"FAEX!" The curse slips through my teeth as I let another punch fly, bruising my knuckles against the unforgiving rubber of the boxing pads.
Warden Brooks stumbles back with the force of the blow. But she once again brings the pads back up, her lips pressed tight in disapproval.
"Anger is making you sloppy, Marks," she says I swipe forward.
She's right, of course. There's a lot of power behind my swings but little skill. My knuckles throb from hitting the target at the wrong angle and my wrist clicks funny after one-off many overextended jabs. But the pain feels good. The blood staining the inner layer of my bandages feels good.
My nails bite into my palms as I propel my fist forward again. Brooks drops the pads, pivots, and catches my wrist before the blow lands.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." She shakes her head and releases my wrist. "What did I say about being sloppy?"
"Sorry." I resist the urge to bring my arm up and cradle it to my chest. But that's a sign of weakness. And after yesterday—I can't afford to be weak
Brooks raises the boxing pads and nods, signaling me to continue. She pauses thoughtfully, in between a right hook, leaving me to stumble mid-swing.
"I'm assuming this is about The Ring?"
My silence is enough of an answer.
"I told Damas not to do it." She runs her hand aggressively through her coils. "None of you were ready."
"Ace was ready." The words are hidden under a hushed bout of breath. If Brooks hears, she doesn't show it.
"Don't beat yourself up over it." She says, treating me to one of those smiles. "Now, about that left uppercut—"
The alarms cut her off. A siren wailing electronically through the halls, leaping out from the corners, buzzing through the Lighthouse. Overhead, a light begins to flash a disturbing red.
Brooks sucks in a breath, her eyes darting to me to the elevator. She says nothing, but the message is clear: Follow me.
The lights are blaring in the elevator as well. I fidget behind Brooks as the floors blur by. She hasn't spoken once since the alarms first went off, and not knowing what else to do, I follow suit.
The elevator screeches to the stop at the Colloquium Praetorium, or rather, the Conference Room. It's the same as we left it, plush yellow chairs and handsome round table slapped in its center and a monitor screen mirroring the different corridors and halls of the Lighthouse. In the hazy red glare, the room looks far gives off an unsettling vibe that has me twisting my ring with clammy fingers.
"Warden Brooks!" Warden Nguyen's eyes light up, wrenching her gaze from the bandages she'd been been wrapping around Ace's torso. My throat tightens, but he doesn't notice me... yet.
The room is full of other Wardens, many of who I do not recognize, pouring over the different monitors and whispering frantically to one another. They stop and look up with relieved sighs the moment Brooks enters.
"Status update?" Brooks asks—no, not asks. Rather she demands.
Nguyen reaches up to pull her goggles off of her eyes. Her lab coat is stained with some mystery concoction and her hair is a tousled mess; she got here in a hurry. The alchemist shuffled through her notes before spitting out a response, "Security breach. We haven't figured out how or where, but seeing as two of our cameras have already been dismantled, the intruders appear to be of ill intentions."
YOU ARE READING
The Los Angeles Lighthouse | ✔
FantasyMason Marks is a screw up. Every day is a struggle to cough up enough money for rent, to ignore the reek of despair flooding the streets, to stop himself from slipping further into the shadows and slums of Downtown L.A. And he is sick of it. When h...
