Chapter 102 Daily Life in Ten

The following days passed in a haze of monotony. I trained when I could, trying to refine the control over my powers, phasing through thin metal, syncing my empathy with multiple minds, and pushing the boundaries of what I could tolerate before my brain started to ache. Then, when that got old, I spent the rest of the time playing games with Bunnyblade. Or Bunny. Yeah, Bunny. “Bunnyblade” was a mouthful, and he didn’t seem to mind the nickname.

The predicted SRC raid hadn’t happened yet. I could only guess I’d have to wait longer.

The truck that had delivered our supplies was gone, too. Apparently, some internal timer triggered its departure, just started up on its own, and rolled away without a driver. Bunny was pissed when his connection to it suddenly severed, muttering a stream of complaints about how “dead tech shouldn’t ghost me like that.” I almost pitied him. Almost.

As expected of Deadend’s machines. Always built to outlive the hands that used them.

“So boring,” Onyx muttered from somewhere behind my head, her voice as vivid and impatient as ever.

Silver replied with that calm, ever-so-slightly scolding tone. “You’re so impatient.”

“I mean, we’ve been promised anarchy by the little girl—”

“You should learn to enjoy the little things and stop complaining, you know?”

I smiled faintly. They never changed.

Right now, I was sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, watching some City-State-produced sitcom on the flatscreen with my imaginary girlfriends as company. The Tenfold Keep was a miracle of convenience. To think a place buried in the middle of nowhere had a functioning cable link, or whatever passed for it, broadcasting in high definition.

The show was about two runaway kids trapped in a time loop during their vacation. Each episode ended the same way: sunrise on the same beach, the same gulls crying, the same promise to “fix things tomorrow.” Somehow, I kept watching.

At least, it was entertaining…

In my free time, I did what any self-respecting criminal with an internet connection would do: I read about myself. Well, not exactly about me, but about the group I somehow ended up tangled with: the Nth Contract. Or as the news liked to call them, the Ten.

Every major City-State outlet had something to say about them, from contract killers, war profiteers, rogue supers, and a cabal of psychopaths for hire. According to the headlines, they were a walking, breathing apocalypse wrapped in human form. Ruthless. Maniacal. A threat to civilization itself.

Contrary to popular belief, they seemed pretty sane to me. Or maybe they just left that good of an impression on me.

I scrolled through the articles anyway, one after another, tracing threads of their media presence through archived feeds and half-buried blog posts. Not much came up about Missive. She was a ghost in the digital ether. What little there was attributed her moniker to a hacker working for the Ten. The irony was that she wasn’t even remotely a hacker. Not by trade, not by hobby. I wondered if she even knew how to code.

Then came one of those “theorizing” pieces written by some self-proclaimed expert. The writer claimed the Ten currently had seven active members and were “recruiting” three more. I wasn’t on the list. Neither was Missive nor Dr. Sequence.

That didn’t surprise me. The public saw what Mrs. Mind wanted them to see.

Dullahan was in it, though. The article painted her as some rogue vigilante cape from the Faustian Continent, responsible for several terrorist acts. Lone-wolf hero turned weaponized myth. They made her sound like a legend, not the headless, sharp-tongued headless woman lounging around the pool like a bored succubus… or something.

Mrs. Mind, of course, had her own chapter of mystery. The article described her as the Ten’s “enigmatic matriarch,” supposedly the founder, possibly the one who created the team after her “disappearance.” No photographs existed. No biometric traces. Just a name that carried whispers and dread. The public knew she existed, but not how.

Ning Light had a few blurbs, mostly under assassination reports. Paleman’s, however, made my stomach twist with the articles about a cannibal serial killer who operated before joining the Ten. The details were disgusting, even for me.

Assessor, on the other hand, had apparently pissed off his old faction in the Monarchy. Double-crossed them so thoroughly that he had to beg the Ten for asylum. Sounded like him.

Thirdhand’s entry was the worst. It confirmed a rumor I’d half-dreaded was true. He was a pedophile. I stopped reading halfway through the dossier. Bunny muttered, “If I ever get a body, I’ll kill that creep myself.”

