April 24, 2021. 19:28. Richmond. 6 days left till Italy.
Lights are blaring, crowds are screaming, and staff are scrambling.
I stand there, baffled at what I'm seeing.
This is incredible.
Somehow, we actually pulled this off in two days.
Ironwood's cracked pavement vibrates with bass, neon rippling across the lot as portable rigs flare to life—speakers hauled from vans, LED panels lashed to scaffolds, wires crawling across the asphalt like veins.
It started as clusters—hardcore fans in hoodies, eager kids with glow bracelets, and curious locals willing to risk it. Then the trickle became a flood. Dozens became hundreds. Now we're pushing past a thousand voices.
I've got to hand it to Remi. He did his job—and so did his people.
The concert itself had been positioned strategically by Mister and Remi, close enough to keep the Melders on edge but not to block our planned exit through the sewers to Tetra's boat.
What's even more impressive is the fact that the VPD showed up.
A few cruisers idle on the fringes, lights muted, officers posted at intersections to keep the whole thing from spilling into the streets. Chief Woods can't be happy, but with manpower this thin, the cops are more for traffic control than actual authority. And around them, I spot other mercs and edgerunners—freelancers working security, vigilantes keeping their own code, anyone with the firepower to make sure Richmond doesn't implode tonight.
I bite my lip; a flicker of guilt tugs at me.
Mayor Gestalt is probably feeling the weight too.We're literally part of the reason why Vancouver looks like it's about to boil over. But he's too deep into his campaign—debates, speeches, promises to keep the city "stable." And with the VPD stretched thin, there's only so much he can do.
And it's not like he can conjure more officers out of thin air. The city's stretched thin as it is.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to consider things from a more practical angle. Whatever pressure we're putting on Gestalt, he can't fix this mess right now—even if he wanted to.
And Azure? I still don't know what to make of her. But right now, she's not my concern. Not with this circus exploding in front of me.
Out of habit, I pull out my phone and scroll. I don't keep up with the music scene. Even so, it's insane to see Remi's face plastered everywhere. Trending threads. Public group chats. He's even splashed across the homepage.
"Remi live in Richmond!!"
"Street show!! Dead Kings in the lot!!"
Some are already calling it the biggest surprise event Vancouver's seen in months. And honestly? It's hard to argue.
All along the street, the crowd churns like a storm—diehard fans packed shoulder to shoulder, drunk partiers spilling beer, thrill-seekers craning for a glimpse of chaos, all while cops hover at the fringes.
The Melders don't lift a finger—not yet, anyway—but their stares are sharp enough to cut. Chrome heads snap toward the mob, optics whirring, fingers twitching near embedded triggers. And they're not just glaring at Remi—they're glaring at the Dead Kings manning the barricades.
Which is fair enough. We didn't exactly ask permission to throw a concert in spitting distance of their turf. If this were their real HQ, this would've already ended in blood. But here, this stretch of Richmond still passes as "neutral ground."
Even tucked off to the side of the stage—away from the main crowd but overlooking the plaza with a mix of onlookers and Dead Kings—I can hear the crowd shouting, with Tetra standing close by at my side.
I tug at the hem of my dress—black silk that clings in all the right places, leaving my back, chest, and legs bare in just the right measure. Strappy heels catch the light, while a silver chain at my ankle and a pendant at my throat flash with each shift of my weight. A holster hugs my thigh, concealed beneath the smooth fabric, while a backup piece rests in my matching designer purse.
My makeup's heavier than usual: smoky eyes cut sharp with wings, fake lashes curling long and dramatic, lips glossed to perfection, foundation locked in place. A wig frames my face—platinum blonde, cut in loose waves that shimmer under the lights. To anyone out here, I'm not Artemis the merc. I'm just another nightlife girl in Vancouver, an ABG silhouette come alive.
I've never been one for clubbing or late nights, but I've always loved eye-catching outfits. So yeah, I'll flaunt this side of my wardrobe when the job demands it.
Still, I can't help the restless tap of my foot. Most of my gear had to stay behind, and I hate it. All I can do now is wait for Mister to link up before we head into Benny's base. I glance at Remi and his entourage, silently hoping the showmanship can hold the fort while I'm inside.
"Holy shit," Tetra mutters, scanning the sea of people. "There's gotta be… what, two thousand? Maybe more?"
"Closer to three," I whisper back. The press of bodies makes it impossible to tell where the fans end and the opportunists begin. "At least for now. I'm not sure what it'll look like later."
