April 25, 2021. 12:21. Burnaby. 5 days left till Italy.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and sesame oil, sunlight catching on the gloss of tiled counters. Vanessa leaned against the island, laughing as John stole another kiss, his hands lingering at her waist. She tried to swat him away with a wooden spoon, but her grin betrayed her.
Jamie slipped past, backpack slung over her shoulder. She barely glanced at them—just another round of her parents' domestic nonsense.
"Heading out already?" Vanessa asked, still smiling, still half in John's arms.
"Hanging out with Erica," Jamie answered curtly, already sliding her shoes on by the door.
Vanessa brightened instantly. "Good!" She shot John a playful look. "Those two are inseparable."
John smiled faintly, but his thoughts pressed elsewhere. It's not Erica. She's suiting up as X. His daughter didn't know it—not yet—but he'd long since figured her out. And if she idolised Mister, the shadow stalking Vancouver's streets, she didn't realize how close to home that shadow really was.
Behind the warmth of his smile, Mister's mind was calculating. How had Jamie even learned of him? How close was she, really, to uncovering the truth? It didn't matter—not right now. She was still manageable. He'd seen to that himself. The woven threads in her jacket, the nearly weightless chips hidden in her gear—discreet, unnoticeable, but enough for him to know where she was and when. Enough to keep her safe. Or contained.
"By the way, hun," Vanessa's voice snapped him back. She leaned her chin on her hand, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "You're not sneaking off to have dinner with Captain Woods again, are you?" She nudged his side with mock accusation. "The way you two keep talking—it'll make me jealous."
John chuckled, the sound smooth and practised. "What can I say? I've always had a knack for picking the right company."
Vanessa rolled her eyes, lips still curling in a smile. "Uh-huh. Charming your way through everyone, like always."
They lingered there a while longer, sparring over his "terrible" taste in wine and her "questionable" playlists, the rhythm of domestic bickering as natural as breathing.
Eventually, Vanessa tilted her head, smirking. "Oh, by the way—think you'll manage the groceries today? Or will Arasaka pull you back in again?"
John chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll get them, I promise."
She gave him a pointed look, though her smile softened it. "I know you've been swamped with work—always on call and running around—but we're running low. And I'd like something homemade tonight. Not just whatever's quick."
"Of course." John stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders and massaging gently. "Tell you what—I'll handle it all today. Groceries, dinner, everything. You just relax and let me spoil you a little."
Vanessa arched an eyebrow, playfulness flickering in her gaze. "Cooking for me, huh? I like the sound of that." She leaned closer, lowering her voice with a teasing grin. "And if Jamie's out all day… maybe I'll find something a little special to wear. Just for you."
John smiled at the thought, keeping his tone cool. "I'll hold you to that." He brushed a kiss against her temple. "I love you."
"I love you too," she murmured, giving him a playful shove towards the door.
Behind the warmth of the moment, Mister's thoughts sharpened. The "on call" excuse worked well enough, but lately it had been more of a shield rather than the truth. Half the time, he really was rerouted to logistics crises—but more often, he used it to slip out as Mister.
His latest move with SynthCoke had been deliberate: a messy, convoluted way to make money and keep the product from ever hitting Jamie's school and his home. A firewall built in blood.
Still, he'd need to ease off the excuses once Italy came.
That trip was already delicate enough to fake. Vanessa couldn't suspect more.
John kissed her again before heading out. He waited for Jamie to fully clear the block and for Vanessa to disappear upstairs before retrieving his hidden gear.
The matte-black case was tucked neatly behind toolboxes in the garage, indistinguishable from old storage bins. With practised efficiency, he transferred it to the trunk of his sedan—a grey 2018 Toyota Camry, intentionally unremarkable.
To the world, he looked like any other dad running errands.
He slid into the driver's seat, waved at a pair of kids biking past, nodded at the neighbours trimming their hedges. Perfect. Normal.
As soon as the car rolled out of the driveway, Mister took the wheel—literally and figuratively. His mind shifted to cold and calculating, already turning over what to do—and say—once he reached Azure's shop.
The team had promise but was objectively volatile. Tetra's conviction and brother. Artemis' skills and guarded personality. Azure's connection to Jenny and the railgun. Shock's mafia connections. Remi's loose mouth. And Michelangelo—connected to Arasaka, an employee, albeit higher up in the same company as John.
