The roof was a sheet of cold light.
Below it, a ballroom churned with strings and laughter and the sugary hiss of champagne. The glass overhead took it all—the chandeliers, the white suits, the gold—and smeared it into a trembling mirror crossed by steel ribs. On the mirror lay two silhouettes, flat as coins: Breuk and Limar, belly-down, blacked out, sweat shining at their hairlines.
"They're dancing like there's no tomorrow down there," Limar whispered.
Limar's voice always came with a grin you couldn't see. He was small and wire-tight, a buzz of restless energy with a mechanic's cap pulled low. Stubble shadowed a sharp jaw; a cheap earring flashed when he moved. Grease never really left his hands, even in gloves. Tonight he'd dressed the part of a maintenance ghost—faded coveralls, fake badge, a coil of cable slung like a scarf—but the eyes gave him away: bright, fast, always three jokes ahead of the room.
"There's no tomorrow for us if you keep muting the comms," Breuk murmured back.
Breuk's mouth barely moved when he talked. The scar that ran along his jaw made it look like speech had to fight its way out. Under the matte-black shell of his helmet, his eyes were steady—too steady for someone his age. Black tactical jacket cut close to the ribs, utility webbing cinched neat, one sleeve hanging a little too empty for comfort until the glint of the mechanical forearm shifted into view: brushed metal, ugly-welded plates, new scuffs over old ones. Function over miracle. He smelled like rain and smoke and the inside of a machine.
He tapped the push-to-talk on his earpiece. "Tara? Lig? You reading me?"
"Reading you," Tara said, low and dry. "And I'm sweating like a busted pipe."
Down in the gold-lit belly of the world, Tara leaned against the bar like she owned it. She wore a black dress that pretended to be simple and failed; the fabric clung to the shoulders she'd built hauling engines, not lifting wine. Hair pinned up and stabbed through with two metal spikes that weren't hairpins if you knew her, a knick of a scar at the chin she never covered, a medical brace disguised as an elegant bracelet on one wrist. She had put on lipstick, because you do what the role needs, but her eyes remained pure workshop: measuring, noting, filing away. The dress did nothing to hide the coiled competence in the way she stood. Annoyance suited her as much as the color.
A voice cut in, smooth as poured coffee. "Target in sight," Lig said. "Kemely. Fifteen meters. Surrounded by professional head-nodders."
Lig fit the ballroom like it had been built around him. He was tall and clean-lined in a charcoal suit that didn't wrinkle, blond hair combed back with a touch of arrogance it had probably earned, pale eyes that stayed soft while they counted exits. A slim tie, a watch that wasn't about telling time, cufflinks worth a month of lower-city rent. The smile was the thing: not wide, not loud—polite, confident, inviting you to agree with him. People usually did. Under it, he carried an economy of motion that said: predator, but one who knows he looks like a saint in portraits.
"Showtime, pretty boy," Breuk said. "Go prove why you're second in command."
"When you say it, it always sounds like an insult," Lig replied, and you could hear the grin.
He slid through the tide of silk and cologne and rested by the man who mattered. Kemely wore gray like it was an award. Thick hair gone noble-white at the temples, shoes soft as whispers, that statesman's chuckle people practice in mirrors. His eyes were blue chipped from ice and set too far back. He laughed at something he'd said, then turned at the exact right moment to bump glasses with the right person. Every move was a press photo.
"And you are?" Kemely asked, lifting his flute, the vowels heavy with belonging.
"A fan," Lig said, toasting him back. "Especially of your recent thoughts on energy allocation."
Kemely's smile creased deeper. "Finally, someone who listens."
"I'm big on listening," Lig said. "Especially when the words move money."
From the bar's shadow, Tara lifted her finger to her ear. "He's biting," she breathed, the corner of her mouth ticking.
Lig let the conversation follow Kemely's script for thirty seconds—admire, align, amuse—then turned it toward a door his palm happened to brush. "Place like this, feels criminal not to get some air," he said, easy as a suggestion. "Roof terrace any good?"
Kemely laughed the way men laugh when they think they're still the interesting one in the room. "Follow me."
