April 24, 2021. 19:59. Richmond. 6 days left till Italy.
The blackout continues, lingering as half the building is still in darkness.
Everywhere we go, chandeliers sway above, lifeless. Their crystals cast fractured shadows in what little emergency light remains.
A few systems slowly flicker back online, but the security grid is still clearly crippled.
Melders stalk the halls in twitchy formation, optics glowing in uneven flickers, cursing under their breath as orders bark back and forth. Nobody knows how long the outage will last.
Past velvet couches and sagging bar counters, I catch sight of adolescents scattered in the mix—barely teenagers, most of them. Boys with cheap implants glaring too bright, girls in glitter-drenched dresses clinging to older guests like it's nothing. Their laughter is hollow and desensitised. Chrome glints on arms too small for augments, pupils blown wide with whatever cocktail they've been fed.
The sight twists my stomach, but I keep my expression indifferent.
How long has this been going on?
Truth is, I don't even know. I only skim the news for Vancouver when a job or a photoshoot forces me to. I don't wander the city enough to see how bad it's rotting—by choice, sticking only to areas I can stomach.
Maybe I should. Maybe I should care.
The thought rises sharp, and I crush it just as quickly.
No. I don't need more weight on my shoulders. Caring doesn't pay, and caring doesn't keep me alive.
An image forces itself into focus.
The Melder kids. Too small, too soft—dragged into something they never asked for. Their arms marked with the Melder spiral, veins twitching around burned-in brands. Bodies shivering with implants that had no business being inside them. Some barely able to breathe, others coughing blood. One boy's voice still echoes in my head, distant and broken: "They said we'd be heroes."
I clench my fist at the thought.
I hated seeing it. I still do.
But I force it back down.
Benny doesn't seem to notice—or maybe he does and doesn't care. He's too busy talking.
"I won't lie—you picked an interesting time to show up, with all this going on." He gestures vaguely, smug like the chaos is just a minor inconvenience. "But throw me a bone… what do you actually want?"
Mister walks beside him, posture straight.
"It's about your product. Vancouver's just one market. We represent people who can expand production and distribution far beyond this city."
"Oh yeah? And who do you represent?" Benny grins, curiosity flashing behind the cockiness.
There's a pause, silence settling between us as we walk.
Mister lets it stretch just long enough to pull Benny in before speaking.
"Multiple groups. Nomads among them—Thelas, for example."
"Nomads, huh?" Benny's brow lifts. "Never even heard of Thelas."
"Not surprising. They're reclusive. But when it comes to crossing oceans, nobody does it better."
The swagger in Benny's expression falters, calculation edging in. "Alright… say I believe you. What exactly are you offering? Markets, distribution, scale?"
Nearby, another pair of guards speak into their comms, irritation sharp.
"Unit Six, report."
Silence.
"Six, you copy?"
No response, just dead air.
One of them swears under his breath, blaming the outage.
"Power's frying the relays, bet that's why patrol's off the grid."
Must be Michelangelo.
Mister doesn't break his stride.
"We're offering expansion. Not just street-level slinging. If you want product that moves clean and fast, the right partners can do that. Think ports and convoys beyond the city—places no other gang here can touch."
"Ports, huh? And convoys too…" Benny hums, clearly hooked but wanting more. "I like the sound of that. Got specifics?"
Mister stays vague—just enough to stoke the fire without feeding it. "Specifics depend on the deal. What matters is that there are people ready to work with the right investor. Someone ambitious. Someone with vision."
The two chrome guards shadowing us remain silent, but I can feel their eyes crawling over me and Mister. They're worse up close.
One cradles a matte-black assault rifle across his chest, the stock welded into his armour, his entire forearm encased in sub-dermal plating that blooms like scaled metal up his bicep. The other's torso is a welded cuirass of mismatched alloys, cable bundles snaking into a shoulder brace as he hefts a compact shotgun with a fat drum mag. Warning glyphs blink faintly across the receiver—flechettes. His jaw actuators tick in an ugly rhythm. Heat sinks along his neck vent faint bursts of steam. Their optics split into trilens clusters that whir and iris with mechanical precision, refocusing every second.
