CHAPTER 131: Armament-2

CHAPTER 131: Armament-2

He entered the armory of Enid Corp like someone returning home after an endless night: measured steps, held breath, his tie still slightly crooked. The fluorescent lights illuminated rows of packaged weapons, display cases with components, and worktables with tools that smelled of oil and hot metal.

At the back, leaning against a table, was Tom. Nearly sixty years old—his forehead lined with wrinkles, his hair already gray—but with lively eyes and that calm of someone who has spent half his life fixing things others break. Seeing him, Tom smiled with that mix of affection and pride only true friends have.

"Look who it is," he said, standing up and extending his hand. "If it isn't the man in the black jacket. Did they leave you enough dough to spend on toys, or are we back to the usual relics?"

Phoenix returned the smile, more weary than happy, and shook his hand firmly. There was trust between them; a brotherhood forged in missions and nights on watch.

"Tom," he replied. "Do you have what I asked for?"

Tom gave a little theatrical bow and, carefully, opened a padded case. Inside, covered by a black cloth, rested the Matilda Mk II: compact, elegant, with more modern lines than the pistol Phoenix had carried for so many years. It had a matte finish, subtle grooves in the frame for a better grip, and a slightly tapered barrel denoting high-precision work. It was, at first glance, a piece combining ergonomics and lethality.

Tom let Phoenix touch it. The old man's gesture was almost paternal.

"She's a beauty," Tom murmured. "Designed by Enid's projectile team, limited production, millimeter tolerances. Built to withstand heavy use without losing accuracy. And the best part: we've adapted it for the special rounds you requested."

Phoenix held it. The weight felt familiar and different at the same time: an extension of his body, but more contained, more "professional."

"What do those bullets carry?" he asked, fixing his gaze on Tom.

Tom closed the case softly, like someone guarding a secret, and in a lower voice, explained:

"They're not ordinary ammunition. They're exclusive rounds, very expensive to manufacture: a core with a silver nitrate compound and a pharmacological matrix that allows the compound to enter the bloodstream upon penetration. We don't call them 'bullets' out loud in the lab; we call them 'clinical silver.' They act by interfering with the regenerative capacity of affected subjects—slows their healing and causes progressive systemic failure. It's not instantaneous, but for a lab-made wolf or vampire, it's lethal."

Tom let the idea settle, gauging Phoenix's reaction.

"They're expensive," he insisted. "Made under controlled conditions, with micro-filtration and a seal on each cartridge. Each one is worth what it costs to keep a team in the field for a whole week. That's why I'm giving you twenty-four. Twenty-four chances. Take care of them like they're the last things you have."

Phoenix nodded, his expression dry. Tom handed him the already loaded magazine and a metal box with the 24 bullets, numbered. The cold of the metal traveled up his palm.

"Twenty-four?" he repeated, not without a hint of irony. "Good. I won't waste them."

Tom gave him a slap on the shoulder, almost a hug.

"No, don't. And keep it clean. Maintain it every time you return from an outing. And if they ask you to hand it over… think twice before obeying. Those bullets aren't easily replaced."

Before putting it away, his gaze settled on a detail: a fine engraving on the grip, almost like a dedication.

"What does it say?" he asked, touching the inscription with his index finger.

Tom leaned closer and read it aloud softly, like someone pronouncing a sentence given to someone.

"‘FOR THOSE WHO DIDN'T RETURN,’" he said. "Miss Enid insisted on putting it there."

Phoenix let the words rest in the air. They were few letters, but each carried a weight. Upon hearing that Enid had requested that engraving, something tightened in his stomach: not just a tool, not just a weapon; a reminder. Tom, as always, added his final advice in a grave voice:

"She wanted you to have it. Said you needed it. And if Enid wanted it… you'd better use it wisely."

Phoenix closed the case with a meticulous click. The bullets rattled inside the metal box, discreet and dangerous, and the Matilda clung to his side like a silent promise. He left the armory with Tom calling after him, now in a lighter tone:

"Come back with stories, not in pieces. Understood, kid?"

"Understood," Phoenix replied, and for the first time in hours, his step had a clear direction.

He left the armory with the Matilda comfortably hidden in his jacket's inner holster and the box of bullets pressed against his side. As he turned into the main hallway of Enid Corp, a cheerful voice surprised him.

"Hey!" Marcus shouted, approaching with quick steps. "Look who decided to get up!"

Lucian and Vanessa were behind him, smiling. The three of them stood before him like a small, improvised welcome committee. The cold light of the hallway gave them a less harsh appearance than in the tunnel; for a moment, everything was borrowed normality.

"Welcome to the world of those who still walk," Lucian joked, with that half-smile he always wore. "I thought you wouldn't recover anymore."

Phoenix returned their smiles, his tie still somewhat crooked, his hands still stiff with tension, but standing. There was a hint of relief in his eyes seeing them alive.

"Thanks," he said. "That wasn't the plan just yet."

Marcus took a step closer.

"Those scars suit you," he blurted out, curious and sincere. "They give you character. Don't worry, they look better with time."

Vanessa rolled her eyes with false toughness and added:
"Leave him alone, Marcus. Don't ask anyone if their scars suit them. It's weird."