A waiter started after them with ingrained reflex. Tara swayed into him at the exact wrong time with an apologetic gasp and a very real splash of red on starched white. "Oh! Clumsy me. Let me fix that, please—house will kill me if you drip," she said, taking his elbow, already steering him toward a napkin station, already tugging a bottle of club soda from nowhere. The waiter sputtered. Tara's smile stayed two degrees warmer than necessary. The hairpin in her bun glinted. By the time he remembered to be annoyed, he'd been cleaned, smoothed, and sent to fetch something else.
On the terrace the air had teeth. Wind dragged at the edges of sound and tugged the cigarette from its ash. The city was all around—a canyon of light and steel and the slow pulse of the Reactor-Sun bleeding through haze. Kemely took a drag, blew it sideways, and appraised Lig with a fresh set of eyes.
"You're not like the usual guests," he said.
"They all say that," Lig said, and for a second let the mask slip just enough to show the steel under the silk. "Usually before it gets serious."
Behind them, the door thunked shut. Klack. Kemely turned, frowning. The handle refused to give. Tara stood inside the glass, arms folded, face composed into something between bored and professional. Her eyes said: don't.
"What is this?" Kemely said. For the first time, the voice lost its microphone softness.
Lig stepped in, close enough to be a friend, hand light on Kemely's shoulder. "You've got a vote coming," he said, conversational. "On whether to expand the western industrial corridor in the undercity."
"That's parliamentary," Kemely said. "I can't just—"
"You can," Lig said, gentle. "And you will."
Tara leaned against the frame, little weight, whole threat. Her dress didn't move; her attention didn't waver. Below, the ballroom kept shimmering like a fish.
Lig's breath smoked in the cold. He lowered his voice until it was almost intimate. "I admire discretion," he said. "Especially during your late nights at Eos."
Kemely froze. The ember at the end of his cigarette clung to ash and decided not to drop. "How did you—"
"Let's say we know enough to make sure your wife doesn't," Lig said, still smiling with his eyes. "Or your donors. Or your righteous colleagues. You can imagine the headlines better than I can."
The wind tried to erase the silence. It failed. Kemely's face worked through options and came up empty. Sweat found a line down his temple, quick and ungraceful.
"I'll vote no," he said. "All right? I'll vote no."
"Good man," Lig said. Sincerity you could sell tickets for.
Breuk's voice crackled in the ear, flat with urgency. "Heads up. Limar says you've got two suits coming your way."
Limar broke in, breath quick. "Movement on the stairs. Thirty seconds."
"Copy," Lig said. He turned back to the senator. "One last thing."
Kemely started to ask what. Lig's fist answered. It was a clean punch—no theatrics, no enthusiasm, just the correct amount of force applied to the correct piece of jaw. Kemely's eyes went wide at the idea of it, then shut on the reality. He folded like an expensive chair.
"Sorry, Senator," Lig said, catching the body by the lapels and easing it down. "Democracy's filthy work."
He vaulted the terrace rail. The gap to the next roof looked worse than it was. Limar's rope snaked out of shadow, already anchored to a vent. "C'mon, c'mon," Limar hissed, lean body braced, cap backwards now, teeth bright.
Lig caught the rope, slid, hit gravel, rolled to take the bite off his knees. Tara swung after him, skirt snapping in the wind, landing like she'd practiced in heels because of course she had. She tucked the hem under, ran at a sprint. Breuk was already moving along the ridge-line with that unfussy economy of his, body and bike both built for bad angles, though the bike wasn't invited to parties like this.
They went roof-to-roof in a jag of neon, dropped onto a fire stair, cut through a maintenance corridor that smelled like melted plastic, and came out two levels down where the city pretended to be a street.
The car was there: a black slab with more engine than body, canopy rolled back to turn it into a open mouth. Tev had one elbow hooked over the wheel and a cigarette tucked behind one ear—unlit, always unlit—because the habit was the ritual and the ritual was the calm. Tev was big in a way that made furniture think twice. Jacket stretched across shoulders built by labor, not gyms; hands like tools left out in the weather; eyes soft-brown and steady as door hinges. He was the quiet in the crew, the anchor that didn't boast about being heavy.
"Get in," he said, and even his gravel voice was kind.
They piled. Tara slid into the back and kicked off one shoe because that's how you keep your balance on a hard turn; Limar dove in after, hauling the rope in and letting it tangle on the floor. Breuk dropped in last, breath fogging, helmet off now, hair plastered, the scar hard white against wet skin. Lig thumped the door with the heel of his hand twice—go.