I catalogue every detail, forcing my expression to stay flat.
Their stances. Their gear. The way they lean into corners and adjust their grips. I lock it all away, checking and memorising weak points—because I'll need them.
My pulse hammers as I plan.
I know exactly what these guys are: killers in junkyard armour, faster and stronger than I'll ever be.
If this goes wrong, it won't be a fight—it'll be an execution.
Even with all my gear, I doubt it would close the gap between me and a borg in this place. That contrast—the limits of a human against a machine—reminds me why I avoid contracts involving them.
Then Benny's attention slides back to me.
"Alright, so he's the businessman." He nods toward Mister. "What about you, sweetheart? What's your role in all this? You just here to… sweeten the deal?"
His grin remains sleazy. My jaw tightens—but only on the inside. Outwardly, I tilt my head, letting the blonde waves of my wig shimmer in the low light. A smile tugs at my lips.
"You could say I'm here to make sure people stay interested," I reply, tone light. "Sometimes numbers need charm to go with them."
It lands exactly where I want it—sexy enough to bait him, smart enough to sound credible.
Benny laughs, clapping once, pleased. "I like that. Class and curves. Better than half the dolls in this place."
That comment makes bile rise in my throat, but I keep smiling. My eyes stay half-lidded and playful. Inside, all I want is to break his teeth.
We keep moving, passing through another set of heavy steel doors until the corridor widens into Benny's so-called office.
It's as fake as the rest of the plaza.
Once a stockroom, now gutted and remade into a throne room of bad taste—sealed for privacy. Velvet curtains swallow the walls and windows, sound-baffling foam tucked behind them; a heavy magnetic lock seals the door with a soft thunk as we enter. The desk is a repurposed casino table on chrome risers, lacquered until it almost gleams. The overhead lights flicker in uneven pulses, running on the same backup power as the faintly humming holo-screens behind it. Chipped faux-marble tiles spiderweb underfoot. A leather couch slouches in the corner, the cushions split and patched, still reeking of sweat and smoke. A small powder room door sits ajar, mirror ringed with dead bulbs.
I resist the urge to scrunch my nose, nostrils almost flaring at the stench.
This place reeks of sex and cigarettes.
Benny strides in like he owns Versailles itself. "Make yourselves comfortable. Let's talk business."
Mister doesn't sit. He stays standing, palms resting on the chair opposite to Benny—claiming the space without ever lowering his guard. "Comfort can wait," he says evenly, glancing once at the guards. "Privacy first."
While he talks, I let my eyes wander—mapping exits, cover, and anything that might matter when things break loose.
One concealed door hides behind the curtains, scuff marks showing where it swings inward. The ceiling vent looks just wide enough to crawl through—grate screws freshly disturbed. The desk has a recessed knee well that could double as cover, though the angles are tight.
Benny leans against the lacquered desk, smirk tugging at his lips. "Privacy, huh? Whole damn place is already ours."
Outside, the guards post up exactly where they should—one angled across the doorway to cover the hall directly, the other holding position at the junction where the side corridor bends, ready to catch anyone trying to creep along the wall.
Their presence makes sense: close enough to react in seconds, far enough not to intrude on Benny's "privacy."
Damn it, they know what they're doing.
Their positions make isolating Benny difficult. If anything tips them off, they'll storm in fast.
Mister and I wouldn't last in a straight firefight.
I press the panic down, mask steady, forcing my focus past firepower.
Mister doesn't flinch. "What we discuss stays between us." His tone is flat, deliberate.
Draw them deeper? Split them? Jam their comms?
The veiled room is the only advantage we've got—all we need is to close the door.
Benny chuckles low, though curiosity flickers in his eyes. "No. The guards stay."
That's when I step in. My smile blooms soft, practised, just shy of coy. A tilt of my hip sends the blonde waves of my wig spilling over one shoulder. "C'mon," I purr, lashes dipping once. "You think a man of your vision settles for half measures? Privacy now means payoff later. You won't regret it."
