“You’re a fucking asshole,” Lyric groaned, but he did what he’d been told.
He reached for the cookie, biting into it with a sigh that was way too close to pleasure. His eyelids fluttered, his tongue darting out to chase crumbs at the corner of his mouth, then he licked his finger slowly, as if he couldn’t waste a speck of sugar. It was food-fucking porn, and I sat there watching every second of it, heat coiling in my gut. I was hard, shifting in the chair, wriggling a little to hide it. He put what was left of the cookie to one side, then picked at the cheese, chewing with a kind of distracted stubbornness. When he struggled with the lid of the yogurt, he shot me a scowl to warn me off. I didn’t move to help. Eventually, he got it open,finished both the cheese and the yogurt, and then, circled back to finish the cookie. Watching him eat, I felt something settle in me, like I’d provided for him. It wasn’t much, but it was something—and he’d eaten.
I took the empty plate and handed him the coffee. “Now can I talk to Jamie?” he asked.
I nodded, but before I could get up, the door slammed open and both Jamie and Levi walked in. My chest tightened. Why was Levi here? He was part of Killian’s Cave, but he was also a cop, and that label alone made my hackles rise. Cops meant authority, meant the law breathing down our necks, meant trouble. He’d already proven he could play both sides—spending half his time with Killian’s team, half with whatever badge still hung over his head. I wasn’t entirely sure which part of him I hated more. Maybe both. And fuck, I didn’t like cops. Never had, never would.
Levi looked like shit—not polished and commanding in a suit, but dressed in a ragged shirt and old jeans. He looked rougher, worn out, as if he’d been running on fumes. The fuck? This wasn’t the slick operator from Cave briefings—it was a man worn down, stripped raw, and it made me wonderwhat he’d been through before walking into our space.
I stood immediately, a wall between Lyric and both Jamie and Levi. My shoulders squared, blocking their view of him. “What’s wrong?” I demanded.
Levi didn’t bother answering me—he pointed past me at Lyric. “Him.”
ELEVEN
Lyric
Levi—tall,blond, dark eyes, scowl carved into his face, unshaven and exhausted, but still a cop. I hadn’t had the best experiences with cops; more often than not, I’d been the one slipping past them, running, evading. And yet, this man looked more homeless than boy in blue, shirt frayed, jeans worn. I couldn’t run this time, so I had to trust—hope—that maybe he was one of the good ones. And since when had I started categorizing everyone in broad strokes of good and bad? Rio was a bad guy by definition, all muscle and threat, yet under all that was a heart that beat with compassion. I thought. Not the kind worn openly like Robbie, but still there, buried deep, waiting to be seen.
“Someone tried to kill Marcus Kessler last week,” Levi said. “He’s gone public with it.”
He dropped a stack of papers onto the bed in front of me. Photos, sketches, grainy surveillance clips—my face, frozen mid-stride, caught on half a dozen cameras.
“Sent out nationwide, circulated to every precinct, every cop, every patrol car. It’s big news,” he added.
I went cold. This was a new step—Kessler wanted me, or his system did, but he’d never blatantly involved the media or law enforcement before. Wanted posters, digital bulletins, my features broadcast across the country as if I were a monster crawling out of the shadows. I stared at the images, bile rising in my throat, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe.
I shoved the photos aside and scanned the document—and right there in capitals, an AI-generated photo but no name.
“And this,” Jamie said, placing a laptop on my knees and pressing play.
It was a breaking news bulletin – grainy CCTV stills of my face during an “attempt on billionaire philanthropist Marcus Kessler’s life” and rolling across under it a redBREAKING NEWSbanner.
“We interrupt this program with developing newsout of California. Police have released surveillance images connected to an attempted murder on noted philanthropist and technology entrepreneurMarcus Kessler.”
A still frame appeared—grainy, taken from a street camera. It was me. My hair pulled back, my expression caught mid-turn. Clear enough to recognize, and my gut twisted.
“Fuck,” Rio murmured next to me.
The anchor’s voice sharpened:
“The suspect’s name is unknown at this time, and authorities are warning that he should be consideredarmed and dangerous.If you encounter this individual, please do not approach them. Call 911 immediately.” The anchor’s tone shifted, brighter, more urgent. “And now, we cross to our correspondent live at the KessTech Tower, where reclusive billionaire Marcus Kessler has released this statement.”
I felt sick. This wasn’t like the contracts the AI had put on me before—this was mobilizing a fucking country to find me. My face on screens, my name in bold letters, every precinct, every cop primed to hunt me down. And none of them knew what Kessler was really like, what a monster he truly was behind the cameras and the polished words. It twisted my gut toknow he’d turned the whole world into his weapon, and I was the target.
Then, there was Kessler. Sitting behind a desk, collar open, bandage visible at his temple. He leaned toward the camera with the practiced ease of a man who knew exactly how much fear to sell.
“I won’t be intimidated. Yes, there was an attempt on my life. Yes, this man, whoever he is, wants me silenced. But I willnotstop my work with law enforcement, intelligence agencies, and legal authorities. I will not stop protecting America from the shadows that seek to undermine it.”
The screen split—my image blurred on one side, Kessler’s solemn face on the other. The message was clear: predator and prey.
The feed flicked back to the newsroom, the anchor reeling off supposed sightings in LA and announcing a reward of five hundred thousand dollars for anyone with information. My stomach dropped. I glanced up at the others—what would that kind of money mean to them? For a flicker of a second, the thought chilled me, but then, I remembered the bounty sitting on my head on the dark web, way higher than this, and they still hadn’t turned me over. That didn’t erase the fear twisting in my chest, though—the world was being mobilized tohunt me, and the price tag on my head only made it worse.
I flinched. “Fuck,” I whispered. “I need to leave.”
“And go where?” Jamie asked.
I stared at Jamie. “Anywhere that means I get to finish what I started, stop what Kessler is doing with LyricNight, and doesn’t put other people in harm’s way.”
