Ibris Mansa sat in the underground levels of an ancient facility in Underworld City, recently repurposed for his work—a necessity given his need to keep a low profile. While it lacked the sleek glamour of the Clinic's research floors, Ibris had poured significant resources into making it comfortable and functional. Access was granted only to a select few confidants who assisted him with his ongoing work involving halfbreed medical care and protection.

Today, he was reviewing alarming crime reports about a halfbreed body that had been found in the District 69, mutilated and butchered as if for parts. It was the fifth case in the past two months in the city. Pulling out his military-grade tablet, he projected the reports overhead as holograms, meticulously comparing the details.

The dim light caught his reddish-brown bull horns, their smooth, curved edges gleaming softly. His almost black, straight hair, longer than he liked and now falling past his ears, brushed against his cheek as he leaned forward, the shadow of his horns falling over the holograms. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, irritated by how it curled at the ends, and rubbed his jaw, feeling the rough stubble he hadn't had time to shave.

Everything else could wait, his focus was on the mutilations—disturbingly precise, deliberate. This was the work of experimentation, and it had to be stopped immediately.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ibris noticed Dr. Alana Dubay waddle past in a white lab coat, her pregnant belly leading the way. Her dark hair was tied back in a low ponytail, and her piercing blue eyes looked exhausted. Frustration etched into her features as she slammed her tablet onto the lab counter, letting out an irritated grunt. She'd been running the centrifuge all day, and every sample had resulted in a compromised result.

Dr. Dubay was one of Ibris' oldest employees, a trusted confidant, and now a business partner at the Clinic—a hospital with multiple locations throughout the Underworld dedicated to halfbreed care. The Clinic was one of a kind in Atlantis, a sanctuary where halfbreeds from across the continent came to receive the specialized treatment they couldn't get anywhere else.

Ibris hesitated, not wanting to overstep. Dr. Dubay's hormonal reactions were... unpredictable these days. But against his better judgment, he stepped into her lab. "What's wrong?"

Instead of responding, Dr. Dubay tapped her temple, activating her cerebral bridge, and began gesturing to review the data again. "All the DNA samples are corrupted," she said sharply. "Either the staff who brought them in last night didn't handle them properly, or this centrifuge's spin is off."

"Show me," he said, picking up a test tube from the centrifuge and holding it up to his sharp brown eyes.

She tapped her cerebral bridge and gestured towards him. "Oh, right. You don't wear one of these," she sighed. "Life would be so much easier if you did."

Ibris crossed his arms and frowned. He refused to wear a cerebral bridge, not even one programmed for privacy and anonymity—he did not trust the public mandate.

With another exaggerated sigh, she gestured again, this time projecting a hologram outward from the cerebral bridge so he could view it without needing a device.

"They're samples of dolphin halfbreed DNA from the Monika City crime scene," Dr. Dubay explained.

"Maybe they was improperly stored." Ibris conjectured out loud. "Sea halfbreeds cells don't store and process the same as the rest of us."

"You don't need to teach me halfbreed cell biology, Ibris." Dr. Dubay banged her tablet against the counter, her frustration boiling over. Then she walked to the freezer to examine the storage of the remaining samples.

Okay, okay. Don't break things, he thought, but didn't say aloud.

She grunted, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Maybe storage was the problem," she admitted, quietly.

"We can request more samples... What's really wrong?" Ibris asked, bracing himself for the inevitable chewing out.

"Ugh, nothing," she muttered, exhaling heavily. "This pregnancy has been harder than I thought. And Nemo thought now was the perfect time to travel to Mutapu for work."

Ibris nodded, clenching his teeth. Nemo. To his dismay, Dr. Dubay had met her match two years ago while traveling—a brilliant archaeologist named Nemo Kaldu. Within six months, the two were married. Nemo had recently been awarded a prestigious grant to research a new dig site in Mutapu, funded by the country's top university.

