Xander looked up at the fat man, not a care in his eyes. The offer was not something he cared for.
The silence that followed felt thick. Every guest, every waiter, every district owner leaned forward as the next breath from Xander's mouth would decide the next decade of the Gambit's power.
He felt their stares like physical pressure against his skin.
He felt the King's masked gaze most of all—patient, unblinking, ancient.
Xander exhaled once through his nose.
Then turned on his heel.
No flourish. No parting shot. No glance toward the stage.
He simply walked.
The crowd parted instinctively, a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses splitting before him like tall grass in wind.
Richard's voice cracked behind him.
"Xander."
He kept walking.
"Xander Kortez!"
The shout carried the raw edge of a man unused to being ignored in his own banquet hall.
Xander pushed both heavy oak doors open with flat palms. A rush of frigid courtyard air rolled in—carrying snowflakes and the faint metallic bite of the ventilation shafts high above.
He stepped through.
The doors thudded shut with a finality that swallowed every sound behind him.
Outside, the courtyard lay empty and hushed.
Paper lanterns bobbed on iron hooks, throwing trembling orange pools across flagstones already dusted white. Snow fell in lazy, fat flakes—some of it real, sifted down from the surface through the massive air-exchange towers; some of it manufactured by the district's weather grid to match the season topside.
Xander tilted his head back.
The false night sky arched overhead—black cavern ceilings and pinprick LEDs as well as wet dripstone pretending to be stars.
He closed his eyes.
A sudden, sharp tug pulsed in his chest.
Maria.
Alone.
With Lawrence.
The image arrived uninvited: her small frame rigid in that glass penthouse, jaw set, while Lawrence smiled with too many teeth and promised things no one should ever promise.
Xander's fingers curled slowly into fists.
He had let her go.
Told himself Lawrence feared him enough not to cross that final line.
Half-hearted trust.
The taste of regret was bitter and familiar, like old blood.
He opened his eyes.
"No," he muttered to the empty courtyard. "She's not helpless."
He had taught her better than that.
He had to believe it.
Wind stirred lazily around his ankles, lifting snowflakes into tiny spiralling ghosts.
He crouched once, knees bending, coat flaring as wind coiled around his legs, and launched.
A low thump of displaced air rolled outward as he streaked upward. He cleared the border in a single clean arc, wind screaming past his ears, tearing at the borrowed suit's cuffs.
He didn't look back.
He never did.
He angled north-east, skimming rooftops, letting the wind carry him over district boundary lines no ordinary citizen would dare cross without papers or a very large bribe. After ten minutes he dropped silently onto the flat gravel roof of a derelict tenement block in a closed, broken-down sector, far enough from the banquet lights that the glow was only a faint smear against the false horizon.
No lights in the windows below.
No heat signatures.
He slipped through a rusted service hatch, dropped into the top-floor hallway, boots soft against warped floorboards.
Apartment 4-F.
The lock he had bought still remained untouched.
He pushed inside.
Dark. Musty. Faint smell of mildew overlaid with ancient cigarette smoke.
He slid the deadbolt. Hooked the chain. Wedged a broken chair under the knob for good measure.
Then crossed to the single window and yanked the heavy blackout curtains closed with a dusty rasp.
Only then did some of the tension bleed from his shoulders.
He peeled off the suit jacket—expensive wool now wrinkled and smelling faintly of other people's cologne—and dropped it over the sagging couch.
Shirt. Tie. Dress shoes.
Until he stood in plain black hoodie, worn cargo pants, scuffed boots.
From behind the couch he tugged out the thin roll-up mat. He spread it in the corner farthest from the window.
Sank cross-legged.
From the battered backpack on the floor he pulled one of Maria's notebooks. Pages swollen, margins bleeding ink, corners dog-eared.
He flipped to the latest entry.
Scanned.
Crossed out three lines in sharp, irritated strokes.
Rewrote them tighter.
Then pulled his phone.
Mutation studies. DNA recombination charts. Late-stage splicing side-effects. Black-market surgical logs from clinics that didn't officially exist.
He scrolled slowly.
Every few minutes he paused.
Pen scratched.
Arrows drawn between pages.
A chemical formula circled.
A question mark stabbed next to a gene sequence.
Hours slipped past.