He gripped the wheel tighter, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The drive through Burnaby was steady—another man in another sedan, lost in the flow of midday traffic. Mister kept his expression mild, hand resting loosely on the wheel, every movement rehearsed to perfection. Nothing to notice or track.
A few turns later, he eased the Camry down a ramp into a low-lit underground lot. A labyrinth of numbered stalls, oil stains, and flickering fluorescents. The kind of place anyone could rent for cash, no ID, no questions. It was perfect—faceless and untraceable.
He parked in his usual spot and sat still for a moment, eyes flicking over the mirrors, making sure no one lingered nearby. Then he moved. The trunk popped open, and with practised ease he stripped off his civilian clothes, folding them neatly before reaching for the case inside.
On went the coat—secretly reinforced with lightweight cloth armour—then the rest of the outfit, the harness settling snug beneath his ribs with a sidearm holstered close. Burner phones followed, slipped into hidden pockets, every motion smooth and efficient from long repetition.
Although he knew his way around a gun, Mister wasn't Artemis. Of all the solos and mercs he'd crossed paths with, none matched her effectiveness—at least when it came to dealing with strictly humans.
The sedan stayed behind. In its place, he unlocked the stall adjacent, sliding into his real ride. A silver Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van, windows tinted midnight black. To anyone else, it was just another tradesman's hauler. Inside, it was Mister's ghost machine.
He stared at his broken helmet, jaw tightening at the asymmetry of the crack, a detail that wouldn't stop pulling at his focus. With a slow breath, he set it aside and pulled a spare helmet over his head, the voice modulator humming faintly as it clicked on.
His reflection in the rearview mirror stared back—familiar, yet untouchable. And with that, the comfort settled in.
The van rumbled to life, rolling back onto the streets. Mister kept to the slower lanes, never speeding, never drawing attention. Every red light was an opportunity to scan the mirrors, every green a silent calculation.
He passed the Vix Lounge on his way, his gaze sliding briefly towards its neon signage. A memory tugged—of the cyberpsycho sprawled on the pavement, the one he'd tried to reach before the truth of the virus revealed itself.
Perhaps a missed lead. Perhaps now. Either way, it wasn't his problem anymore.
Italy was all that mattered now.
He drove on, eventually reaching Azure's place.
The van eased to a stop in front of the mechanic shop, its tires crunching over uneven gravel as Mister pulled into the narrow lot.
He killed the engine, stepped out into the chill air, and grabbed his damaged helmet.
The building loomed ahead—an unassuming two-story box of half-concrete, half-corroded steel siding, with a wide rolling garage door sunk into the front. From a distance, it could pass as any run-down auto shop. Up close, the details told another story.
Reinforced locks. Discreet cameras perched at the corners, their lenses dark and insectile. A faint shimmer of aftermarket shielding buzzed low against his helmet's filters—not stock, and definitely not cheap.
The garage door was heavy industrial grade, ribbed metal with a hydraulic chain mount overhead—capable of swallowing a truck whole. To the left, a side entrance sat scarred and patched from too many break-in attempts, now guarded by a biometric pad laced with custom wiring.
Noticing the faint shimmer of an automatic detection rig above the doorframe, Mister approached. A narrow red beam swept across his helmet, pausing for half a second before the locks disengaged with a mechanical clunk.
The hydraulic motor growled, dragging the rolling door upward and revealing another world entirely.
A cavern of tech and grease unfolded before him.
The first thing to catch his eye sat propped against a stand near the back wall—a sleek red motorcycle, all sharp angles and low-slung menace. Its stripped, polished frame cradled a custom drive core, the wheel hubs fat and oversized, lined with stabilizer gyros. Even half-dismantled, it looked ready to tear asphalt apart. A silhouette both striking and unmistakably unique.
Beyond it sprawled the rest of Azure's kingdom. Workstations flanked each wall—banks of stripped-down servers and tower rigs glowing faint blue, cables trailing overhead like veins. Along the benches lay half-gutted drones, smartgun receivers waiting for calibration, and boxes of optical implants kept cold under a jury-rigged cooling system. Each table carried its own harness rig—adjustable clamps, braces, and diagnostic holo-plates flickering with readouts.
A ceiling-mounted crane arm hung over the main bay, built to hoist exo-suits or heavy car mods into place. Racks of tools glinted in careful rows, organised with military precision.
Everything here had a purpose. Nothing sat idle.