His grin sharpens, ego already buttered. I slide the knife deeper. "Besides, it's not just small-time Vancouver talk. We're talking bigger. Beyond the borders. The Dead Kings? They've got their hopes riding on Remi outside—a gamble at best. But you? Under your lead, the Melders could push beyond this city. Even internationally. Ever heard of the Neapolitan Camorra?" I let the name roll with just the right weight. "That's the kind of stage you could be on."
That lands. His expression twists hungrier, almost predatory, but his attention finally shifts from my neckline to the possibility of power.
Mister adjusts his cracked visor, setting one gloved hand on the chair across from Benny—the gesture deliberate. His head tilts slightly, visor angled toward the door.
I catch it. The unspoken message. He wants me to close it.
I lower my lashes, slip a hand into my purse, and draw out the lipstick with deliberate slowness. The pause drags just long enough for Benny's attention to hook on me instead of Mister, his smirk twitching.
"What's taking you so long over there, sweetheart? Forget how to use it?"
I let a playful smirk tug at my lips as I twist the cap open with a flick. "What can I say~? A girl likes to look perfect—especially if she's about to close a deal worth remembering." I glide the gloss over my lips, slow and practised, then snap the cap shut. My gaze locks onto his, the faintest shimmer catching in the flicker of backup light. "Speaking of closing…"
I strut toward the door, heels clicking sharp against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his focus tethered. A smile curls at the corner of my mouth as I hover one manicured hand over the steel frame.
"Mind if I shut this?" I purr, lowering my voice to silk. "Promise you'll like what comes next."
Benny's eyes light with amusement. "Yeah… do it."
The magnetic lock hums as I push it closed. The sound seals the room like a coffin lid.
I turn, meeting Benny's gaze just as Mister moves.
In one smooth motion, Mister lunges across the space. His hand clamps the back of Benny's neck, the other smashing his smug face into the casino-table desk hard enough to rattle the holo-screens. The crack of impact shudders through the fake marble floor.
Benny's skull bounces hard off the lacquered desk, a smear of blood streaking across the lacquer. Instead of crumpling, he bellows—spittle spraying—as raw anger overtakes surprise.
"BITCH!"
He slams an elbow back into Mister's ribs with a meaty crack. The blow lands solid, driving Mister a half-step off balance. Before Mister can reset, Benny whirls, swinging a heavy kick into his torso. The impact rattles through his armour with a hollow thud, forcing him back against the chair he'd claimed seconds ago.
For a guy who hides behind chrome goons, he fights better than expected.
Benny fumbles for his pistol, but I'm already moving.
The heels make my pivot clunkier than in training—balance sketchy for half a second—but I've done this dance enough times to compensate.
I hook his wrist, torque his elbow across my body, and drop low. The motion isn't perfect, but momentum is momentum—he stumbles with me, crashing into the desk edge, the gun skittering loose.
Instead of going down clean, Benny lunges at me—forcing a scrappy brawl in the tight office.
His strikes are wild, heavier, and meaner. My heels skid on the tiles, nearly throwing me off.
But I ride it out. Redirecting instead of blocking.
He's big—bigger than me. But he's sloppy. Every swing comes too wide, too heavy with force. But unlike my fight with Kane and Ryker, it's just me and him—one versus one.
I pivot, slip, and counter, letting his momentum overcommit until he stumbles into the corner.
Step. Redirect. Counter.
A snap kick buries into his thigh. A palm strike clips his jaw. And when his fist comes swinging, I jam an elbow into the arc, knocking it off-line.
Slowly, the balance shifts, and I press him back.
He realises this too. At the last second, he feints a punch, only to lunge for the pistol on the floor. My hand dips to my thigh instead, the slit of my dress parting as I snap my pistol free.
In one motion, I drive the muzzle up between us and jam it under his chin, forcing him still.
He freezes, teeth clenched, fury boiling in his eyes.
Within an instant, I snap my knee up hard, jamming it into his gut and using the recoil to drive him down. The gun's still warm in my grip, but I shove it aside in the scramble—dead weight if he gets a hand on it.
