Harem Apocalypse: Every Moan Levels Us Up!

We walked out of Mary’s apartment, leaving the wreckage behind us. Owen’s body remained inside, slumped against the wall, blood still slowly spreading across the floor in a dark, glistening pool. CGI had already been notified. A cleanup team was on the way.

I walked beside Mary. She had changed into a simple white long-sleeved shirt and a skirt that stopped just above her knees. The fabric moved softly against her thighs with each step. Becky came behind us, slower, sword still strapped to her back, the fight showing on all three of us — limps, bruises and torn clothes.

"Did you think we’d end up connected like this," Mary said, filling the silence, "the first time you came into my room in a mask?"

She wasn’t cuffed. Becky had decided to trust her, which still said more about the history between them than anyone had told me.

"No," I said, the three of us limping down the corridor toward the elevator. "First impression was a kidnapper holding a girl hostage."

She glanced at me as we reached the elevator doors. Becky was dropping further behind. We slowed to wait for her.

"Nobody can predict tomorrow," Mary said.

"But I knew you’d be in my life from the moment you opened your legs for me," I said.

She laughed — low, genuine, carrying pain through it. "Survival makes you do things. Hope you enjoyed the view at least."

"The skeleton tattoo between your thigh is still in my head," I said. "Glad I got to see it again today."

She laughed again, the two of us carrying the ache through it, but Becky had gone quiet behind us, dragging one leg with every step, face tight with pain.

"Let me help her," I told Mary, and walked back.

The pain had fully taken Becky now. She could barely move, one hand pressed to her side, breathing shallow.

"You good?" I asked.

"Yee—"

I lifted her into my arms before she finished the word. One arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She didn’t protest, which told me exactly how much the fight had cost her. Her head rested against my shoulder, blonde braid falling over my arm. I carried her down the corridor and stepped into the elevator beside Mary.

Becky didn’t say anything. Her body stayed tense for a second, then slowly relaxed against me as the doors closed.

The three of us stood in the small metal box. The assassin I owed my life to twice. The partner I was carrying. And the dead ghost in the apartment behind us, whose last words were still sitting heavy in my chest.

You trust people too easily, Abram.

Maybe. But it was the only thing that had ever taken me anywhere worth going.

The elevator started down with a soft mechanical hum. The numbers above the doors began to drop. Mary stood close on my other side, her shoulder brushing mine, while Becky’s weight settled fully into my arms.

***

We came out into the street, Becky still in my arms. The sun was harsh after the dim corridors, slamming down on us like a physical weight. It burned across my shoulders and the back of my neck, turning the gravel lot into a glaring white expanse that made my eyes narrow.

"I’m fine, Bram," Becky said, voice strained. "Put me down. I can walk."

Mary walked beside us, carrying Becky’s sword in one hand, the sheath resting against her shoulder.

"No, you can’t," I said.

"Believe me. And I need to drive since you can’t."

"Do you drive?" I asked Mary.

She smiled, small, confident, the kind that said she had driven far more dangerous things than this.

The car was exactly where we had left it. Mary opened the back door and cleared the sword off the seat with a smooth motion. I laid Becky down across the back, careful with her injured side. She winced but didn’t protest again. CGI agents never locked their vehicles.

"Mary’s driving," I told her as I closed the door. Becky nodded weakly, head falling back against the seat. "Where’s the key?"

"My pocket," she said. Her hands could barely move.

I reached into the pocket of her skirt and searched. Nothing. I tried the other pocket, fingers brushing warm skin, and found the key. I handed it to Mary, who was already settled behind the wheel. I closed Becky’s door and got in the passenger seat.

"We’re dropping you at the hospital first," I told Becky as Mary started the engine. The car purred to life.

"Mission first," Becky tried, but the decision was already made and she didn’t have the strength to win the argument. Her voice was fading.

Mary pulled smoothly into the capital traffic. The streets were busy, cars and pedestrians flowing around us under the bright midday sun.

"She needs a doctor more than Bala needs a report," I said.

Becky said something I didn’t catch and let her head fall back against the seat, eyes half-closed.

In the rearview mirror, Mary watched her for a second — the woman we had come to arrest, now driving her to a hospital. Whatever history sat between them, it was heavy in the car with all three of us, unspoken and waiting.

I looked out at the capital moving past the windows, gleaming towers, crowded sidewalks, the endless rhythm of a city that kept turning no matter what happened in the shadows.

One ghost dead. One assassin in the front seat. A partner who can’t walk.

And three sources still out there.

[Wounds are closing due to vitality.]

The system notified as we reached the hospital, a faint warmth spreading through my body, knitting together the worst of the damage from the fight.

Mary pulled up to the emergency entrance. The sun glared off the white walls of the building, turning everything too bright, too clean.

I got out and opened the back door. Becky was barely conscious now. I lifted her again, her body limp and heavy in my arms, and carried her through the sliding glass doors into the sterile white light of the hospital.

***

Mary drove. I sat in the passenger seat. Becky was at the hospital, and Mary was taking herself in to be detained.

I looked at her. The sun cut through the windshield, catching on the side of her face and turning strands of her dark hair into threads of fire.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked. "Because if you don’t want it, I won’t stand in your way."

She glanced at me, eyes steady on the road for a moment before flicking back.

"You’re a good person, Abram," she said. "But good people rarely live long enough to reach their purpose."

I didn’t have an answer for that.

"I called CGI myself," she continued, fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. "I know exactly what I’m doing."

"Okay," I said, as the CGI building appeared ahead — tall, sharp-edged, glass and steel rising against the capital sky.

The agents were already outside, informed about the arrest. They moved on the car the moment we pulled up, surrounding it in a tight, professional circle. Boots scraped on pavement. Hands rested near holsters.

"It’s all right, Abram," Mary said, before we opened the doors. Her voice was quiet, steady. "I love you."

I sat with it for a second, the words settling heavy and warm in my chest.

"I love you too," I said.

She got out first. They cuffed her in the same smooth motion, metal clicking around her wrists, hands guiding her away from the car with practiced efficiency. My wounds had stopped hurting somewhere on the drive. The system, doing its quiet work in the background.

I got out of the car.

Max Donman appeared from nowhere.

He grabbed me by the neck, fingers clamping hard around my throat, and slammed me back against the vehicle. The impact rattled the car on its suspension. My back hit the metal with a heavy thud, knocking the air from my lungs. His face was inches from mine, jaw tight, eyes burning with something raw and barely contained.