Mister's visor swept across the far corner—mod stations. Polished rigs where a person could sit, clamp in, and let Azure thread a new implant into bone or neural slot.
The clink of metal drew his attention.
Azure was at a bench near the back, hunched over something delicate. Sparks snapped in tight bursts as she worked a soldering tool, visor shielding her eyes. Her hair was pulled back with a clamp, a streak of oil running down her temple.
Then she noticed him.
The tool froze midair. Her hand trembled just enough to make the sparks gutter out. Slowly, she set it down, swivelling her chair around.
Her eyes went wide. Not startled. Not exactly. But too sharp, too fast. The kind of wide that carried the weight of someone who'd been caught off guard and hated it.
Paranoia.
Azure stayed seated, the chair squeaking faintly as she swiveled back towards her bench.
"What do you want, Mister?"
He moved with his usual steady rhythm, presenting the damaged helmet before setting it down on the workbench with a dull clunk.
"Two things. First, I wanted to talk about last night." His tone stayed level. "Second, this." A gloved finger tapped the helmet's edge. "I came to get it repaired and possibly upgraded."
Azure's eyes flicked over it. No smirk, no snappy remark—just a quick exhale through her nose before she grabbed her tools.
"Payment upfront?" she asked, already unclipping the visor mount.
"Whatever it costs," Mister calmly replied. "Fast is all I care about."
"Fine." She bent over the helmet, hands already moving with restless precision. "What do you need?"
"A full repair. And I want the helmet upgraded—a built-in audio system. A seamless link to my burner phones and anything else I choose to sync. A quick connect and disconnect."
"Sure." Azure gathered the replacement parts, setting them beside the helmet on the workbench. "Give me a minute."
While she worked, Mister remained still, the faint hum of his voice modulator filling the quiet. His visor tilted as he scanned the shop—tool racks glinting in neat rows, calibration rigs glowing under cold light, and that gutted red bike slumped on its stand like a wounded beast.
His voice cut low. "That motorcycle. Has it been here for long?"
Azure barely glanced up. "Remi's. Took me out on it for a date. He crashed it later." She snorted under her breath. "Now it's mine to fix."
Mister gave a small hum of acknowledgement, returning to silence.
Minutes passed, broken only by the faint hiss of solder and the whine of a tightening drill. Azure finally set the helmet down, the crack smoothed over, circuitry rethreaded. But her hand lingered too long on the bench, and her eyes flicked sideways, restless.
"Actually… there's another way to pay," she said suddenly.
Mister's head angled. "Another way?"
"Fake IDs." Her tone was flat, but something in her shoulders betrayed the weight behind it.
At first, Mister assumed. "For Italy?"
Azure didn't answer. She adjusted the visor, kept her head down. Silence stretched.
"So it's not for Italy. It's personal," he said.
She finally looked up, lips pressed tight. "It's necessary. You know as well as I do this city is a fucking powder keg. Cops are stretched thin, corps are circling, gangs are spreading. I need insurance—a way out if things go sideways."
"Insurance… or escape?"
"Call it what you want. I just want the assets lined up before it's too late."
"Too late for what?"
Azure avoided his gaze and went back to her tools; her movements had lost their usual precision. "Doesn't matter. Just get me the IDs."
He didn't budge. "Not until you tell me specifically why. What's the rush?"
"You don't get it. If I wait, I'm done."
"That's vague. Try again."
"I need them. That's all you need to know." Her jaw worked, teeth grinding. "And I'm not gonna sit here waiting for someone to drag me off. I'm not like you. I don't—" She cut herself off, shaking her head hard.
"Go on. Finish the thought." Mister pressed, visor tilting fractionally. "What are you running from, Azure?"
Her eyes darted, quick and sharp, towards something further down the bench.
Mister caught it instantly.
The faintest shift of her hand—reaching not for a tool, not for the soldering iron, but for something just out of view.
His pistol was up before the thought even finished forming, a single smooth draw, muzzle steady on her chest.
"Enough. You've been off ever since Jenny—pretty much since the moment we started working together. I let it slide, thinking it wouldn't compromise the team. Lately, I've been wondering if I was wrong. So I'll only ask once more. Be specific. Why do you need the fake IDs, Azure?"
Azure froze, wide-eyed, hand suspended in midair. Her hands lifted slowly, palms open.
"Alright… okay. Fine. Just listen. I only want the fake IDs because I'm leaving soon. A quiet exit, that's it. I was gonna ask someone else, but you came along today. I just… I need out of Vancouver."
