Neon makes everything look prettier than it is.
Blood softer. Lies smoother. Turns rot into something almost romantic if you squint hard enough and don't breathe too deep.
I'm lying flat against a rooftop that's seen better centuries, cheek pressed to cold stone veined with something that used to be marble before the city forgot how to take care of itself. There's rain earlier tonight—still clinging in shallow cracks, catching the glow of signage below. Pink. Acid blue. The whole place looks like it's trying to seduce you while picking your pockets.
Cute.
I adjust my grip, slow and deliberate, letting the world narrow down to the line of sight.
Wind's light. Good. Less to compensate for.
Below me, Calypsoris hums—restless, loud, alive in the way a body is alive right before it dies. Music spills from open windows, too bright, too desperate. Somewhere a siren wails and gets swallowed whole by the city before it can mean anything.
And there—finally.
My mark steps into view. A middle-aged dealer with a waist the size of a barrel. Ugly. Filthy rich. And now?
As good as dead.
Right on time.
"Was starting to think you stood me up," I mutter, more for myself than anything. "Would've been rude."
He's flanked by two guards, all sharp suits and sharper eyes, walking like they own the ground they step on. I settle the rifle into my shoulder, exhale slow.
This part? This is the easy one.
The world tightens.
Noise fades.
Everything reduces to distance, angle, breath.
I track him as he moves under a flickering streetlight. The glow cuts across his face just enough for confirmation. Same arrogant tilt of the chin. Same careless way he exposes his throat when he laughs.
Yeah. That's him alright.
My finger rests against the trigger, not pressing yet. Rushing gets messy, and I don't do messy unless I'm being paid extra.
"Alright," I whisper. "Let's make this pretty."
A beat.
Another.
Then—
I pull.
The recoil kisses back, sharp and familiar, and somewhere far below, the man drops mid-step like someone cut his strings. Clean. Immediate. No theatrics. Just one moment he exists, the next he doesn't.
Perfect.
I watch the aftermath through the scope, confirming. Not out of fascination or interest. This was just a way to pay the bills and some high-quality fast food (including ingredients no one could even pronounce).
I see the usual: guards scrambling, people screaming. That delayed wave of panic rippling outward like a stone thrown into water. It's almost beautiful, the way chaos organizes itself.
And there it is—that tiny, fragile second where no one knows where it came from. That's my favorite part.
I move fast, breaking the rifle down with practiced ease. Hands steady. Efficient. No wasted motion. By the time the first sirens start to mean something, I'm already a shadow peeling away from the rooftop.
Another job done.
Another name that won't be spoken past tonight.
I sling the case over my shoulder and head for the fire escape, boots hitting metal with a soft clang that gets swallowed by the city like everything else.
People like to think what I do is complicated.
Moral. Heavy. But it's not. It's simple.
You point. You breathe. You pull.
And if you're good enough—
You don't miss.
That's presumably a reason why being a hired gun has become more popular than ever in the past few years. Many clients, many targets. A ton of money if you're skilled enough and can stomach the sight. That, and the fact that finding a decent job with regular pay—and isn't illegal in any way, shape or form— is about as easy as finding gold in this economy.
About thirty minutes later I found myself snaking through the crowd in the Flucks-Club, moving toward Becks, who had already nodded at me, yet still stayed on the pole.
The place was packed—bodies pressed too close, heat clinging to skin.
Gold filigree crawled up the walls, half-baroque, half-burnt-out dream, while lights pulsed in time with bass that hit somewhere between your ribs and your bad decisions.
I slipped through it easy.
People moved for me without realizing they were doing it—instinct, not politeness. A glance here, a brush of my shoulder there. A smile that lingered just long enough to distract. It helps, looking like I do—not to brag.
My boots hit the edge of the stage with a dull thud, and I leaned against it like I had nowhere better to be.
Becks didn't miss a beat.