Her voice broke through his thoughts. "He's halfway around the world chasing artifacts while I'm over here chasing corrupted DNA samples and dealing with this," she said, gesturing at her belly.

Ibris forced a smile, but the pang of jealousy gnawed at him. He'd always had a soft spot for Dr. Dubay—she reminded him so much of Serene. Yet, he had never dared to voice those feelings. Their professional and personal relationship meant far too much to him to risk.

Ibris knew the baby wasn't due for another three months. "He'll be back before the month's over. It's going to be okay, Alana," he said, placing a friendly hand on her shoulder. "You're a great doctor, and you're going to be an even better mother."

Her body relaxed slightly. "How's it going with those reports?"

"They're all too similar to be a coincidence," he replied.

Her expression tightened with stress at the implications.

Wanting to shift the mood, Ibris said, "Listen, I'll handle all this today. Go home, put your feet up, and watch recaps of all the sky god galas and balls. You know, how they blow their wealth on meaningless showmanship."

She raised an eyebrow. "You've been watching that?"

"Not a chance," he laughed. "But I figured it might take your mind off everything."

"How do you feel about Marcus' brother coming into that kind of power?" she asked. She hadn't mentioned Marcus' name in years—not since everything had fallen apart between them five years ago.

During that mission to the lawless Western Lands of Atlantis, a barren desert, they joined forces to save their mutual friend, Esa. In a blood-soaked gladiator arena, Marcus had deceived Ibris and vanished, taking an ancient sentient android with him. The fallout from that day had been devastating. Two sky gods were killed during the chaos, and their deaths—along with the deaths of countless humans and halfbreeds in the arena—were pinned on Ibris.

"The Sumeris are technically outsiders on those islands," Ibris said, pensively. "So, I suppose it is a big change from custom." But he was downplaying how true that really was. Ibris had once served as an acolyte in the Grand Citadel and knew firsthand the second-class treatment the Sumeris endured on the floating islands.

"Marcellius Sumeri coming to power is going to bring a lot of change to Atlantis," Dr. Dubay agreed. She hesitated, then quickly added, "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring Marcus up. I know he's not to be trusted."

Her words echoed what Ibris had told her countless times over the past five years: "Marcus Sumeri is dead to me."

Ibris hesitated, unsure if he should tell her about Jenna Ashpari's call. "Marcus contacted me recently," he said, pursing his lips.

She paused. "How? How did he get in touch with you?"

They both knew what it meant for Ibris to receive such a message. He was a wanted man, officially presumed dead after faking his own death years ago—a deception the authorities had never fully believed. Since then, Ibris had lived in the shadows, operating his network of businesses, now for legal purposes owned by others.

"Jenna Ashpari."

"Oh," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you two were still speaking."

"We weren't," he muttered.

Ibris and Jenna had been close friends for decades. She had been an invaluable resources for his battalion during the Nori Civil War, and they had worked closely afterward to establish initiatives aimed at rehabilitating halfbreeds displaced by the conflict. But in recent years, Jenna's path had diverged sharply from his.

Now a famous musician, Jenna had begun launching a series of clubs in the Underworld. When one of those clubs became entangled in gang activity and was shut down by authorities, she turned to Donettello Jose Cavialli for help—or Don as he was known in the Underworld—despite Ibris' many pleas to stay away from him.

"He's not to be trusted, Jenna," Ibris had warned repeatedly, but she hadn't listened. He knew Don's methods all too well—years ago, he had lost ownership of his own research facilities in a shady deal with the man. Don's influence was insidious, but he also provided Ibris with resources. Don was an evil Ibris tolerated out of necessity.

After helping Jenna reopen her club, Don convinced her to accept his financial backing in all her businesses, gaining significant control over her establishments. As Ibris has predicted, Jenna lost control of her businesses, and the clubs became mired in dark activity—whispers of abuse against women and halfbreeds and illicit drug dealings that Jenna was powerless to stop.

Disappointed, Ibris had distanced himself from her. Jenna, unwilling to admit her mistake, had effectively cut him out of her life.

