The device pulsed faintly against Max's palm, warm like it had its own heartbeat. For a moment, he forgot Kane, forgot the deadline, forgot everything but the strange glow slipping through his fingers.
Then a voice cut the air like a blade.
"Well, well. Look who thinks he can crawl out from under Kane's boot."
Max spun, shoving the device under his ragged shirt just as three figures stepped from the shadows. Masks covered their faces, but he knew them — Kane's dogs. The same ones who'd ground his cheek into the dirt yesterday.
Jaro, the biggest, grinned wide enough for his teeth to flash in the dim light. "Kane said you'd fail. Looks like he was right."
Max forced his voice steady. "Two canisters. Like he asked." He shoved the battered tanks forward, hands shaking only slightly.
Jaro crouched, knocked one over with his boot. The hollow clang echoed down the underpass. "Half-full. Maybe less. You think Kane's a beggar who takes scraps?"
Another thug stepped in, snatching Max by the collar and jerking him close. His mask reeked of stale breath as he hissed, "Maybe we strip your mask now. Watch you choke. Save Kane the trouble."
Max's lungs seized as the man's fingers hooked the edge of his mask, tugging it loose. Panic clawed at him — not for himself, but for what was hidden under his shirt. If they searched him, if they saw the device—
He coughed hard, hacking up ash, forcing his body limp like he was already collapsing. "Take them!" he rasped, shoving the canisters toward Jaro. "Tribute. Enough for today. Tomorrow—tomorrow I'll have more. You know I will."
The thug holding him laughed, shoving him backward so hard he hit the ground. Dust filled his mouth, stinging the cut on his lip.
"Pathetic," Jaro said. He scooped up the canisters with one hand, his boot pressing on Max's chest. His weight crushed the air from Max's lungs, each second a reminder of how fragile breath was in the Quarter.
Then he leaned closer. "Maybe next time we take your sister instead. She still breathing, ain't she?"
Max's vision went red. He wanted to lunge, to bite, to kill. His fingers twitched toward the weight under his shirt. The device seemed to hum louder, hotter, as if it was begging to be used.
But he didn't move. He couldn't. One spark of defiance, and Kane's men would slit his throat and Millie's too.
Jaro spat on his chest, then stepped back with the canisters in hand. "Don't be late again, rat. Kane's patience is thinner than your breath."
Their laughter echoed as they disappeared into the haze, dragging his tribute with them.
Max lay there, chest heaving, dirt mixing with blood on his tongue. His fists bled from how hard he'd clenched them.
The device throbbed faintly against his ribs, hidden, alive.
Kane had his canisters. But Max had something Kane didn't.
Something no one in the Quarter had ever touched.
To be continued…