Mister didn't flinch, aim steady.
"So you're abandoning the city."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm surviving. You've seen what's happening—I'm not waiting until it's too late."
"Running, you mean," Mister corrected, tilting his head. "You call it survival, but really, you're just running away."
"What do you know?" Azure's jaw clenched, teeth bared. "You think I want this? I didn't sign up for any of this shit!" She slams a hand on the workbench, the clatter sharp under the sprinklers' faint hiss overhead. "I want out before someone else decides I'm useful and strings me along until I'm nothing."
The pistol didn't waver. Mister stepped back once, giving her space but not trust.
"Where would you even go?"
Her lips twist into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. "Doesn't matter. As long as I'm away from the railgun. Away from the party. Jenny won't follow me forever. I'll lose her trail."
"That's delusion. As Artemis said last night, the team can work together to figure out Jenny. But fine—I'll humour your plan with one question. Do you really think you can run and slip off the board, leaving no trail or evidence?"
"None of you get it. Jenny is the least of your problems. But fine—keep thinking Autumn Blade is just a campfire story." Azure's laugh was bitter. "My plan won't change: if I'm gone long enough, she'll lose interest. It's how I got away the first time."
"I never said Autumn Blade was just a campfire story. And you're grasping at straws," Mister countered, voice flat. "You're betting your life on becoming a ghost."
Her breathing hitched, faster now. "It's not a bet."
"Don't lie to yourself. Ghosts don't stay gone. Believe me, Azure—they leave shadows. And shadows always get traced. It's just a matter of time."
Her eyes snapped up at him then, wide and furious. "We're going nowhere with this." The shift was sharp, sudden—her face hardening, the warmth bleeding out of her expression like a switch had been flipped.
Mister registered it instantly, grip tightening. He opened his mouth to push further, but the words never left him.
The question never finished.
A sudden noise cracked underfoot. Azure's wrist snapped sideways, slamming against a hidden switch, and the garage erupted—sprinklers blasting overhead, a concussive flash charge detonating into searing white light.
Mister staggered, teeth gritting under his mask as his senses ruptured. "Tch—"
And then the fight began.
Azure lunged through the haze, using her shop like a minefield. Mister fired, but she had already vaulted behind a tool rack, traps triggering one after another—wires snapping, pneumatic bolts shooting across the room. He forced himself forward, muscles still burning from fighting Benny.
A shot cracked. A bullet tore through his shoulder, spinning him against the wall. He growled, forcing the pain down, raising his gun again.
"You—" he rasped.
But another trap snapped. A shotgun rig detonated from the ceiling, buckshot tearing into his coat, shredding it to ribbons. His armour held, but the force dropped him to a knee.
He staggered forward—straight into another trigger. Razor wire snapped across his legs, cutting deep to the bone. Blood streaked the floor as he collapsed, vision flickering at the edges. Agony surged through shredded muscle and creaking bone, yet he forced himself to crawl.
Was he really going to die? Here? Now?
Through the chaos, Azure hesitated. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the emergency lights, her chest heaved.
She stared at him, sensing the fear and fury of Mister despite the visor hiding his face.
He lifted his head, visor cracked, blood pooling beneath him as his voice rasped through static.
"You're a coward."
Azure flinched at the words. For the first time since he had known her, Mister's tone carried hate.
Her lips trembled, but she hardened. "...I'm sorry."
She smashed her phone against the floor and tossed it into the nearest flame. The sparks caught, spreading fast. Accelerant leaked from a tipped canister, fire racing across the shop.
Azure twisted the final switch near the exit. A roar filled the space as fuel lines ignited, flames blooming upward.
She looked back one last time. "Good luck, Mister. Don't follow me."
And then she was gone.
The shop became an inferno.
Mister dragged himself forward, nails clawing at the concrete, blood smearing behind him. His breaths were shallow, but fury kept him conscious. He could hear the roof groan as beams caught fire.
He pulled himself to the exit, barely making it, leaving a trail of blood. The world swam, his body hollowed by blood loss, legs numb and useless beneath him. He fumbled through his ruined coat and dug out a phone.
A calculated gamble.
With one hand trembling, he opened the only group chat he'd ever allow to see him like this.
His visor flickered as he typed two words, attaching Azure's address and tagging everyone.
"Help. Azure's shop is on fire."
The message sent, and then Mister slumped over, the world a blur of red and smoke.