"What does Marcus want?" Dr. Dubay asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Use of my resources in the North and South."

"Typical. Do you trust him?"

"No," Ibris replied with a slight laugh. "But the information Jenna sent over has been... disconcerting, and perhaps," he paused, "Marcus might be able to help us with the recent crime reports."

Dr. Dubay was visibly angry again.

Ibris braced himself again.

"What Marcus should really do is get you clemency for all the charges against you. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't—"

Ibris cut her off with a shake of his head. "It's all too complicated for that now."

"Well, Ibris, you've got your hands full," Dr. Dubay sighed, her anger softening to understanding. "I'm going to take you up on that offer and head home." She paused, giving him with a pointed look. "Maybe you should call it a night too."

Ibris smiled faintly, as she turned to leave, her exhaustion evident in the way she waddled out of the lab.

Moments later, Ibris' tablet buzzed with a message. It was one of his security team members. "Just got word a woman's asking for 'Manu' at Etur Tea House. Their guy says she's not from the Underworld from the looks of it. He said he'd seen you with her before."

Ibris shook his head and rubbed his temple. "Julaya," he muttered under his breath.

Without hesitation, he headed to the parking bay and climbed into his self-driving transport. He slid on his DarkShades. They were high tech glasses designed, for those who could afford them, to block out the overwhelming holographic advertisements cluttering the Underworld. As the transport began to move, he let out a sigh. Why did you come back, Julaya?

The polished black self-driving vehicle glided through the underground tunnel of the facility before emerging onto the neon-lit streets of the Underworld, its quiet rumble blending seamlessly with the ambient buzz of the city. It navigated effortlessly toward the tea house.

The Etur Tea House was an exclusive establishment, its clientele the powerful and dangerous of the Underworld. Humans and halfbreeds in tailored suits and elegant dresses, with concealed weapons, sat at low tables, their sharp eyes scanning the room between hushed conversations that were far removed from just tea. Sleek, insect-like androids moved silently, serving delicate porcelain cups, steaming teapots, and plates of artfully arranged food—dumplings, rice cakes, and bowls of fragrant soup. In the dimmer corners, some patrons nursed amber-hued ambrosia, a coveted house specialty crafted from rare fermented rice.

Despite its shadowy patrons, the tea house was one of the most prestigious in the Underworld, seamlessly blending the traditional tea-drinking art of Southern Atlantis with the neon-lit, fast-paced life of the subterranean city. Wooden beams, darkened with age, framed the building's exterior, while soft lantern light spilled onto the metallic walkways outside. Inside, holographic koi fish swam across the walls, their glowing forms casting ripples of light over tatami-style seating and low, polished tables. Steam curled gracefully from teapots set on embedded heating panels, and faint traditional melodies floated through unseen speakers.

As Ibris stepped into the tea house, a mirror on the wall to his left caught his attention. He paused, removing his DarkShades and pocketing them before smoothing his disheveled long hair. Straightening his creased slacks and adjusting his relaxed-fit dark silk button-down shirt, he took a moment to collect himself. The day had been a relentless shuffle between meetings and the lab, leaving little time to glance at a mirror.

He sighed and walked in.

The tea house immediately grew quieter. Ibris noticed as several of his men, seated either privately or for work, straightened at the sight of him.

Without a word, he walked straight to the ambrosia bar, where the bartender Timu stood, polishing a glass with a towel.

"Ibris," Timu said, nodding respectfully. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Ibris shook his head, pursing his lips. "Where is she?"

"I'm glad you're here," Timu whispered. "She was drunk—belligerent. If I hadn't recognized her, security might have..." He hesitated and then whispered, "taken care of her."

Ibris clenched his fist. Julaya.

Timu slid a cerebral bridge across the bar toward Ibris. "She left this here. I tried to keep her around, but she's a piece of work, that one," Timu said with a shake of his head. "She went into the ladies' room—or maybe..." He paused, touching his own cerebral bridge to check the security feed. His face paled. "Oh shit. She's in the back alley—"

Before Timu could finish, Ibris' instincts kicked in. He vaulted over the bar and sprinted through the kitchen, bursting out into the alley behind the tea house.