Pink hair catching the light like a halo drenched in sin, glitter tracing every line of her curvy body as she spun and dipped with practiced ease. Men watched her like they'd forgotten how to breathe. Easy money.
She caught my eye mid-turn, smirked.
"Miss me, Ash?" she asked, voice smooth even as she hung upside down like gravity was optional.
"Desperately," I shot back. "Was starting to think you replaced me with someone prettier."
She dropped down in one fluid motion, landing right in front of me, close enough that most people would've mistaken it for something intimate.
"Please," she said, rolling her eyes. "I have standards."
"Ouch."
Her lips twitched. That was about as affectionate as Becks got in public.
Up close, she was all glitter and sharp edges. People liked to forget that part. They saw the curves, the smile, the way she moved—and missed the fact that she could gut them without ruining her manicure.
I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze trail over the swarm of people before turning back to Becks. I caught a note of her cheap perfume mixed with the biting smell of cigarettes. "Busy night."
"It's always a busy night," she sighed. "Half the city's celebrating something, the other half's trying to forget it."
"Which half are you?"
She gave me a look. "I'm working."
Fair.
A guy stumbled past us, drunk enough to think proximity meant permission. His hand twitched toward her waist.
He didn't even get close.
Becks caught his wrist mid-air, grip light but final, and smiled at him—sweet, dazzling, deadly.
"Try again," she mused softly, "and I'll take the hand."
He laughed like it was a joke.
I didn't.
He must've seen something in my face, because he backed off real quick, disappearing into the crowd like he'd suddenly remembered somewhere else to be.
Becks let go, unbothered, and turned back to me like nothing happened.
"Anyway," she said, brushing imaginary dust off her thigh, "heard something interesting."
"Yeah?" I leaned in slightly, more to hear her over the music than anything else. "You gossiping now?"
"I spread the word," Becks corrected, jerking her chin up in a way that had the light reflect off her septum piercing. "There's a difference."
"Of course there is."
She tapped one glittered, long acrylic nail against my chest, right over my heart. "Your client? He's planning something bigger than your usual point and shoot."
I hummed, taking in each little detail in her expression. The slight arch of her thin brows. The tug of the corners of her soft mouth. "That so."
"Bio-weapon level big."
That got my attention.
Not visibly—I'm not that easy—but something in my posture sharpened, just a fraction.
"Where'd you hear that?" I asked.
Becks shrugged one shoulder. "Same place I hear everything. Men talk when they think no one's listening." A pause. "Or when they think the person listening doesn't matter."
Idiots.
"Figures," I muttered.
She studied me for a second, eyes narrowing just slightly. Becks didn't miss much.
"You're not surprised," she said.
"I'm not paid to be surprised."
"Mm." Becks leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to cut through the noise. "Just don't get yourself killed over something that smells like that."
I huffed a quiet laugh. "You worried about me now?"
"Don't flatter yourself." A beat. Then, softer—almost hidden. "Just don't be stupid."
Too late for that.
I pushed off the stage, straightening. "I'll keep it in mind."
"Do that," she said, already turning back toward the pole. "I hate finding new people."
"Heartbreaking," I called after her, chuckling to myself.
She flipped me off over her shoulder without missing the rhythm.
I slipped back into the crowd, letting it swallow me whole again. Around me, deals were being made in corners, credits changing hands, information traded like currency. Crime wasn't hidden here—it was the atmosphere. The baseline. You didn't avoid it.
You breathed it.
My comm buzzed against my wrist. I glanced down.
Unknown ID. Private line. I answered.
"Yeah?"
A pause. Then a voice—smooth, controlled, expensive. "Mr. Blythe," it said. "Your presence is required."
I smirked, already heading for the staircase.
"Is that so?"
"My office. Now."
I arrived at the second floor, neon swapping for something colder, quieter.
"Funny," I said, pulling my jacket straight. "I was just about to collect."
The line went dead.
The office was exactly where you'd expect it to be.