Momentum does the rest. He hits the tiles.
I slam a stiletto heel into his chest, the spike punching through his jacket and into the flesh beneath, pinning him to the floor.
He snarls, bucking under me, trying to throw me off. The harder he struggles, the deeper I dig in.
"Don't," I growl.
Benny spits, trying to twist free—until I rake my other heel down his forearm, carving a line of pressure across the meat of his wrist. His hand spasms, fingers flaring wide in pain.
Mister's already there, boot grinding into the floor. His voice slices through the room.
"Enough, Benny. You're done."
Pinned under me, Benny seethes, chest heaving against the sharp point of my heel, his arrogance buckling under the weight of reality. "Fuck. You."
Benny's chest heaves under my heel, veins in his neck bulging. Then he sucks in a lungful of air and roars, voice cracking with fury.
"GUARDS—!"
His shout punches off the fake velvet and foam, and I tense at the sound.
The office might be sound-dampened, but it's not airtight.
"Shut. Up."
I drive my weight down through my knee, grinding it into his ribs to pin him flat. His roar turns into a strangled cough. At the same time, I catch his jaw, palm clamping over his mouth, nails digging into the hinge where flesh meets tendon.
His teeth grind helplessly beneath my grip, muffled curses vibrating against my skin.
Every time he bucks, the spike of my stiletto punches deeper into his chest, ribs creaking under the pressure. Between my heels pinning him and the torque on his jaw, every thrash only feeds the pain back into him.
Outside, heavy footsteps scrape across the tiles. Shit! A guard barks something muffled—inaudible through the door.
Mister reacts instantly—visor angling toward the sound. He shoves the chair aside, grabs the pistol Benny dropped earlier, and slides low, bracing for cover against the desk's edge.
"Hold him."
The magnetic lock hisses. The guard outside punches in his override.
I wrench Benny upright with both hands, his arm twisted behind his back until the joint strains. His spine bows against me, breath ragged. I dig my heel into the floor for leverage, forcing his weight forward over the desk.
My breath fans hot against his ear. "One move, and I'll break you."
He twitches against my hold. Every jerk only grinds the strain deeper into his arm, nerves screaming through the joint.
The door cracks open.
I brace, teeth clenched, waiting for the crash of another fight.
Instead, a muffled thud shakes the frame.
A hiss follows—metal sliced clean, hydraulics venting.
Then a wet gurgle, cut short.
Michelangelo's silhouette slips past the crack in the curtains. Without a sound, he drags the guard's body out of sight and vanishes back into the dark.
Amazing timing, Michelangelo. I let out a quiet breath, tension easing for half a second.
Benny thrashes against my hold, panic burning in his eyes.
"Who the hell do you think you are?! You don't know who you're screwing with!"
I lean in, my voice dripping honey, edged with malice.
"Hey, Benny—'sweetheart.' If you like your women so much, maybe we should make you one. Cut your little empire down to size in more ways than one."
His face drains, confidence fracturing. "You crazy ass bitch. When my boys find out, they'll—AAGH!" His words break off in a guttural cry as I wrench his arm higher, his joints grinding under the pressure.
"Oh, really?" I press him harder against the desk, wood groaning under the strain. "I thought guys like you loved girls like me."
"FUCK—!" he spits through clenched teeth, veins bulging.
"You're not listening. Maybe if I worded things differently, you would," Mister cuts in, voice flat. He closes the distance, visor lowering until it's just an arm's length from Benny's face.
"We're asking for your compliance."
Benny spits, defiant still. "HELL NO! I run this show—ME!"
Mister tilts his head, visor gleaming faintly in the backup light.
"No. You don't. You're the weakest link. The middleman. And middlemen can always be replaced." His weight bears down until Benny's breath comes ragged. "From now on, you don't run this. I do. You keep your face. You can keep your smirk. But every deal goes through me first. You stay breathing because I say so. That's the deal."