Then he saw her, Julaya, trapped at the dead end of the alleyway.

Three street thugs had cornered her. She lay curled on the ground in a fetal position, her off-white dress torn and streaked with dirt. Her high heels were askew, and her tousled brown hair spread across the filthy street around her pale face. A sleek purse dangled, its strap still tied to her wrist.

"What's a little rich bitch doing down here?" sneered the leader, a wiry man missing teeth. Behind him, two others loomed, their grins predatory.

Julaya groaned, her speech slurred but defiant. "Fuck you, asshole," she spat.

The leader responded with a swift kick to her thigh, making her wince.

"What do you want?" she asked, trembling. "I have credits."

"Your glasses first," he sneered, yanking the sleek DarkShades from her face and slipping them on. A twisted grin spread across his face. "Ah, that's some rich relief."

"Grab her bag!" barked one of the others, and the third thug began kicking her in the back.

Before the thug could land another kick, Ibris stepped in, fluid and controlled. He grabbed the leader by the collar, spinning him effortlessly before driving a sharp, focused punch to his jaw. The man crumpled to the ground. The second thug froze, then let out a panicked scream and fled. The last one barely had time to react before Ibris pivoted smoothly, delivering a roundhouse kick with trained precision. His heel connected with the thug's temple, a sharp crack echoing as the man collapsed, unconscious, to the ground.

Ibris grabbed the first man by the collar, lifting him effortlessly until his feet dangled in the air. At six feet tall, Ibris towered over the sickly man, his strength undeniable.

"Ava Nori, please let me go," the man begged, trembling.

Ibris leaned in close, his horns pressing against the man's face, drawing thin lines of blood. "If I ever see you in these parts again, that day will be your last."

He released his grip, and the man stumbled away, running as fast as he could muster.

"Julaya," Ibris murmured, his tone softening as he knelt beside her. He lifted her into his arms with care.   "You should not have come back here."

"Manu... you came," she whispered weakly, her lips curling into a faint smile before she passed out.

***

Nearly thirty-six hours had passed. Ibris sat in the corner of a critical care room in the Clinic's original building, nursing a cup of red-leaf Alemurian tea, his thoughts heavy. After finding Julaya in the back alley of the Etur Tea House, he had brought her here for immediate care.

This morning, two of his best healers and a doctor hovered over her, murmuring urgently.

One healer was named Gofer, a mouse halfbreed with short stature and thin, grey fur covering his body. His thick, round glasses made his already large eyes appear almost comical. Beside him stood Saratoga, a human healer with dark skin and a shaved head. She wore long, colorful robes that added a sense of grace to her no-nonsense demeanor. The third was Dr. Jay Barsh, a doctor in his early thirties with dark eyes, neatly trimmed black hair, honey skin, and a kind face. Dr. Barsh had joined the Clinic through a research connection with Dr. Dubay, eager to learn everything about halfbreed and part breed care.

"This is bad. Very bad," Gober said, glancing nervously at the others.

"Given the physical damage and the alcohol levels in her blood, this is insane," Saratoga added grimly. "We don't have a choice."

But it wasn't just Julaya's injuries that concerned them. The news Ibris had received upon their arrival had sent him spiraling—Julaya was just under three months pregnant.

That revelation dragged him to a dark place he hadn't visited in years—a place haunted by the memory of his dead wife, Serene, and the child they had lost during childbirth. The pull to indulge in ambrosia like he used was almost overwhelming, but he resisted, gripping his tea tightly instead.

Despite their efforts overnight, the team hadn't delivered any better updates. Julaya remained in critical condition, her injuries and the strain on her unborn child a precarious balance.

Julaya stirred and whispered. "Manu." It was the name he had given her when they first met four months ago. He never shared his real name with strangers now—for safety and anonymity given his new criminal status.