As we talk, I scan the street. The cops haven't moved in yet, but they're there—a row of cruisers idling half a block away, lights muted, officers posted at intersections like they're waiting for the word.
I lean closer to Tetra. "Boat's ready, right?"
"Yeah, they arrived a few minutes ago." He nods, thumbs hovering over his phone. "I'll text the group chat right now."
"Nice." I glance at him, catching the nervous twitch in his hands. "First time doing something like this?"
He lets out a short laugh, eyes wide. "Are you serious? What do you think?"
I smirk. "Relax. It'll be fine. Just work with the Dead Kings in the back and help Remi if he needs it. No one's gonna care who you are when the crowd's screaming loud enough."
That gets a chuckle out of him, the nerves easing just a notch.
Before either of us can say more, movement stirs near the barricades. Kane and Ryker peel out from the side staging area, making their way toward us, waving like we're old friends. I return the gesture with a faint smile. They push through the fringe of the crowd and join us, while the rest of the Dead Kings hold their line—corralling the mob before it tips over.
Ryker's the first to speak, bumping fists with Tetra. "Ayo, saw you before with the others. What's up, man?"
Kane follows, fist-bumping too, though his eyes flick briefly toward me—lingering just long enough to be noticed. "Wassup?" He tries to play it cool, but the curiosity in his glance gives him away.
I raise an eyebrow, amused. "Nothin' much. You?"
That one word stops them both cold. They blink, gears turning. Then it clicks.
Kane blurts it first. "Wait… Lily? Shit, you look… uh, great."
"Hot damn." Ryker's eyes widen, head shaking slowly with disbelief. "I straight up didn't even recognise you. Good shit."
I smile faintly, satisfied. "Good."
We fall into an easy rhythm after that—small talk layered over the bass rattling the pavement.
"Wait, so… what are you guys even doing tonight?" Ryker asks, raising his voice over the noise. "Blake said you're going into the Melders' HQ or something?"
Kane chimes in, squinting. "Yeah, all he told us was that we're putting on a show while the rest of you do some kinda deal. So, what's the play? You good to go too?"
"Yeah. I'm good, thanks for asking." I nod. "And… well…" I glance back towards the plaza. "As for me, I'll be sticking with Mister. We're going inside to get more info on what the Melders are actually doing with the SynthCoke."
"I'll be helping you guys too," Tetra adds quickly. "Helping out with the stage and all that. Keeping things smooth while—uh, Lily—handles her part."
Both Dead Kings nod. Kane cracks a grin. "Boys are already going crazy. You should see 'em. There's probably gonna be a party after this—y'know, in proper Dead Kings fashion."
Tetra glances at me. "Huh… You wanna go?"
I purse my lips, considering, then shrug. "Eh. I'll think about it."
Ryker grins wide. "Fair enough. Just don't pull out on us too quick."
The roar of the crowd crests again, louder than before.
People stomp the cracked pavement, waving their arms, chanting Remi's name like he's already halfway through a set.
But the mic's still untouched—he hasn't even started yet.
Tetra whistles low. "Man, listen to that. He hasn't dropped a single line yet, and the crowd's already losing their minds."
Ryker chuckles, shaking his head. "Yeah, homeboy's got range. Flow's fire when he actually locks in. You'll see."
I cross my arms, arching a brow. "Funny. I've worked with him all this time, and I've never actually heard him sing or rap."
Kane gives me a quick nod, shoulders lifting. "If you weren't going in with Mister tonight, you'd find out real soon."
I smirk faintly. "Yeah, probably. Guess I'll have to take your word for it. We're on a time limit, after all."
Still… I won't lie—part of me is curious.
The conversation shifts when Ryker throws Tetra a playful elbow. "Yo, by the way, Vancouver treating you good, man? Or you missing home cooking already?"
Tetra laughs. "Honestly? The food here's been pretty good. Remi's been showing me some spots. I'd be so lost without him."
Kane smirks. "Oh, so he's your tour guide now? No wonder you're surviving. We went out with him a few times, and he knows his stuff. None of that overrated tourist shit."
"For real." Ryker shakes his head, amused. "Man's doing community service out here."
They all laugh, but the mood shifts as Kane jerks his chin toward the Melders posted at the edge of the plaza, optics gleaming red as they scan the crowd.