I didn’t disagree.

Then there was Lovelies. Publicly, she was a tragic figure, a once-famous actress victimized by an unjust system. The truth was uglier. She’d been the abuser, preying on younger women, weaving illusions to make them adore her, and then exploiting that trust for amusement or blackmail. I’d seen firsthand how she toyed with minds. It wasn’t acting. It was predation.

When I finally leaned back from the screen, I exhaled a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The Ten weren’t good people. Hell, they weren’t even bad in the traditional sense; they were the kind of people that broke the scale entirely. Each one had their filth, their skeletons, their stains that wouldn’t wash out.

And I was one of them now.

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The Monster of Markend: The Rise of Eclipse, the Ghost Who Walks Through Walls

By Seraphine Kael, Global Capewatch Network (GCN)

Markend City-State — Once hailed as a minor industrial hub on the southern border, Markend has become synonymous with horror after the emergence of the superhuman criminal known only as Eclipse, dubbed by authorities as The Monster of Markend.

Eyewitness accounts describe Eclipse as a man dressed in a black suit and gloves, often wearing a wide-brimmed fedora and a white porcelain mask devoid of expression. His most terrifying ability lies in his intangibility, the power to phase through solid matter, including flesh and bone. Victims found in his wake are often left mutilated in impossible ways: limbs severed, organs displaced or missing entirely, and walls painted with blood patterns that defy forensic explanation.

Investigators believe Eclipse was once Nicholas Caldwell, a high school dropout and Markend native whose name vanished from all civilian records shortly after the fall of Royal Industries, a collapse tied to the unexplained massacre of several powered individuals. Surveillance footage, though heavily distorted, captured a masked figure walking calmly through fire and debris, emerging unscathed before fading into the concrete itself.

Eclipse’s motives remain unclear. He has targeted both capes and criminals, his actions oscillating between acts of vengeance and chaotic slaughter. Some underground networks regard him as a vigilante. Others call him a terrorist, a ghost that punishes both sides of the law.

The Superhuman Regulation Committee (SRC) has issued a Level 9 global warrant for Eclipse’s capture, marking him as a “non-rehabilitative existential threat.” Despite this, no agency has successfully contained him. Every attempt to corner him ends the same way: officers found dismembered, their weapons fused into walls, and their bodies half-absorbed into the floor.

Eclipse remains at large.

And as one anonymous SRC official grimly commented, “You don’t catch the Monster of Markend. You just pray he’s not walking through your walls tonight.”

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I stared at the flickering screen of the tablet like it had just spat on me. My reflection stared back at me from the headline. The Monster of Markend. It had been up for a week already, plastered across every news aggregator that touched Cape gossip. I hadn’t even been that active. Sure, I robbed a bank with Missive, but it wasn’t like I turned the place into a charnel house. It was literally a snatch-and-grab, run through the vault, phase through some steel, scoop up as much cash as I could carry, and leave before the alarms even caught up. Fast. Clean. No theatrics.

But this? This article was a fever dream. Mauling capes? Sure, I did that. Vanishing entire squads? Yes, I’ve done something like that in the Malufan. But what the fuck was this about my name “disappearing” from public records? I wasn’t dumb enough to think the SRC would ever be kind, but erasing me completely? That was a different kind of cruelty. Gaslighting. Censorship. This was some next-level narrative control.

I scrolled down, jaw tightening. “Royal Industries… collapse… Eclipse involved.”

Royal’s gang hadn’t fallen because of me. It had fallen because Vanguard had folded every surviving cape still clinging to Royal’s corpse of an empire. But of course, the press twisted it into a ghost story about me, the shadow-boogeyman haunting Markend’s streets.

“Seriously,” I muttered under my breath. “What the fuck…”

Silver’s voice rose softly in my head, like someone gently brushing fingers along a fresh bruise. “Nick. Breathe.”

Onyx, in contrast, was laughing like she was watching a comedy special. “Monster of Markend? Kinda metal, don’t you think?”

Silver ignored her. “They’re just stories. You know the truth. Let it go.”