Benny's fists clench, fury bubbling. With his chest pinned against the desk, he can only strain uselessly. My heels dig sharply into him, locking him down. His howl cuts short when I wrench harder, torque grinding his arm at a painful angle.
"Careful," I murmur. "You've got a few minutes of 'heaven' left. After that? I'll do a lot more than just pin you down." This asshole still isn't taking us seriously. And I've been pissed off ever since I walked in here.
His body shudders under me, breath ragged, muscles trembling as tension bleeds off in uneven jerks. He doesn't go limp, but the fight dims, flickering out like a dying flame.
Mister doesn't ease up. His voice cuts through with the calm authority of someone who's already won.
"You'll make your cut, don't worry. And I'll make mine. That's how this works now. But you'll sell only as far as New Westminster—never touch Burnaby or Vancouver. If you want to live, you'll profit inside the fence I draw. Simple. Right?"
Benny's eyes flick between us, venom barely masked under the fear. For a second, he looks ready to spit, but he chokes it down and nods.
"You think you can just order me and call it done?" His voice cracks as he jerks weakly against my grip. "The Melders—hell, the Wraiths too—they'll notice. They'll start asking questions when the numbers don't add up. And when they do, it won't just be me running. They'll come for you. Both of you! The bosses won't let this slide!"
Mister doesn't flinch.
"I'll deal with them when the time comes. For now, keep doing what you've been doing—the only difference is that you answer to me first. That's all that matters."
Benny swallows hard, lips curling in frustration.
"…Fine."
Mister straightens himself. "Good choice." He slides a burner out from his jacket, thumbing a number across the screen. He shoves it into Benny's pocket with deliberate force.
"You'll use this. No excuses. I'll check in when I want, and if you miss even one call, I'll assume you've decided to disappoint me. Don't."
Benny breathes hard, rubbing his raw jaw, eyes darting between us. His voice cracks.
"…So what now?"
Mister doesn't even hesitate. His visor tilts down, calm as ever.
"Now, you'll remember what happens if you think about double-crossing me. If you scurry off, if you play games with cuts or shipments, you'll regret it. You've got your court. Play within it."
My eyes lock on Mister's, and then he follows my gaze down to Benny. He catches the look—sharp, deliberate, the kind that says I'm not done yet.
He holds it for a beat, recognising what it means, then nods once. "Go ahead. Get it out of your system."
I smile faintly. Bending down, I seize Benny's right wrist before he can pull back. One practised twist—sharp, controlled—and bone pops under my grip. A scream bursts from his throat.
Before the scream fully escapes, my other hand clamps over his jaw, fingers locking along the hinge where bone meets tendon. A sharp, deliberate, and practised wrench sideways forces the joint past its limit. The crack is wet and ugly. His jaw hangs slack, useless, as he gags. Spit dribbles down his chin, and his eyes are wide with panic.
I lean close, voice low.
"Not that I expect you to learn, Benny. Men like you rarely do. But next time you think about objectifying a woman like me, remember this moment."
I shove him back against the desk, letting him slump there, jaw ruined, hand limp.
Mister doesn't move, doesn't gloat—he just watches Benny writhe. Then he straightens, turning his back like the matter is already settled.
"Business continues. Don't forget the rules."
Benny's eyes dart, riddled with pain and panic, but he doesn't dare make a sound beyond wet gasps.
Mister turns, his frame casting a long shadow over the broken man. For a moment, the silence hangs—only for the faint hum of the backup generators to power the lights back on fully.
Then his visor tilts toward me.
"Anything else?" His voice even, like he's asking about a grocery list.
I hold Benny's gaze a moment longer, letting him see the disdain in my eyes. My lips press into a thin line before I answer. "No. I'm done."
Mister gives a single sharp nod. "Good." He adjusts his gloves, then pivots toward the door. "Then it's time to leave."
I roll my shoulders and straighten myself, scooping my gun off the floor before smoothing the slit of my dress back into place.
Benny's body twitches, caught between agony and fear. But I don't give him the courtesy of another glance. I walk out, leaving his crumpled form in the stale stink of his own office.
My heels click sharp against the fractured marble as I follow after Mister.