09-01-2025, 01:16 AM
Zixin leaned back in his chair as the chatter unfurled around the table. Adrian’s smooth words still lingered in the air, yet Zixin kept his gaze elsewhere. He knew exactly what Adrian would say. Adrian had no subtlety in that regard, always calculating, always angling for control through polish and poise, but Zixin refused to directly watch him deliver it.
The man unsettled him. It was ridiculous, really. Adrian Kane was no Syndicate overlord, no blood-forged rival carved out of the streets. Zixin had slit throats with less hesitation than Adrian poured a glass of wine. And yet something about him. That quiet arrogance. That infuriating patience. Zixin could feel it, crawling beneath his skin like static.
Instead, he watched the others. The Russians squinted at Adrian’s pitch, their gruff features caught somewhere between agreement and displeasure. They didn’t like being told what to do, but they liked even less the thought of Zixin holding the keys to the Radiance. Neutral ground under Adrian’s banner was palatable, even welcome. It gave them space to breathe, to scheme, without the Syndicate claiming the walls themselves.
Around the edges, the middle-men lingered, silent but observant. Mikhail’s expression was sharp, intrigued, his eyes narrowing with the curl of curiosity. Zixin noted it. Catalogued it.
He sat forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice cut across the layered conversations with calm precision.
“There is one more voice you should hear tonight. One more guest at this table.”
His gaze slid toward Ryker, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as if savoring the man’s irritation before it bloomed.
“Ryker, if you would be so kind. Do the honors.”
Ryker’s jaw tightened as every head swiveled toward him. He looked like a man forced into the light when he’d rather remain in shadow, but he complied, leaning back in his chair with obvious reluctance.
“Carter Volthström,” Ryker said flatly, his tone carved with disdain. “Yes, that Volthström.”
The man unsettled him. It was ridiculous, really. Adrian Kane was no Syndicate overlord, no blood-forged rival carved out of the streets. Zixin had slit throats with less hesitation than Adrian poured a glass of wine. And yet something about him. That quiet arrogance. That infuriating patience. Zixin could feel it, crawling beneath his skin like static.
Instead, he watched the others. The Russians squinted at Adrian’s pitch, their gruff features caught somewhere between agreement and displeasure. They didn’t like being told what to do, but they liked even less the thought of Zixin holding the keys to the Radiance. Neutral ground under Adrian’s banner was palatable, even welcome. It gave them space to breathe, to scheme, without the Syndicate claiming the walls themselves.
Around the edges, the middle-men lingered, silent but observant. Mikhail’s expression was sharp, intrigued, his eyes narrowing with the curl of curiosity. Zixin noted it. Catalogued it.
He sat forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice cut across the layered conversations with calm precision.
“There is one more voice you should hear tonight. One more guest at this table.”
His gaze slid toward Ryker, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as if savoring the man’s irritation before it bloomed.
“Ryker, if you would be so kind. Do the honors.”
Ryker’s jaw tightened as every head swiveled toward him. He looked like a man forced into the light when he’d rather remain in shadow, but he complied, leaning back in his chair with obvious reluctance.
“Carter Volthström,” Ryker said flatly, his tone carved with disdain. “Yes, that Volthström.”
"Its better to bleed in training than die in war."
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Zixin Kao - Valtin Korsak - Aži Dahāka - Jörmungandr - Beowulf’s Bane