble.

But not anymore.

Talon’s fingers tightened around his cards, every muscle in his body tense. He forced himself to breathe, to focus. **I’m not that boy anymore.** He threw his chips into the pot, the sound echoing in the tense silence between them. "No," he replied, his voice steady, though the weight of the moment threatened to crush him.

Holts raised an eyebrow, still not looking at him, as he continued to play his hand. "Then what brings you to my table?" His words were casual, but the underlying disdain was impossible to miss.

Talon leaned forward, his gaze locked on his father. "I’m here to tell you to leave Green Arbor alone," he said, his voice firm, every syllable deliberate. "It’s under my protection now."

Holts chuckled softly, finally looking up from his cards. His eyes met Talon’s for the first time in eight years, and for a brief moment, something flickered in those cold, calculating eyes. Surprise? Amusement? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it came. He smiled faintly, almost mockingly, as he tossed a single chip into the pot. "That’s not what the mayor told me," he said smoothly. "He invited us in. Said he had the Sentinels in his pocket."

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Talon’s jaw tightened. **The mayor...** The betrayal stung, but he couldn’t afford to show it. He pushed more chips into the pot, the clink of them hitting the center louder than it should have been. "The mayor will be withdrawing that offer. Believe me."

Holts raised his eyebrow slightly, his lips curling into a smirk. He called Talon’s bet, flipping his cards over, revealing his hand. But Talon had the stronger cards. He won the pot.

Holts chuckled again, collecting his cards as if the outcome of the game didn’t matter. His gaze lingered on Talon for a moment longer this time, studying him, sizing him up. "Well, if I’d known it was you, my boy," Holts said, his voice dripping with faux warmth, "I would’ve come to you instead of that fat bag of wind."

The words hit Talon like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t flinch. He held his father’s gaze, his heart pounding, his mind spinning. The tension between them was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. The game continued, but it was no longer about the cards on the table.

Holts shuffled the deck, the sound of the cards slipping through his fingers the only noise between them for a long moment. Then, without looking up, he asked, "So, Green Arbor... what’s it to you?"

Talon’s response was immediate, his voice calm but with an edge of defiance. "That’s my business."

Holts looked up, a spark of challenge in his eyes. "This is a table of business. So state it, or leave."

Talon, unfazed, slid more chips into the center. "I’ll play you for it," he said, half-joking but fully aware of the stakes.

The men at the table chuckled, entertained by the absurdity of the wager. But Holts only smirked. "There isn’t enough money on this table to cover what we’ve paid the mayor."

Talon spun a chip between his fingers, trying to keep his growing frustration in check. "What do you want to leave Green Arbor alone?"

Holts paused, his hand hovering over the cards as he met Talon’s gaze. His eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a wicked smile. "You. Me, Talon," he said, his voice low but laced with meaning. "You, back with me. You give up this... Sentinel fantasy, and come back to where you belong."

The words hit Talon harder than he expected. His grip tightened around the cards, his knuckles white. "It’s not in me to give up on my duties," Talon replied, his voice steady but cold. "Or the people we protect. That’s my family now."

At that, Holts slammed his fist onto the table, the sound echoing through the room. His mask of calm shattered, his eyes flashing with anger. "Your family?" he spat, waving his hand around the room. "This is your family, boy! Not those fools with their do-gooder nonsense! They’re just another kind of syndicate, don’t you see that?"

Talon’s face remained expressionless as he won the pot again, but inside, the tension was winding tighter and tighter. "I’m not up for offer," he said coldly, refusing to rise to his father’s bait.

Holts’ patience snapped, his voice rising with barely controlled fury. "Then let’s raise the stakes." He leaned forward, his eyes locked onto Talon’s. "I’ll burn a house in Green Arbor every day until you join me. Or maybe I’ll get lucky and kill someone you care about."

Talon stood abruptly, his control slipping as the threat hit home. "If you touch one hair on anyone in that town, I will hunt you down and destroy everything you’ve ever built."

Holts didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow, wicked smile spread across his face. "There’s the Talon I know. My Talon. Not this... Sentinel monk you’re pretending to be."

Talon’s fists clenched at his sides, his heart racing. "Don’t test me. You will lose."

Holts laughed softly, a cruel, mocking sound. "You think you can get to me, boy? You and your weak Sentinel friends?" He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "You’ve forgotten how this world works."

The men at the table laughed with him, their mocking voices grating on Talon’s nerves.

Then, a voice whispered through the chaos, cutting through the noise like a blade. "Like this."

Holts froze, his hand hovering over the cards. A blade tapped his shoulder, and he turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as the hood was pulled back to reveal a flash of blonde hair.

Ava stood behind him, her face hard as stone, her eyes cold and unflinching. She held the blade with steady hands, her posture calm but brimming with the quiet threat of violence. The gamblers around the table fell silent, the tension snapping through the room like a coiled spring.

Holts’ eyes widened in brief surprise, but his smirk returned just as quickly. "So, this is the company you keep now, Talon? Sentinels and their... watchdogs."

Ava’s blade didn’t waver, and her voice was as sharp as the steel in her hand. "If you touch Green Arbor, you’ll regret it. And don’t think for a second we can’t reach you."

Holts’ gaze flicked to Talon, his smirk never leaving his face. "Seems like you’ve got yourself a loyal little soldier here. But loyalty won’t protect you from the Syndicate or me, boy."