The Gifted Divide

"I know there are people who believe you should forgive and forget. For the record, I'd like to say I'm a big fan of forgiveness as long as I'm given the opportunity to get even first." - Sue Grafton (V is for Vengeance)

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The morgue on the lowest level of ESA headquarters was, as always, suffocatingly cold—a cold that crept beneath skin and bone and settled somewhere deep in the chest, as though the very air carried the weight of death. Silence blanketed everything like a shroud, broken only by the occasional hum of fluorescent lights or the soft echo of footsteps against sterile tiles.

And though Misha Alescio had seen death more times than he could count, this place still managed to crawl beneath his skin.

The dead were stored here—row upon row of steel drawers, holding names that once laughed, fought, loved, and breathed, and it was here the bodies waited, unclaimed or unfinished, until they were either released to mourning families or dissected to uncover truths buried in flesh.

Misha hated coming down here.

Yet, despite the chill, despite the clinical sterility and the faint scent of disinfectant and cold metal, he would never tire of watching Louis work.

He stood just inside the entrance of the autopsy room, leaning against the tiled wall with arms crossed, the flickering light catching faintly on his dark eyes. His gaze was fixed on the lone figure in the room—Louis Krusen, Team Delta's second-in-command and his closest friend, moving with graceful efficiency around the steel table where the latest victim lay.

Misha had often asked himself, silently, and sometimes aloud, why in the name of the Goddess Louis had ever left Forensics.

The boy had practically owned the department. It was no secret that Louis was one of the most gifted minds to ever pass through ESA's doors, not only because of his sharp intellect but also because of the strange calm he brought with him into the cold presence of death.

Forensics had fought bitterly to keep him when Team Delta was first assembled. Even the Cyber Division, notoriously possessive of their own prodigies, had only let him go under the direct order of the director.

And now, here he was, sleeves rolled up, surgical gloves on, his slim frame dwarfed by the autopsy table as he worked with an eerie stillness that made the morgue feel even colder.

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Normally, an autopsy required at least two certified agents—one to assist, the other to record and operate. But Louis? He needed no one.

He had been granted solitary permission, an unheard-of privilege among even the most senior medical examiners. His precision, his instincts, and his ability to read a body like a scholar reads scripture made him an irreplaceable asset.

And still, he'd left all that behind to join Misha.

"You're looking at a minimum of two days since the time of death," Louis said, his voice calm and clinical as he scribbled methodically onto the clipboard at his side. His tone was detached, but not cold—it carried the practiced neutrality of someone who had long since learned to bury discomfort beneath observation. "If the weather hadn't been so cool lately, we'd be dealing with advanced decomposition."

Misha grimaced. He didn't need to picture it—he'd seen bodies that had baked under sun and time. The memory made bile rise to his throat even now.

"Will you be able to pull anything useful just from the body?" he asked, forcing himself to focus on the present. Technically, this homicide was under Team Alpha's jurisdiction, but that didn't dull his curiosity. Something about it itched beneath his skin.

Louis didn't look up. "You know that saying—'dead men tell no tales'? That's a lie. A body always tells a story, Misha. You just have to know how to listen."

He moved with deft precision, making an incision down the victim's torso with steady hands. "People leave traces of their lives behind in the way they die. The angle of a wound, the level of resistance, the toxins in their blood. Their bodies speak more truth in death than most ever did in life. Evidence can be planted. Stories can be twisted. But a corpse? It doesn't lie."

Misha averted his eyes, his jaw tightening. "Why did you leave Forensics?" he asked quietly, almost as if he feared breaking the stillness of the morgue. "You were damn good at it. Hell, I heard you were next in line for deputy head. You could tell the cause of death with a single glance, without even lifting a scalpel. So why?"

Louis paused, just for a heartbeat, then resumed his work. His pen scratched softly against the paper. Misha waited, thinking the question would go unanswered, as so many of his questions to Louis often did.

"There's something I'm trying to find out," Louis murmured, his gaze fixed on the open chest cavity. "That's part of it. But it wasn't the only reason."

Misha said nothing. He knew better than to push. Louis gave his answers in fragments, never under pressure. Trying to pry the truth out of him was like trying to pull water from stone—tedious, and usually pointless.

The scribbling stopped.

"…I lived too long among the dead," Louis said, barely above a whisper. "You stay in that kind of silence for too long, and eventually it starts swallowing you. You forget what it means to live. I could've stayed. But with the ESA, you don't just leave. You know how it is. You either die in the field or you get buried by the system. And people like us—Gifted, cursed, whatever we are, we don't get good endings. Not in a place like Eldario." He turned then, finally meeting Misha's gaze. "When I heard you were forming your own team, my first thought was, 'I'm not letting Misha do this alone'."

A crooked smile tugged at Misha's lips. "Idiot," he muttered. "I won't die without you at my side."

Louis gave him a look that was half fond, half exasperated—the same look he used to wear back when they were still kids in training, sneaking rations or skipping drills. "You wouldn't die, sure. But you'd probably strangle Remi by the end of the week. Maia too, if you had to hear her curse the Gifted under her breath one more time. And Coleen? Don't even pretend she hasn't tested your patience." He paused, the teasing light fading from his expression as something shifted under his hands. His brow furrowed. "Hmm."

Misha straightened. "Found something?"

Louis's voice lowered. "Yeah," he said slowly, his tone grave. He stepped back just slightly, peeling off a glove as he reached for a secondary tray.

Misha approached, now more alert. "What is it?"

Louis glanced at him, and something flickered in his dark brown eyes. "It's not just the torture, Misha. It's what's embedded in the soft tissue—symbols, etched so faintly into the skin you'd miss them without knowing what to look for. Carved by someone who knew what they were doing."

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, not after what we found in that forest. But this?" His voice dropped. "It's deliberate. Precise. Which means only one thing."

Misha's stomach dropped. Louis looked him square in the eye.

"Looks like Aegis is moving again."