"You want to talk?" he said finally, voice lower now. "Fine. Sit down. Both of you. Right there." He nodded at the faded couch behind them. "But you sit with your hands in the air. I'm not playing games."
Gregor's brow shot up. "Not happening," he said flatly, voice carrying its usual deadpan weight.
Tom, however, raised a hand with a calming gesture. "It's fine," he said, casually lifting both hands in the air. "Let's not make this harder than it has to be."
Gregor turned to him, eyes narrowed. "You serious?"
Tom gave a half-shrug. "Yeah. I don't think he's going to shoot us if we play nice."
Gregor muttered something under his breath but finally, reluctantly, lifted his arms. He looked like a man humoring a child, but he followed Tom to the couch and sat down with a slow, stiff motion. The couch creaked under their weight.
Jhel remained standing, still holding the gun firmly, finger hovering near the trigger. He positioned himself at an angle, close to the edge of the room, where he could reach a small end table beside him with ease. Something on it blinked softly, a tiny light, barely noticeable unless you were looking.
"What could possibly be so important," Jhel said after a few seconds of silence, "that you broke into my home, disarmed me, humiliated me… just to have a chat?"
Tom leaned forward, arms still raised slightly, and cleared his throat. "We came here," he said, voice measured, "because we need to talk about the Emerald of Firan."
The change in Jhel was immediate.
His eyes widened. The blood drained from his face so quickly it was like someone had flipped a switch. For a moment, he looked less like a man with a gun and more like someone who had just heard a ghost whisper his name.
"You shouldn't have said that," he said hoarsely.
Beads of sweat broke across his forehead. His fingers tightened on the grip of his weapon.
Tom kept his posture calm, deliberate. "We need to know if you had any leads. My father's life depends on this. If you know anything, anything at all, I need you to tell me."
Jhel shook his head, slowly at first, then with growing intensity. "No," he said. "No, I can't. You don't understand. The emerald, it's cursed. It doesn't bring salvation. It brings ruin. To everyone who goes after it."
Gregor shifted slightly beside Tom, watching Jhel closely. His hands were still raised, but one leg was angled just right, ready to move if things went bad.
Tom didn't back off. "I've heard all the stories. I've read the warnings. But stories won't save my father. What I need is the truth. Do you know where it it?"
"I'm sorry," Jhel said, voice breaking. "You need to walk away. Forget you ever came here. Go home. Live your life. That thing, it leaves nothing but destruction behind."
Tom's face hardened. He stood up slowly, letting his arms drop in defiance. "I thought you might say that," he said, his tone colder now, arrogant, but not loud. Just confident in a way that felt like it left no room for refusal.
Jhel raised his gun a little higher. "I said sit down."
Tom ignored him.
He reached into his coat pocket with slow, deliberate movements. "That's why I came prepared."
Gregor didn't move, but his eyes flicked toward Tom. "Please tell me you're not doing that"
Tom smirked as he pulled out the small metal ball, the same one Gregor had seen him fiddling with the day before. He held it out between two fingers.
Jhel's grip on his pistol tightened. "What is that?"
Tom turned the ball in his hand slowly, almost admiring it. "A little something I've been working on. You'll understand it soon enough." He looked directly into Jhel's eyes, a strange calm in his expression. "I'll see you in an eternity."
But before his thumb could press the activation node on the ball, Jhel moved.
His hand darted toward the table beside him and slammed down on something hidden behind a stack of old notebooks.
Click.
The room exploded.
The couch beneath Tom and Gregor detonated with a thunderous bang, tossing both men in opposite directions like rag dolls. It wasn't fire-based, the explosion was concussive, more like a shockwave packed into furniture. But the effect was devastating.
Gregor flew backwards into a set of chairs, splintering them under his weight with a grunt of pain. Tom was thrown forward, the ball flying from his grip, his body crashing into a wooden shelf on the far side of the room. Glass shattered.
Books and ornaments rained down on him. Then came the smoke, thick, gray, swirling around the room like a storm cloud.
Tom coughed hard, struggling to push himself up. His ears were ringing, and for a moment, the world spun. Pain buzzed through his back, his ribs, his shoulder, he wasn't sure which parts were bruised and which were bleeding.
He reached for his skill. Activated it instinctively.
Eye in the Dark: Active.
Nothing happened.
The room wasn't dark. It was hazy, full of smoke, but not black. Not the total absence of light his ability needed to work.
"Shit," Tom muttered, blinking rapidly, trying to focus.
He couldn't see anything. Not clearly. Shapes danced in the fog, half-formed and shifting. He could hear footsteps, feel the vibration of someone moving, fast, deliberate, retreating.