"By the way, y'all know this is pokin' the hornet's nest, right? Like, we all signed up knowing we're holding a show this close to their turf? And they're pissed. Not like I can blame 'em."
"Eh, personally, I think it was bound to happen." Ryker leans in, voice lower. "There's already rumours that the Melders pulled the Banshees into their bullshit. Some kinda new alliance cooking. Don't know if it's permanent, but… yeah. It's gonna make nights like this harder."
"Yeah… we heard about it too." Tetra frowns. "Is it really gonna be that bad?"
"Personally, I think we're in for a load of shit later," Ryker declares. "We mostly stick to Vancouver, but this is basically us pissin' on their lawn. Tonight? We're fine. Tomorrow? Who knows."
Kane shrugs. "Eh, depends. Blake doesn't even care that much, so who knows how it'll play out."
"You guys really believe in him that much?" I ask, voice flat.
Both Kane and Ryker nod without hesitation.
"Been down with Blake ever since he pulled most of us out of Surrey and into better waters," Ryker says, chin tilted.
"Huh…" I murmur.
The bass cuts for just a second, plunging the crowd into a tense silence—then Remi leaps onto the roof of a half-crushed delivery truck, mic raised high, grin wide like he owns the whole damn plaza.
"RICHMOOOOOND! MY FELLOW MOTHERFUCKIN' CHOOMS!" His voice booms through speakers that shouldn't even work this well. "ARE WE ALIVE TONIIIIIGHT?!"
The response is deafening. Thousands scream back at him, stomping pavement, fists pumping. The roar shakes the walls of Ironwood Plaza itself.
This is actually impressive. And also exactly what we needed.
The mood doesn't stay light for long. Mister slips in behind us, phone in hand, posture straight, tone flat. "Enjoy the noise while you can. Practically speaking, everybody here is collateral."
I raise an eyebrow, letting a shoulder drag while I stare at him in disbelief. "Wow, you're fun."
He shakes his head, voice dropping lower. "Simply reminding everyone that things will get more chaotic from here on out. Assuming things go our way, we can at least make it past the Ironwood entrance."
That earns a pause. Kane and Ryker glance at each other, brows furrowed.
Kane squares his shoulders, tapping his chest with confidence. "Don't worry about our end. The guys are ready."
"Yeah, man, just let us know," Ryker adds, staring at the other Dead Kings holding the barricades, keeping the mob corralled before it tips into chaos. "Ah, shit…"
Tetra's eyes flick to the crowd. "Whoa. Uh, I'll help out."
"Time to see what you're made of," Kane claps Tetra on the shoulder. "C'mon."
Mister turns his gaze on me, his voice quieter but no less heavy. "Alright, Lily. With me." He walks off toward the plaza entrance.
I glance one last time—at the mass of bodies surrounding the area, Remi standing tall, the Dead Kings bracing, and the Melders glaring from their flank. Kane and Ryker wave back at me, while Tetra nods once, steadying himself.
I nod and smile at them before joining Mister.
We make our way over, and as we do, I tug at my dress again, adjusting the holster strap underneath, before glancing at Mister. "Okay, so… one last time," I murmur low enough to drown my voice under the bass. "Anything new I need to know before we walk into this?"
Mister keeps his gaze forward, stage light from Remi's show flickering across his mask.
"No—it's as we discussed before. Simple in premise. The guards are already agitated by the concert outside—that buys us leverage. Michelangelo is circling the substation right now. Once he cuts the block's power, their surveillance drops, and their focus shifts outward. He's watching us as we speak, and he'll time the blackout for when we hit the entrance."
He pauses, tilting his head slightly, visor angled toward me as if making sure I follow along.
"Alright, so far so good. And then?" I raise an eyebrow. "What happens once we're inside?"
"He'll infiltrate through the vents to gather intel his own way. Whether he can provide direct support is uncertain, but in the worst case, he can intervene if things escalate into a firefight. Either way, the distraction ensures they'll be too focused on the crowd to properly vet us."
He slips his phone back into his coat pocket.
"Our way in is through Benny himself. You'll use your presence to draw eyes. I'll handle the talking—positioning us as people Benny can't afford to dismiss. Between your appearance and my words, we'll earn an audience. From there, it's his rules."
"Right…" My lips press thin. "So basically—bait on my end, smooth talk on yours."
"Exactly," Mister replies evenly. "I'm confident that once we're inside, his ego won't let him pass up the chance to flaunt his influence. Use that to our advantage to isolate him."
