The light was failing as Arcane and Prime arrived at the White House. That, at least, was fortunate. No one could see a runic sorcerer and a mercenary walk in like they belonged. The black car they were in had tinted windows, and the seats were too soft for Prime’s taste, like sinking into quicksand. As they left the four U.S. officials behind, Prime adjusted the dagger on his arm, fingers brushing against the hilt. The weight steadied him.

They navigated through corridors filled with suited men and women, their voices murmuring about meetings, deals, and politics that had nothing to do with the war Prime was preparing for. He wasn’t used to this many people. Too much order. Too much chatter. A place like this should’ve smelled like blood, like fear—but here, it was just coffee and polished wood.

Arcane, silent and composed, walked a few steps ahead, offering no words to anyone they passed. Prime had half a mind to say something, if only to break the uneasy quiet, but Arcane’s posture said enough. This was not the place for words, at least not yet.

Finally, they arrived at a pair of black doors, grand and discreet at the same time. Arcane produced a key from his long coat, turning it with the smoothness of someone who had been here many times before. The door swung open silently, revealing a narrow hallway lined with doors, none marked, none inviting.

“This place makes my skin crawl,” Prime muttered under his breath.

Arcane glanced back at him but said nothing. Just led the way.

They stopped at the third door on the left. Arcane pushed it open without ceremony, barely holding it long enough for Prime to follow. Inside, John Strike stood with the President, Prescott. The two men were deep in conversation, but their words fell silent as Prime entered, his presence filling the room like a shadow stretching across a battlefield.

“So, you’re the infamous Guardian Prime,” John said, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Prime didn’t take it. His eyes flickered over John like he was assessing a target. “Who are you?” His voice was cold, cutting.

John dropped his hand, recovering quickly. “I’m John. I assume you know why you’re here.”

Prime smirked beneath his mask. “Something about an underground prison, right? A lot of talk about demons or whatever. Not sure I’m convinced.”

Prescott raised an eyebrow. “But you’re here…?”

Prime’s smile widened, not that anyone could see it. “I’m a mercenary, Jack. I don’t fight battles for the greater good. You pay me, and I get the job done. But if I’m going to fight whatever’s lurking down there, I want more than just a pat on the back.”

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The President stiffened at the use of his old name, one that hadn’t been spoken aloud in years. “We’ll give you food, a place to rest, training—”

Prime interrupted, his tone sharpening. “I don’t need you for that. I’ve survived longer than most of your soldiers without anyone holding my hand. I’ll help you, sure. But I want something in return. Weapons. New ones. The best you’ve got, and I want them unlimited.”

Prescott glanced at Arcane, unsure of how to respond. “Weapons? Swords and daggers, I presume?”

Prime nodded, drawing a miniature katana cross from the sheath on his back. He held it up, the black ribbons trailing like a dark whisper. “And copies of these,” he said, his voice quieter, deadlier. “You don’t need to know what they’re for. Just make them.”

Prescott stared at the cross, his confusion evident. “What… what is that?”

Before Prime could respond, Arcane stepped in. “You really don’t want to know, Mr. President. Let’s just say it’s his... mark.”

Prime’s eyes flicked to Arcane, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Arcane knew exactly what the cross was for, and for some reason, that amused Prime more than it bothered him. It was rare to find someone who understood him so well, yet still walked beside him.

Arcane waved a hand, and suddenly, a dozen identical katana crosses appeared, hovering midair before landing softly on the table. The faintest smile crossed Arcane’s otherwise grim face. “Consider your request granted,” he said, the smile gone as quickly as it came.

Prime’s eyes gleamed behind his mask. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere.”

John, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, a hint of frustration in his voice. “I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Arcane didn’t bother looking at him. “He brands his dead victims with those crosses,” he said flatly, the words hanging in the air like a threat. Then, without waiting for a response, Arcane turned and left the room, his cloak brushing against the floor with a soft whisper.

Prescott swallowed hard, clearly unsettled. He looked to Prime, who seemed entirely unfazed. If anything, the revelation of his ‘mark’ had only made him more relaxed, more at home in the tension he had just created.

“I need some rest,” Prescott said, his voice tighter than before. “John, please take him to his room.”

Prime chuckled, low and dark. “I don’t need a room. I’ll take my nights outside.”

“That won’t be happening,” Arcane’s voice called from the hallway, distant but firm. “I know how you’d spend those nights.”

Prime sighed. “Fine. But I don't want a bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” He left the room and waited for John.

“Right this way,” said John. “And by the way, what’s your name?”

Prime shifted uneasily. “Guardian,” he said, without a trace of humour in his response.

“Your real name,” John said.

“Guardian Prime.”

As they walked along the corridor, John knew he was unlikely to receive an answer, but his curiosity was too much. “Why are you Guardian if you kill people?” he said candidly. “No offence,” he added.

He was right: he didn’t receive an answer.