MIRAGE BACKLOT – 12:04 AM
The alley reeked of piss and burnt coolant. We didn't stop moving. Noon vaulted a dumpster; I kicked a loose crate into the path of a chasing drone—it burst into sparks and curse codes. Sirens bloomed behind us, Mirage howling like a wounded animal.
Nikolai was supposed to be on comms.
He wasn't.
"Where the fuck is he?" Noon growled, eyes flicking to every shadow like they owed him money.
I tapped the jammer again, dead zone still holding. "If he bailed—"
"He didn't," Noon snapped. "He's just late. Or bleeding."
He wasn't wrong. Nikolai always showed. Cold, quiet, consistent as sunrise in hell.
We hit the lot behind the noodle shop—our ride should've been there.
It wasn't.
But a bike was.
Black. Matte. Engine humming low like it was bored of waiting.
One helmet.
Noon looked at me. "You drive like a psychopath."
I tossed him the helmet. "You trust me?"
"No," he said, strapping it on. "But I trust my aim."
We peeled out a second later—rubber screaming, air thick with burnt neon. Every turn we took felt like a loaded dice roll. And the city? It was watching. Cameras blinked. Drones buzzed overhead. Police chatter filled the scanner.
Then a voice crackled in my earpiece—low, distorted.
"You weren't supposed to make it out."
I didn't respond. Just looked back in the mirror.
Arlo.
Not chasing.
Just watching.
Like he knew something we didn't.
We took the long route—through the Narrows, past the graveyard of stolen cars and broken promises. Stashed the bike. Went underground.
⸻
SAFEHOUSE – 1:27 AM
Cement walls. One light bulb. A folding table, a burner laptop, two handguns, and a bottle of whiskey we were too sober to drink.
Noon slapped the drive onto the table.
"You still think it's just names?"
I said nothing. Plugged it in.
What popped up wasn't a list.
It was a map.
Live.
Pulsing dots across the city, red and blue. Movement. Patterns. Audio snippets. Some tagged with names—ours, Rime's crew, Luca's last known signal.
Noon leaned in. "Jesus."
"This ain't just surveillance," I said. "It's coordination. Predictive shit. Like he's running the city in third-person."
We stared at it, both realizing the same thing:
This wasn't a job.
It was war.
And we'd just opened the first shot.
SAFEHOUSE – 2:03 AM
The room felt smaller now, like the map on screen had stolen all the oxygen. Noon paced, knuckles white around the grip of his pistol. I just stared at the dots blinking like heartbeats.
One labeled "Luca"—last pinged thirty-two hours ago, Industrial Zone. Static now.
Noon finally stopped. "So what's the play?"
"Same as always," I said. "We hit back."
He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "Against Rime? Against whatever this is?" He jabbed a finger at the screen. "This isn't just drugs and bank hits anymore, man. This is digital chess with corpses for pieces."
"Then we flip the board."
Silence. Then footsteps on the stairs.
We reached for our weapons—tight, trained—but the door opened slow. No kick. No rush. Just a figure moving like smoke.
Nikolai.
Face bruised, jacket torn, blood on the collar.
He didn't speak, just tossed a phone onto the table. Screen cracked. One video queued.
I hit play.
It was Luca.
Tied to a chair. Blood dried under his nose. Left eye swollen shut.
Behind him—Arlo, smiling.
"This," Arlo said, "is your leash."
He stepped back, revealed a countdown. Four hours.
Then a GPS tag: Old Kaldwin Tower. Rooftop.
Nikolai finally spoke. "They want a trade. The drive for Luca."
I nodded slowly. "Classic setup."
"Yeah," Noon muttered. "Except one problem…"
I looked at him.
"They think we're stupid enough to make it."
⸻
KALDWIN TOWER – 5:41 AM
The sun wasn't up yet, but the city had that sickly pre-dawn glow—everything quiet, like the moment before a bullet lands. We pulled up in a stolen SUV, blacked out, parked three blocks out. Rest of the climb would be on foot.
The plan? Go in loud. But from below, not above.
Nikolai would circle from the service lift.
Noon would go roof to roof, sniper-ready.
Me? I'd walk through the front door.
Drive in hand.
A decoy one.
The real drive? Split, encrypted, bouncing through three VPNs we'd left in vending machines and dirty bathrooms across the district.
We moved.
⸻
TOWER LOBBY – 6:04 AM
Place was empty. Clean. Like nobody ever lived or died here.
Arlo was waiting at the top.
I felt him before I saw him—something in the air got heavier. Not heat. Not cold. Just wrong.
Elevator dinged.
I stepped in.
Drive in my pocket.
Gun in the other.
This was it.
Rime wanted a message?
We were about to send one. Bullet-shaped. Wrapped in static and fire.
KALDWIN TOWER – ROOFTOP – 6:13 AM
The elevator doors whispered open like they were afraid to make noise. I stepped out slow, the early light casting long shadows across the rooftop. Wind high up here. You could smell the city—ozone, exhaust, and something worse underneath.
Luca was there. Still tied to the chair. Breathing, barely.
And Arlo?
Leaning against the ledge like he owned the skyline.
"You brought it," he said, without turning.
I didn't answer. Just walked forward. Step by step, counting the cracks in the concrete.
"Funny thing about ledgers," he went on. "People think they're about money. Paper trails. Power."
He finally turned. Those pale eyes weren't human. They were deep. Hungry.
"But the best ledgers?" He smiled. "They hold sins."
I stopped ten feet away. "Let him go."
Arlo sighed. "You know how this works. Payment first."
I pulled the drive from my jacket and tossed it. It skittered across the rooftop, stopping at his feet.
He didn't even look at it. Just raised a hand—two fingers.
From behind a rooftop vent, two men stepped out. Not goons. Soldiers. Clean-cut, armored, high-caliber in hand. Rime's elite.
I heard the click of a safety behind me.
Noon.
Sniper-ready, eyes on the prize.
Arlo didn't flinch. "Snipers? Really?" He tilted his head. "You think this ends with a bullet?"
I shrugged. "No."
Then smiled.
"But it starts with one."
CRACK.
Noon's shot dropped one of the soldiers before he could blink. I went for my gun. Rolled left.
Arlo didn't even duck.
He just watched.
Like he'd seen it all before.
I fired—twice. One in the chest, one in the leg of the second guard. Nikolai burst from the stairwell behind Arlo, knife in hand, fast and silent.
Except Arlo spun before he reached him.
Blade caught flesh, sure—but Arlo's hand caught Nikolai's face.
One touch.
Nikolai hit the ground screaming.
Like his skin was remembering every bad thing he'd ever done.
I dove for Luca, untying knots with hands that shook more than I'd admit. He was out cold but breathing.
Arlo just stood there. Blood running down his side. Still smiling.
"You think this was about a drive?" he asked.
Then nodded toward the elevator.
It opened.
And there he was.
Bishop Rime.
Suit pressed. Eyes sharp. No guards. No guns.
Just walking into the storm like he ordered the weather.
"Well," he said, adjusting his cufflinks. "Let's make this interesting."