Tev went. The car's rear fishtailed on the slick, caught. Lights stuttered in the mirrors: white strobes becoming blue becoming nothing as Tev took corners that didn't know they were corners until he named them. The city opened in front of him like a puzzle he'd solved yesterday.
"Anyone wanna tell me what we just bought for ourselves?" Tev asked, eyes never leaving the dark ahead.
"A no vote," Lig said, breathing even. He straightened his tie like a joke. "And a little privacy."
Limar snorted. "That punch was art."
"Art is what Tara does to circuit boards," Lig said. "That was carpentry."
Tara was already pulling the comms rig out of her ear, fingers moving to inventory the disguise, check the pins, the hidden tools. Lipstick smudged. Eyes sharp as ever. "Next time one of you two goes in a dress," she said. "I'm writing that into the plan."
"You'd rock a suit," Breuk said.
He said it like a truth, not a compliment. Tara's mouth did a thing that might have been a smile if you knew her.
Sirens bled into the road ahead and then away. The Heights were good at sounding like security while meaning reputation. It made a different kind of pressure than bullets, but pressure all the same.
"Valeris's party won't forget us," Limar said, letting his head thump back against the seat. He ran a hand through his hair, flicked water onto the floor. "You see those light rigs? Cost more than my mama's whole block."
Lig looked out at the city where glass made new skies and the Reactor-Sun pretended to be a star. "People only remember the wrong details," he said. "They'll talk about the wine. Not the vote."
Breuk didn't answer. He watched his own gloved fingers find the seam on his mechanical forearm and press at it like you push a bruise to make sure it still hurts. In the mirror, his eyes found Lig's for half a breath. Whatever passed between them fit in that breath and was gone.
Tev took them off the marquee roads and into the spine—service lanes, freight ramps, the nervous system of the Heights. When he drove, the whole car felt like it was exhaling.
The city thinned from swag to steel. Music fell behind them and left only the reactor hum and the whisper of tires on wet. Tev's hands were easy on the wheel. Lig loosened his collar and checked his knuckles, which had not bruised, because he'd learned long ago how not to bruise himself. Tara pushed a strand loose from her bun back into order and counted hairpins by touch. Limar dug in the glove box for gum and found a wrench and looked pleased anyway.
Breuk looked up through the windshield where the glass cut the world into manageable rectangles, and for a second he saw the ballroom again—reflected gold, soft promises, a man in a clean suit pretending to deserve any of it.
"Good view," he echoed, and the scar twitched like it wanted to smile.
The car was an old armored brick with a grudging engine and a new set of plates; it ate the road the way tired men eat dinner. Smoke curled out the half-cracked passenger window, then flattened back inside with the slipstream.
"Don't really get it," he said, eyes on the black ahead. "Why'd the guy have to vote no? More industry down there means more jobs, right?" Tev said after a while
From the back, one leg crossed over the other, Lig didn't even bother looking up. pale hair pushed back, the kind of smile you hear in a voice before you see it. "Because jobs don't mean much if they're paid to the wrong address," he said, calm as a weather report.
Tev huffed. "Sounds like politics."
"It is," Lig said. "Our client sits mid-tiers. If expansion goes west now, all that freight moves through his competitor's lanes. They've already got the trucks, the permits, the friends. He needs breathing room—two, three years—to lay his own roads."
Limar made his straw squeal between his teeth and then caught himself. He was all angles and nerves in a mechanic's cap, the kind of small that took up a whole room by refusing to apologize. Grease lived in the cuticles of his fingers no matter how much he scrubbed. "So it's rich guys playing chess again."
Tara peeled off the satin gloves that came with the dress and dropped them onto her tool bag. The black dress didn't change what she was: a medic who fixed machines and a mechanic who stitched flesh. "Same game. New board."
Lig's smile warmed by half a degree. "And we're the pieces they move before they sacrifice them."
Breuk watched the streets climb the glass in the passenger side view. He said nothing. A cigarette died between two fingers and he didn't notice. His left forearm—plates of brushed metal and ugly weld—caught the neon and threw it back in a patient shimmer. His jaw flexed once when Lig finished talking, a small muscle under the cheekbone betraying a thought he didn't want.
He talks like it's his game.
Lig felt the look, let it land, and gave him a smile that was more tooth than warmth. The car took a long curve; the city fell away into scaffolds and service lanes, and the reactor hummed like a god snoring through its own sermon.