I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes flicking toward the Melders posted by the wall. They're already twitching with impatience, optics whirring, weapons half-drawn in case Remi whips the crowd into a mob-like frenzy.
"And if this goes out of control?"
"It will," Mister says flatly. "When Michelangelo makes his move, no one will know what's happening."
The bassline thrums again, the crowd screaming louder as Remi holds his mic to the sky.
I breathe out slow, steadying myself. "Kay…"
We cut across the fringe of the plaza, slipping along the edges of the street to avoid the crush of bodies.
The crowd keeps building—more cars pulling up, more people flooding in. Onlookers stare from balconies, stairwells, and sidewalks, the neon wash painting their faces in streaks of blue and red. The concert energy has turned Ironwood into a boiling point.
By the time we reach the barricaded plaza entrance, it's chaos. The crowd outside is a messy blend: half-drunk partiers thinking they can bluff their way in, wannabe toughs trying to look important, and scattered suits or dolled-up guests who might actually be on Benny's list.
The lines between them blur, bleeding into one another until the whole front lot feels like a carnival about to combust.
At the door stand two Melders—chromed monstrosities holding the line like sentries. The first has dermal plating fused crooked along his jaw, wires dangling loose from an exposed ear implant. The second is worse: a hulking slab of synth-muscle, half his torso welded with cheap steel, a pistol grafted directly into his forearm.
His optics spin red when he locks onto us.
"Back it up," he growls, voice metallic and sharp. "Private party. You're not on the list."
Mister doesn't flinch, his tone cool. "We're expected."
The bigger one laughs—a hideous, glitching rasp. Then, with a sneer, he swings his arm and cracks his pistol across Mister's helmet visor. Sparks skid across the faceplate. The glass doesn't shatter, but jagged fissures splinter across the side.
Mister staggers a step back, almost losing his balance, but steadies himself and holds his ground.
Shit. Hopefully, it was just the helmet.
"Expected, huh?" The guard leans close, optics whirring. "Looks like you're expected to eat shit." He snarls each word. "Back. It. Up."
I force myself still, jaw tight. The other guard's gaze drags down my dress, slow and slimy. He smirks and grabs a passing girl by the waist—one of Benny's usuals—who only giggles, glassy-eyed. His cybernetic hand squeezes her like she's a toy, not a person.
My stomach twists. And they just let it happen?
Then his gaze crawls back to me. He leers, optics flickering, his stare lingering on my legs. "But you, sweetness… you can stay." He makes a show of licking his teeth. "Boss'll like you. Rare to find someone with firm curves."
Ugh.
Blood burns under my skin. Every instinct screams to break his jaw—even knowing it's probably plated in steel—but I hold it down. Instead, I tilt my head, lips curling into the faintest smirk. "Oh yeah?" I bat my lashes. "Let him say so himself."
The creep freezes, grin faltering just slightly. Damn it, Michelangelo—anytime now.
Right then, Mister steps in. "Tell Benny he's about to pass on an opportunity. The kind of opportunity that doesn't knock twice."
The guards snicker, but the words land. One mutters into his comms, optics twitching as he listens for a response.
Sensing the pause, I shift my weight just enough—letting the slit of my dress slide open, flashing skin without exposing the holster. Just enough to catch the eye. I lean casually against the wall, lips glossed under the neon.
"Or," I say smoothly, "you can tell him you turned away someone worth his time. See how that plays out."
The guards hesitate.
One laughs it off, but the other gestures.
And just as the tension sharpens, the entire block plunges into darkness.
Ironwood's signs snuff out, Remi's booming bassline cuts mid-track. Thousands of voices erupt at once—confused, furious, surging like a tidal wave.
The crowd howls. Bottles smash. Dead Kings slam into the barricades, struggling to hold back the furious mob. Police lights flare down the block, sirens wailing as cruisers push forward. Weapons snap free as Melders whirl, barking orders and shouting while security systems glitch and drones spin out, drifting or crashing to the ground.
Perfect.
To make things even better, as if he were right on schedule, the barricaded entrance creaks open. Doors grind back, and Benny strolls through, his leather jacket sleeve swishing as if the chaos outside doesn't matter at all. The gates slam shut behind him.
Leather jacket, slicked-back hair, boots polished. Baby-faced, smug grin plastered on. His gaze flicks to Mister's cracked visor, but lingers almost entirely on me. He doesn't even try to hide it.