I stood up from the couch, fists clenched, staring at the article like it might catch fire. “Yeah, sure. Let it go. Easy for you to say.”

Then the speaker by the elevator clicked on, a cold crackle filling the lounge.

“Attention,” a voice announced from the elevator. “All members are required to be in my office. Immediately.”

It was Mrs. Mind.

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended through the core of the Keep. The walls were metallic, polished to a dull sheen that reflected faint silhouettes. I leaned back against the panel, flipping through the tablet while the rest filed in. The moment felt claustrophobic even in a space this large.

The screen glowed with the curated horror of the internet, a compilation of news clippings and think pieces about the Ten. The kind of content that got clicks through outrage.

“The Vanishing Mind: The Woman Who Erased a City.”

Authorities confirm that Mrs. Mind, the telepathic founder of the Ten, caused the sudden disappearance of over one hundred thousand citizens from the coastal metropolis of Albora. No bodies. No survivors. Satellite images show empty streets and running power. The leading theory? A psychic event on an unprecedented scale.

“Lightning Kills Again — Ning Light’s Trail of Thunder.”

From palace explosions to charred convoys, Ning Light—infamously nicknamed Lightning—has been linked to the assassinations of five state leaders and the collapse of two defense unions. Witnesses describe the smell of ozone and the sound of laughter before the strike.

“Paleman: The Ghoul in a Cape.”

The monster of the South District continues to evade authorities. Victims found stripped of flesh, with traces of regenerative tissue suggesting cannibalistic rituals. SRC sources describe him as a ‘superpowered apex predator.’

“Missive: The Hacker That Doesn’t Exist.”

Rumors of a teenage technopath leading mass cyberattacks across several City-States are likely exaggerated. Sources inside the Monarchy suggest the entity known as Missive might be an urban myth, or worse — a front for someone else entirely.

“Thirdhand and the Tainted Touch.”

Arrested three times for predatory behavior before vanishing into the underground, Thirdhand is believed to have escaped justice through a deal with the Ten. His ability to manipulate any object he has previously ‘touched’ makes him one of the most dangerous telekinetics alive.

“Doctor Sequence: Man or Monster?”

Once Dr. Clint Windsor, a decorated biologist. Now a fugitive wanted for creating ‘adaptive organisms’ from unwilling human test subjects. Survivors display erratic genetic patterns that defy modern science.

“Dullahan, the Headless Terror.”

A soldier-turned-cape who annihilated government facilities across the Faustian Continent. Destruction of critical infrastructure attributed to her has caused over ten thousand casualties. Yet, eyewitnesses describe her as... smiting beauty.

“Lovelies: The Mask of Mercy.”

Once a beloved actress and philanthropist, Lovelies’ fall from grace came after leaked recordings revealed manipulation, gaslighting, and exploitation of those under her influence. Critics now call her ‘the most dangerous narcissist alive.’

I sighed. Every article was dripping with moral outrage and sensationalism, but between the lines, truth still gleamed like a knife’s edge.

Lovelies, leaning against the elevator wall, glanced over with a smile that looked sculpted for the camera. “Wow, that’s some tough stuff you’re reading, handsome. You know most of that’s exaggerated, right?”

Dullahan’s low voice cut in from the back, metallic and calm. “But they’re still essentially true.”

I kept scrolling, not even pretending to argue. The screen reflected faintly in my face as I flicked through each piece. The rest of them didn’t really care. Most of them had read worse about themselves before, except Thirdhand.

He twitched, glaring. “Hey, fucker, can you get it off?”

Ning chuckled softly, his voice dripping with that calm predator’s ease. “Calm down, we’re all friends here.”

“Fuck off,” Thirdhand muttered, and then my tablet snapped in half mid-air. A flash of invisible force crushed it like paper, glass shards raining to the floor.

I froze, fists curling behind my back. I could feel Onyx rising inside me, itching to phase through the man’s skull and show him what his intestines looked like from the outside. Silver’s presence pressed down, calm but firm. “Not here. Not now.”

I exhaled slowly, lowering my head, letting the anger burn cold.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

I stepped out first, jaw tight beneath the mask.