Hidden in plain sight, tucked neatly behind the club's throbbing heart like a secret too expensive to be called one. I didn't slow down for it. Just slipped past the velvet rope, ignored the broad-shouldered guy pretending not to watch me, and moved down a narrow hallway where the music thinned into something distant and muffled, like the club had decided to hold its breath for a moment. The bass still pressed against the walls, but here it wasn't a beat so much as a pulse, a reminder that the life below was still going on even if no one in here cared to look at it too closely.
The moment you stepped away from the main floor, all the glitter dropped off. That was the funniest part about places like this. Out there, everything was skin and lights and loud smiles, the kind of beauty people paid for because they didn't want to think about what was underneath it. Back here, it was all smooth marble, gold trim, polished surfaces, and the kind of silence that cost more than most people earned in a month. Calypsoris loved this sort of thing. Loved pretending elegance made it clean. Loved pretending the rot was just another design choice.
I rolled my shoulders once as I walked, the leather of my jacket creaking softly with the motion. Silver accents caught the low light every time I shifted, flashing at the edges like I'd been built to be noticed. My reflection drifted past in a mirrored panel set into the wall, and I gave it the briefest glance—bleached hair a little wild, spiked and messy in a way that looked effortless only to idiots, warm brown skin lit gold under the corridor lamps, dark eyes sharp and alive beneath lashes people always stared at a second too long. I was dressed simple, technically. Black tank, jeans, heavy boots, belt, jacket, bracelet, eyebrow piercing, gloves with spikes at the nuckles (being punched with those hurts like a bitch).
But simple never meant quiet.
That had never really been my style.
The door at the end of the hall opened before I even reached it. Of course it did. People with enough money always liked to make that kind of point. They liked to remind you that you were expected, measured, watched. I stepped through without bothering to knock, because if someone was important enough to summon me into a room like this, they were important enough to survive being mildly annoyed.
The office was all clean lines and luxury sharpened into something almost sterile. Low gold light washed over carved wall panels and a long desk of black stone, while the floor-to-ceiling glass behind it looked out over the club's main floor, tinted just enough to turn the chaos below into a pretty little abstraction. From up here, the crowd looked orderly. From up here, nobody looked desperate. Nobody looked hungry. Nobody looked like they'd slit a throat over the price of medicine or a seat at the right table. I guessed, that was always the trick. Make the ugliness too far away to smell.
There were two men inside.
One I didn't care about at all, which was obvious from the moment I looked at him. The other was sitting behind the desk with his fingers steepled, watching me arrive with that calm little expression powerful men wear when they think they've already won. My client. I stopped in front of the desk and leaned my weight onto one hip. It's a useful habit, looking relaxed in places where everyone else is trying too hard to look dangerous. Makes people underestimate you. Makes them stupid.
"Nice office," I said, dragging my gaze slowly around the room before settling it back on him. "A little understated for a man who clearly enjoys hearing himself speak, but I suppose we all have our compromises."
He didn't smile. Tragic, really.
"Mr. Blythe," he said, voice smooth enough to make me suspicious on principle. "You were efficient."
I gave him a look. "Yeah. I'm aware. It tends to be one of my more attractive qualities."
The corner of his mouth twitched, though I couldn't tell whether that meant he liked me or wanted to throw me out the nearest window. Honestly, probably both. The case he'd set on the desk in front of him was slim and matte-black, expensive in the way that tried not to look like it. I stared at it for a second before reaching out and flipping it open without asking. Credits. Clean, bundled, more than we'd originally agreed on.
Now that was interesting.
I let out a low hum, shutting the case again with a soft click. "You're being generous."
"Consider it an incentive."
"Mm." I rested my fingers over the latch for a moment longer. "Usually when people offer me incentives, it means they're about to ask for something painful."
That time he did smile, though it was thin and humorless. "Only if you prove difficult."
"Cute. You've got no idea how much that kind of flirting does for me."