"Well, well," he drawls, eyebrow raised, fake confidence dripping. "What's all this?"
Mister adjusts his helmet, voice smooth despite the fractured visor.
"Business. You don't want to talk out here."
"Hmm…" Benny hums, clearly weighing his next move while he looks outward, into the mess. First at the surging crowd, then at his regular guests clustered near the entrance. Finally, his eyes settle on us again, dragging over Mister's visor before locking on me.
Then the grin snaps back into place. He chuckles.
"You're right about that." His smile spreads wider, oozing cheap charm. "Come on in, both of you. Can't have talent like this wasted on the sidewalk."
Inside, I'm already rolling my eyes. Same tired routine. Same hungry look. Same cheap swagger. I've seen it all before—men convincing themselves they're in control, that they've got a shot at "bagging a baddie" with sleaze alone. Whatever happened to flowers?
The guards scowl, but Benny waves them down, basking in his own authority. With a flourish of his leather sleeve, he ushers us inside like some dime-store mob boss parading us into a penthouse.
Inside, the atmosphere is a mess of fake luxury and barely restrained panic.
The blackout is in full effect—half the chandeliers are dead, others sputtering neon in uneven flickers. Some systems hum back on emergency power, but most of the security grid is dark. Guards bark orders, Melders curse and scramble, weapons half-raised.
Benny just shrugs it off with a smug air, like even a district-wide blackout couldn't touch him.
As we go deeper, I can smell the perfume, cheap cigars, and the chemical tang of fresh chrome hang thick in the air.
Around us, Ironwood's abandoned mall interior has been gutted and refitted into a caricature of decadence. Chandeliers hang too low, crystals catching what light's left. Faux marble floors crack where power cables snake underneath. Velvet couches sag under the weight of sequined girls lounging like props. Gold-plated railings on the mezzanine flake at the corners, revealing rusted steel beneath.
And everywhere I look, all I see are Melders.
Chrome skulls, limbs swapped for hydraulics, optics glowing in mismatched bloody reds and sickly yellows. Some check weapons: smart-linked pistols clicking into holsters, shotguns racked with metallic snaps.
Nearby, others muscle crates across the hall on stolen dollies, each box sealed and stamped with coded marks. The chemical bite in the air and the nervous twitch of a courier's hands make it obvious.
SynthCoke. Box after box, vanishing into locked storage down the mall's shadowed hallways.
As more guests are ushered inside—dealers in flashy coats, low-level execs in cheap suits, a few nervous locals dressed up for "VIP treatment"—the Melders' posture shifts. Holy shit. There's this many inside? They're not even acting like party security anymore; they're straight up bracing for war.
"Anyways… let's get back to business." Benny turns to us, grin sharp, eyes lingering on me. "About you two—you make… an interesting pair. Coming here together, huh?"
Mister, still calm and professional, brushes a gloved hand across the cracked visor of his helmet as if assessing the damage. His voice stays level.
"Appearances don't matter. What matters is why we're here."
I step in as well. A tilt of my hip, a smile tugging at my lips, my eyes dragging across Benny like I'm tracing a line. Practised, fake attraction—a skill sharpened through years of work.
"Business partners. Nothing more." My tone dips smooth as honey, leaving just enough space for him to imagine more if he wants to. I punctuate it with a light giggle, lashes batting once—just enough to spark his imagination.
"But I'm open to other arrangements… if you had any in mind."
He chuckles, gaze sliding over me again with zero shame. "My kind of business." A lazy gesture toward the back. "Come on. Let's talk somewhere quieter. Just us."
Two guards peel off the walls to shadow us, chrome hands flexing, optics tracking our every step.
Oh… "fun". Two guards to deal with, too.
The rest of Benny's guests are funnelled into a gaudy excuse for a lobby: lounge chairs under LED spotlights, a bar cobbled together from shipping crates, women moving trays of drinks like waitresses in a club that doesn't exist.
Benny strides ahead, and we follow. My heels click against the faux marble as my eyes roam—not just for show, but counting every exit.
Curtains concealing emergency doors. A freight elevator with a rusted lock. Vent shafts snaking upward into crawlspaces. A balcony above where three armed silhouettes lean, rifles dangling loose but ready.
I take it all in—escape routes, choke points, firing lines. Every angle that could matter once this falls apart.
When I'm done, I glance sideways at Mister.
He meets my look just long enough to give the faintest nod.
So far, so good.