He immediately stepped forward, taking a seat at her bedside. "Julaya, how are you feeling?" he asked.

"Why haven't you taken my calls?" she demanded, in tears. "I've been calling you for weeks."

Ibris bit his lip nervously. Now is not the time.

"Why don't you love me?" she continued, trembling, her words cutting through the room.

Everyone turned to Ibris.

He blushed and shifted uncomfortably.

"You're high on pain killers," he said softly. He fussed with her blankets, tucking them around her with care. "Rest," he murmured, turning away as he bit his lip again, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

Julaya winced in pain as she tried to sit up, clutching her stomach. "Fuck! Why does everything hurt?" she asked weakly. "And why was I on anesthetics?"

After Ibris had stopped seeing her a month ago, he had discovered a great deal about Julaya's background. He had learned, for one, that she was a biomedical research scientist, a very good one. He could see her mind was already working overtime, despite her physical state. He could see her trying to piece together fragments, considering every detail.

"You underwent surgery last night," Dr. Barsh began hesitantly. "You experienced blunt trauma to your lower back, which caused minor hemorrhaging and placed significant strain on your spleen and kidneys. We had to repair damaged blood vessels and lymphatic pathways to restore proper circulation and drainage in your body. Currently, your reproductive system is in a hyperactive state due to hormonal activity, which is inhibiting the natural healing process for those organs until—"

"Ava Nori! Surgery?" Her brow furrowed in confusion. "My injuries couldn't have been that bad. I guess I was drunk, so I don't really remember—"

At the mention of "drunk," Gofer flinched, his large eyes blinking nervously. "Miss," he said timidly, "you're pregnant. You really shouldn't be drinking in your condition."

"What?" Julaya gasped, her breaths came short and sharp as panic took over. "What did you say?"

Gofer hesitated, then began repeating himself. "You really shouldn't be drinking in your condition—"

"Pregnant," Julaya whispered, trembling as the meaning of the word sank in.

Ibris realized in that moment that she had no idea she was carrying a child.

"Julaya, I need you to breathe," Saratoga said, firmly, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"Is the baby okay?" Julaya asked, visibly stunned, considering the facts.

Saratoga took a deep breathe and looked down before replying. "We need to induce labor, so your organs can heal."

Julaya froze, her world screeching to a halt. "What? It's too soon."

Saratoga cleared her throat. "But your life is in danger."

"You're telling me I'm pregnant, and in the same breath, you're asking if you can kill the baby?" Her voice cracked, trembling with disbelief as a sacred rage began to rise within her. Her breaths grew shallow and rapid, her chest heaving as she began to hyperventilate.

"We're trying to help you," Saratoga said softly, holding onto Julaya's trembling hand.

"Help me?" Julaya snapped, sharply shaking off Saratoga's hand.

"What's happening to you isn't normal," Saratoga said, carefully, glancing at Ibris. "Julaya, who is the father?"

Ibris held his breath as he waited for Julaya's answer.

"What? Why does that matter?" Julaya turned to Saratoga, uneasy under the scrutiny.

She shifted uncomfortably, leaning away from Saratoga. "I've only been with one man in the past four months." Her gaze flickered toward Ibris.

Ibris stared at her, stunned.

Saratoga nodded knowingly. "That's what I was afraid of. Halfbreed babies cause human mothers significant health complications, even under perfect circumstances. And right now," she glanced around the room, "we're far from perfect."

Julaya sank back onto her pillow, staring at the ceiling. Tears slid silently from the corners of her eyes.

Ibris glanced from Saratoga to Julaya, then down at his tea. His inner voice screamed at him, guilt gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He couldn't believe he had put another woman's life at risk.

"Just breathe, darling," Saratoga said, softly.

"There has to be another way," Julaya said, with desperation.

"I hear you're a scientist," Saratoga replied.

