Hyde Park was eerily quiet under the pale gloom of the smoke, the trees casting long shadows across the grass. The Void Reapers had retreated here after their disastrous encounter with the Guardians, their once-confident demeanor now fractured. Michael stood at the edge of the Serpentine Lake, his fists clenched at his sides.

  Rook lumbered into the clearing, his massive frame heaving with exertion. Slung over his shoulders were Mara and Sylas, both unconscious and battered. Dexter, the group’s telekinetic, was draped awkwardly over Rook’s arm, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Rook dropped them unceremoniously onto the ground, the impact eliciting faint groans from the unconscious mercenaries.

  Michael turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. “What the hell happened out there?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re telling me you all got taken down by a bunch of kids?”

  Rook shrugged, his expression unapologetic. “Sorry boss”

  Michael’s jaw tightened, his cybernetic arm whirring as he clenched his fist. “Sorry?!. I don’t want your apologies. We’re supposed to be the best, and yet here we are, licking our wounds because a group of teenagers got the better of us.”

  He strode over to Mara, Sylas, and Dexter, his boots crunching against the gravel. With a sharp kick to Mara’s side, he growled, “Wake up and get up. Now.”

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  Mara stirred, her eyes fluttering open as she groaned in pain. “What… what happened?” she muttered, her voice weak.

  “You lost,” Michael snapped, his tone cutting. “That’s what happened.”

  Sylas groaned as he pushed himself up, his hands instinctively going to his head. “Ugh… that girl”

  Dexter was the last to wake, his telekinesis instinctively untwisting his broken arm with a sickening crack. He hissed in pain, his face pale and sweaty. “That… that hurt,” he muttered, his voice strained.

  Michael turned his back on them, his shoulders tense with frustration. “This is a disaster. Abaddon entrusted us with this mission, and we’re failing. If we don’t take those kids out, we’re as good as dead.”

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, obsidian prism. It hummed faintly with dark energy, its surface swirling with shadows that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. The others stared at it, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease.

  “What’s that?” Mara asked, her voice cautious.

  Michael didn’t answer immediately. He turned the prism over in his hands, his mind racing back to the instructions Abaddon’s henchman had given him. “When things go wrong,” the man had said, his voice cold and emotionless, “use this. Say the words: ‘Exhaurire vitam et da mihi vires.’ It will give you the power you need to finish the job.”

  Michael’s grip tightened around the prism, his resolve hardening. He couldn’t afford to fail. Not again.

  “We’re not losing to them,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

  The others exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to argue. Michael’s tone left no room for debate. He turned to face them, “Get up,” he ordered. “We’re not done yet.”