He didn't notice. He wasn't good at this, not as good as her, but he could do at least this much while he was free.
The only sounds were his breathing, the scratch of the pen, and the soft patter of snow against the blackout curtains.
***
Maria ran until her lungs burned and her thighs trembled.
She ran until the day flipped to night and flipped again.
She lost count.
Time was a suggestion at best.
Eventually the streets grew quieter, buildings taller, neon dimmer.
She scaled a half-finished skyscraper on the Kingdom's western edge using ropes, claws, and sheer spite.
Reached the gravel roof.
Collapsed onto her stomach.
Chest heaving.
Gravel bit into her palms.
She rolled onto her back and stared up.
The moon hung fat and indifferent above the jagged mountains that marked the northern end.
Beyond those peaks lay the lands of the unknown, a forsaken place of chaos.
Then she saw it.
A blinding pillar of white-blue light erupted from a peak of the mountains afar.
Not lightning.
Not fire.
Something surgical. Something cold and deliberate.
It burned for perhaps four seconds.
Then vanished as though it had never existed.
Seconds later a thin black thread of smoke began curling up from the mountain's base—barely visible against dark stone. A lone building of sorts, too far to make out other than looking like a large block.
Maria's breath caught.
"What the actual fuck…?"
She pushed onto her elbows.
Heart loud in her ears.
Experiment?
Weapon test?
Someone digging?
Or something being buried?
She chewed her lip until it bled.
Part of her wanted to sprint back into the Gambit's embrace. Find Xander. Bury her face in his jacket. Spill everything: the fight, the fall, Lawrence's scream as acid ate through rubber skin and muscle beneath.
He would listen.
He always did.
Even when his face said he didn't care.
But the other part—the part that had read anatomy books at five, dissected her first person at seven, learned which chemicals could cure even the rarest infections and diseases by eight—whispered:
'You ran.'
'Finish what you started.'
She exhaled a shaky plume.
"Okay," she muttered. "Okay. Lay low. Few days. Cash. Regroup."
She rolled onto her knees and pulled the staff from her pack.
Metal cold enough to burn.
She flicked it open—click-click-click—until the fabric wings snapped wide.
She looked down.
The northern kingdom glittered beneath her: neon veins, black and silver towers, rivers of moving headlights.
Somewhere out there was a football stadium.
Big.
Crowded.
Drunk.
Easy.
She stepped to the edge.
Wind tore at her hood.
She leaned forward and spread out her arms.
The fall turned to glide.
Cold air roared past.
She angled toward the stadium's distant floodlights.
The journey took hours—long, silent swoops across districts, occasional thermals pushing her higher, occasional downdrafts forcing corrections.
Snow thickened as she descended.
By the time she aimed for a low warehouse roof three hundred meters from the stadium, two inches of white had already settled.
She landed hard.
Boots skidded.
She dropped to a crouch behind an exhaust stack.
Chest heaving.
Snowflakes clung to her lashes.
The stadium loomed ahead—massive concrete bowl lit by security floods. Banners snapped. Red and gold team colours everywhere.
Game had ended maybe ninety minutes ago.
Crowds still trickled out main gates—scarves, jerseys, plastic cups crunching underfoot.
Laughter rolled across the lot.
Drunk. Loose. Happy.
Perfect.
She waited until a large group passed beneath a flickering streetlamp.
Then moved.
She slipped into the flow of stragglers.
Hood up. Head down. Hands in pockets.
Just another fan heading home.
Except she wasn't.
First mark: overweight guy in team jacket, arguing loudly on his phone.
Wallet bulging in back pocket.
Too easy.
Brush past—fingers ghost-light.
Wallet gone.
Next: woman laughing with friends, purse slung carelessly.
Match pace three steps.
Unzip.
Lift cash clip.
Gone.
She kept moving.
Never stopped.
Never looked back.
By the time she reached the far edge of the lot she had seven wallets, four phones, two watches, one expensive-looking bracelet.
More than enough.
She ducked behind a delivery van.
Counted quickly under the sodium glow.
Tucked everything into inner pockets and started walking toward the cheaper motels on the district.
Snow fell thicker now—fat, wet flakes.
She shivered once.
Then straightened her spine.
"I'm fine," she told the herself.
She almost believed it.
Almost.