I flick the jockey-comm to public frequency. “Marrok—meet me on every holo. Meet me in every corridor. You think fifty men inside your fortress will stop me? They’ll die. Every one. And you’ll die last.”
I step back. Rain lashes through open terminal doors, spattering shards of holo-screen glass at my feet. I slip through crowds, adrenaline in my veins like wildfire.
A voice shouts from a security guard squad: “Sir—are you okay?”
I whirl around. Face masked, heart pounding. “Find me the access route to Horizon Mall. And warn every unit not to shoot civilians.”
They nod, backing away.
I vanish down tunnels.
By the time I reach the city’s underbelly, I’ve set in motion a dozen rescue paths: drone recon, armored response, comm scramblers to block their external feed. I taste static in my throat, feel heat behind my eyes.
Every second their gun presses a face against glass, every moment they shout fear into children’s ears—that’s a pulse I feel in my veins. A scream I can’t ignore.
Later, in a run-down safe room, I pace in front of holoscreens. A live feed splits into multiple angles: hallways, stairwells, hostage lines. The shadowy figures skate over glass, shuffle hostages. Through feed 3, I see her face: blood crusted, eyes wild, Caelix clutched against her chest. I swear the world tilts.
Then the feed jumps—Marrok’s face again. That red eye burning in darkness.
“Feeling the weight now, Vass? Are you panting? Ready to fold?” he says, voice mocking.
I lean into the holo. “You should have thought of this before you touched them. I will split your people open. I will burn your names from memory. You kill them—or you release them. Choice is yours.”
He laughs again. “You think you have time? Our mercs are halfway to your server arrays. Your comms will die soon. You’ll be alone. We’re already suturing the hostage corridors. By the time you get close, their blood will be ours and no one will know the difference.”
I feel fire in my gut. I lean forward. “Then I’ll be the difference.”
He sneers. “You think you’re the hero in your own saga? You’ll die playing one. Your screams will be so beautiful?—“
He tilts his head. “—that we’ll broadcast them.”
Click. Gone.
The holo flickers out.
In the dimness, screens still show tunnels flooded, corridors strobing with red emergency lights, hostages pressed in lines. I stare at Alaina’s face—then switch to Caelix’s. Then back to his face.
My fists ball. My teeth dig into my inner cheeks. Blood flows salty. My bones shake.
They think they can treat them like puppets. Like bargaining pieces.
But they don’t know me.
They don’t knowus.
They haven’t seen that this fight is personal down in the marrow of my bones.
I tear open the window in the safe room. Wind lashessalt-scented rain into my face. The night screams.
I step outside onto the balcony, claws flexing. The city’s lights shimmer under sheets of storm, traffic slogging through flooded streets. Wind tears at my clothes. Each breath tastes of salt and grit and reckoning.
I whisper to the storm:Bring it.
Because they don’t know how far I’ll go.
They don’t know how much blood I’ll spill.
They don’t knowwhothey’ve messed with.