The man beside the desk shifted slightly, and I let my eyes flick toward him for the briefest second. Not a threat exactly, but definitely the sort of guy who thought his hands were the most persuasive thing in the room. He was dressed well enough to pass for respectable if you didn't know better, which made him more dangerous than the obvious kinds. The obvious kinds at least had the decency to look like trouble.
I closed the case and stepped back half a pace, pacing a slow line along the front of the desk because it made people uncomfortable and I liked that. It also gave me room to think. The job was already ringing alarm bells in the back of my head, and not the useful kind. I had a feeling this wasn't just some clean theft or a little political dirty work dressed up in pretty packaging. The money was too good. The secrecy too deliberate. The atmosphere in the room had that faint, chemical edge to it that told me somebody in power wanted something badly enough to lie about it.
"So," I said lightly, glancing back at him. "What exactly am I being paid to steal? Because the way you're all standing around looking self-important makes me think this is not a regular little criminal enterprise, and I know a thing or two about those."
His expression barely changed. That alone told me plenty. "It is a containment unit," he said.
That made me stop pacing. Just for a second.
Not because I was worried. Obviously not. I was just… listening more carefully now. That's all.
"A containment unit," I repeated, tasting the words like they might be trying to insult me.
"Yes."
"And what's in it?"
No answer. At least, not immediately. The man behind the desk folded his hands more tightly, and the silence stretched just long enough for me to know that this wasn't some innocent misunderstanding. This was choice. Intent. He knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much he was not telling me.
"A viral agent," he said at last.
There it was. The little twist in the gut. The instinctive warning that something was wrong in a deeper way than usual. I looked at the chip he'd placed on the desk and then back at him, trying not to let my expression give away too much. I wasn't afraid of a virus. I wasn't stupid. But something about the way he said it, about the neatness of the room and the clean lines and the fact that nobody in here looked even remotely bothered by the word, made my skin feel a little too tight.
"Viral agent," I repeated, because apparently tonight was a night for me to say the same thing twice and hope it would become less suspicious on the second try. "That's a very fancy way of saying 'bad idea.'"
He didn't dignify that with a response.
I reached down, picked up the data chip between two fingers, and turned it once under the light. It flashed a cold little glint back at me, too innocent for what it probably carried. The room was quiet enough that I could hear the faint hum of the air system, the distant pulse of the club below, the soft rustle of one of the men shifting his stance. Everything in me wanted to keep moving, keep talking, keep the whole thing loose and easy. But beneath that, under the sarcasm and the lazy posture and the carefully built irreverence, something sharper had already started to lean forward.
Because this? This was bigger than a job.
"You're not telling me the full story," I said.
"No."
A laugh almost escaped me. "Appreciate the honesty."
He ignored that, which was probably for the best.
I slid the chip into my pocket and rested one hand on the edge of the desk. "Let me ask you something," I said, voice still light, almost amused. "How bad does this get if it goes wrong?"
He held my gaze.
"Catastrophic."
I stared at him for a beat, then smiled. Slowly. Sharp enough to cut if you got too close. Wide enough to show off my silver fang implants.
Well.
That certainly made things more interesting.
I straightened, picked up the case, and tucked it under my arm. "You know," I said, heading for the door, "most people try to sell me on a job before they tell me the apocalypse is included in the package."
His voice followed me without a hint of warmth. "You will proceed?"
I paused with my hand on the door handle and glanced back over my shoulder. "Yeah," I said, because toying with rich men is one of life's purest pleasures. "I'll proceed."
The truth was, I didn't know yet whether I was walking into a trap, a scam, or the kind of mess that got cities buried. But I knew this much already: when people with money started speaking in careful half-truths and handing out extra credits with fake calm, they were either terrified or very, very eager. And neither of those things was ever good for the people living underneath them.
I slipped back out into the hallway, the door closing behind me with a soft, final click.
The club noise rushed back in a moment later, all music and laughter and the rustle of bodies pretending they weren't trapped inside a machine built to consume them.