The Rift Chronicles: The Neon Contract

The truck's headlights cut through the rain-soaked night, slicing a path out of Old Detroit as Elias Voss steered west toward the Riftlands. The city's neon haze faded in the rearview, swallowed by a horizon of black fields and jagged hills, the rift scars overhead pulsing brighter against the unlit expanse. His long black coat lay across the backseat, still damp with blood and rain, leaving him in dark tactical gear that hugged his lean frame. The machete rested on his lap, runes glowing a faint blue, while the SIG Sauer sat holstered at his side. In his pocket, the two rift shards thrummed—a steady, unnerving pulse that matched the storm's rhythm.

Mira Kade slouched beside him, boots off the dash for once, staring out at the dark. "Riftlands," she said, voice low, almost thoughtful. "Last place I'd pick for a road trip." Elias didn't reply, gray eyes fixed on the road, the faint scar over his eyebrow catching the dashboard's glow. The Shrike's reach—beasts on leashes, eyes in Apex—meant staying in the city was a trap. Rhea's notes hinted at rift energy in the ichor, and the fragments tied it all together. The Riftlands, a lawless stretch of breached earth where monsters roamed free, was the next lead. If Shrike was harvesting there, Elias would find him.

The truck rumbled over a crumbling bridge, the asphalt giving way to gravel that crunched under the tires. Old Detroit's fringes were a memory now—replaced by fields of twisted, leafless trees and soil that shimmered faintly, tainted by decades of rift seepage. The air through the cracked window carried a sour bite, like rotting fruit and ozone. Mira cracked her knuckles, a spark of violet magic flickering in her palm. "Heard stories about this place," she said. "Wendigos. Ghouls. Things that don't have names." Elias grunted, a rare sound. "Heard less, lived more."

She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Poetic as ever." The truck jolted over a rut, and she braced herself, glancing at him. "What's the play? Drive till we hit a monster or a miracle?" He shifted gears, voice flat. "Find his trail. Cut it." She nodded, settling back, her magic dimming but restless. Elias didn't need to explain—the Riftlands were a hunter's ground, and he'd tracked worse than Shrike's shadows here before.

Hours bled into the night, the rain easing to a drizzle that streaked the windshield. The road narrowed, flanked by skeletal husks of abandoned farms—barns collapsed into splinters, silos rusted through. A faint howl echoed in the distance, sharp and inhuman, prickling the hairs on Elias's neck. He slowed the truck, scanning the dark, then killed the lights and engine with a flick of his wrist. Silence fell, heavy and thick, broken only by the drip of water and Mira's soft curse. "What?" she whispered, leaning forward.

Elias pointed ahead—a glint of metal in the gloom, half-buried in the mud. He stepped out, machete in hand, runes flaring as he approached. Mira followed, her boots sinking into the wet earth, magic crackling faintly. It was a truck—same make as the one from Pier 17, its rear blackened from her earlier blast. Overturned, cargo spilled across the ground: crates smashed open, tendrils of black flesh writhing weakly, and another rift shard pulsing in the wreckage. Elias crouched, gray eyes narrowing. "Ambush," he said, voice low, tracing claw marks gouged into the chassis.

Mira kicked a crate, frowning. "Not ours—something else hit it." The howl came again, closer, splitting the air with a hunger that made her tense. Elias stood, pistol drawn, scanning the tree line. Shadows shifted—too many, too fast. "Move," he rasped, backing toward the truck as the first shape burst from the dark. Ghouls—five of them, gaunt and gray, claws gleaming wet, eyes milky with rift corruption. They screeched, lunging in a ragged pack.

Elias fired—two shots, two heads blown apart, black blood spraying the mud. The third reached him, claws raking for his chest, but he sidestepped, machete slashing upward to gut it from navel to throat. It fell, gurgling, as Mira's magic flared—a violet whip that snapped the fourth's spine, dropping it in a heap. The fifth barreled past her, aiming for Elias, but he caught its arm, twisted, and drove the machete through its skull, runes blazing as the blade sank deep. It twitched once and went still.

The silence returned, heavier now, undercut by the stench of rot and burnt flesh. Elias wiped the machete on a ghoul's rags, sheathing it with a click, his breath steady despite the blood streaking his gear. Mira shook out her hands, magic fading, and nodded at the wreckage. "Shrike's losing shipments. Someone's pissed." Elias retrieved the new rift shard, its glow syncing with the others in his pocket. "Or testing him," he said, voice like gravel.

A rustle came from the trees—soft, deliberate, not the wind. Elias spun, pistol up, as a figure emerged—tall, cloaked, face hidden under a hood. Silver glinted at its collar—a talon pin, Shrike's mark. "You're persistent, Voss," the figure said, voice smooth and cold, a hint of amusement beneath it. Elias didn't lower the gun, gray eyes piercing the dark. "You're late." The figure laughed, a low sound that didn't match the tension. "Not my crew you gutted. Just here to watch."

Mira stepped forward, magic flaring in her palms. "Watch this," she snapped, hurling a violet bolt. The figure sidestepped, fluid as smoke, and raised a hand—claws glinted, not human, tipped with rift energy that shimmered purple. "Not yet," it said, then darted back into the trees, gone before Elias could fire. Mira cursed, kicking the mud. "Slippery bastard." Elias holstered his pistol, staring after it, jaw tight. "Scout," he said. "Shrike's close."

He returned to the wreckage, prying open a crate that hadn't spilled. Inside, a metal case—locked, etched with runes older than Apex's tech. He smashed it open with the machete's hilt, revealing a ledger: dates, locations, shipments of ichor and fragments, all stamped with a silver talon. One entry stood out—Breachpoint, tomorrow night. Elias tucked it into his coat, the shards pulsing harder against his ribs. "Lead," he said, voice low, a promise.

The truck's engine roared back to life as they climbed in, the Riftlands stretching endless ahead. Mira glanced at him, her usual smirk absent. "Breachpoint's a myth—first rift site, sealed decades ago." Elias shifted gears, gray eyes on the dark. "Myths don't ship monsters." The howl came again, distant now, but the air felt heavier, the rift scars overhead flaring brighter. The Shrike wasn't just harvesting—he was hunting something bigger, and Breachpoint was the key.

Elias drove on, the truck rumbling through the mud, his resolve a cold, unyielding thing. The Riftlands were a graveyard of secrets, and he'd dig them up one blade at a time. The Shrike wanted a war—Elias would bring it to his door.