Julaya shot Ibris a sharp, knowing look. When she had met him at the tea house four months ago, she had claimed to be a journalist researching STIM developments in the Underworld, saying she wanted to uncover what Donetllo Jose Cavialli was really doing in his Underworld labs. Only recently had Ibris discovered she had lied.

"Did they teach you about halfbreed physiology in those big universities of yours?"

"No," Julaya replied, wincing. "That wasn't my area."

"What about human mothers carrying halfbreed babies?"

"I'm not in the mood for a quiz," Julaya snapped. "Just tell me what my options are."

"There are no options," Saratoga said bluntly. "You've already come dangerously close to major organ failure in the past twenty-four hours. This pregnancy, if it even holds—or if you don't die trying to carry it to term—is going to be massively complicated." She turned to Ibris, her expression demanding. "Ibris, talk some sense into her."

"Who is Ibris?" Julaya asked, her eyes darting as though searching her memory. A flicker of realization crossed her face, as if piecing together a puzzle.

Ibris stayed silent.

Julaya's eyes widened as the realization set in, and she stared at Ibris.

"Julaya," Dr. Barsh interrupted her thoughts, "we need your consent to act quickly."

"Manu, I'm not going to kill this child," Julaya said, trembling. "Tell them to find another way!" she screamed, placing both hands protectively over her womb.

Dr. Barsh pursed his lips and looked to Ibris.

Ibris finally spoke, quietly. "Julaya, most halfbreeds are made, not born. When a human woman carries a halfbreed fetus, very few survive the birth." Serene's face flashed in his mind.

"But I've heard of human mothers successfully giving birth to halfbreed children," Julaya said, her tone defiant despite her pain. "There's a famous dancer—Mona something. Her father was a halfbreed, right?"

"Mona Felixo," Dr. Barsh chimed in, as he tried to diffuse the tension. "Yes, but births like that are rare exceptions," he added, glancing at his tablet to review Julaya's records. He hesitated, as he briefly glanced at Ibris. "With Ibris' history, we know that his wife—"

Julaya's voice hitched. "You're married?"

Ibris closed his eyes briefly, then met her gaze. "I was. She died seven years ago... during childbirth."

Before Julaya could respond, she began convulsing, foam forming at the corners of her mouth as she collapsed back into the bed.

"Do it," Ibris said to Saratoga and Dr. Barsh, his lips pressed into a tight line. Without another word, he turned and left the room, unable to bear the sight any longer.

Behind him, several staff members rushed in, their faces taut with focus as they prepared to induce labor on an early-term halfbreed—a perilous procedure where the mother's survival was a rare outcome.

Outside, Ibris found Dr. Dubay in the hallway, her expression sharp with anger as she examined a tablet. She rested a hand on her pregnant stomach, her frustration evident.

"What have you done, Ibris?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

"I didn't do any—"

"This woman is in grave danger," Dr. Dubay cut him off. "I don't know if we can save her."

"We'd better, Alana," he said through clenched teeth. "She's Don's little sister."

Dr. Dubay froze, then pressed a hand to her forehead in exasperation. "Ava Nori, why are you involved with Don's sister?"

"I'm not," Ibris protested. "We've met just a few times over the past four months."

"That's all it takes, Ibris." Dr. Dubay shook her head.

"I only found out a few weeks ago who she was. Since then, I've been trying to keep my distance, but she showed up at the Etur Tea House yesterday, looking for me."

"How did you meet in the first place? Isn't she some Bahyan City heiress?" Dr. Dubay asked, raising an eyebrow.

"She told me she was a reporter," Ibris shrugged. "We were just having fun."

"And you didn't bother checking on background because... she's beautiful," Dr. Dubay shook her head, disappointed. "Men."

Ibris shook his head in exasperation.

"Does she know who you are?"

"I'm not sure." He said, pursuing his lips.

"Ava Nori," Dr. Dubay said as she waddled into the room, leaving Ibris with his racing thoughts. Behind him, staff members bustled around the critical care room, preparing Julaya for surgery.