That subtle press of air pressure shifting, the hairs on the back of my neck rising like soldiers to a silent alarm. The conference room is quiet, save for the low buzz of holoscreens preparing the deposition overlays. My lieutenants are gone. Aria is late. It’s just me, a pair of government clerks, and an atmosphere too tight for its own skin.
I glance at the reflection on the data wall.
A shadow moves—fast, predatory. Another follows, angled low like a beast on the hunt. But there’s no footfall. No heat signature. Cyborgs.
Nar’Vosk isn’t playing anymore.
My voice drops to a low growl. “Clear the room.”
The clerks blink, confused.
“Now,” I snarl.
Too late.
Glass explodes inward. Not from bullets—from shockwave disruptors, tiny, high-frequency bursts designed to liquify bone and fry electronics. The windows spiderweb, rain down like crystalline daggers.
I’m already moving.
My shirt tears open as I roll behind the table, bone spurs erupting from my shoulders in a hiss of white-hot agony. The transformation is always violent. Always raw. It reminds me of what I am beneath the suits and cigars.
Reaper.
I grab the ceremonial glaive mounted on the wall—decorative, they said. For show, they said.
It hums to life in my grip, the sonic edge screaming as it slices through air, hungry.
The first cyborg comes into view—matte black armor, glowing red lenses, dual blasters humming. Precision death. A whisper of his metal heel against the tile is all I need.
I launch.
We collide midair. My glaive bites into his neck. Sparks fly. His head doesn't roll—itshatters,pieces embedding in the nearest wall like metal hail.
The second is smarter. Flanks me. Pulse-blade out. It slices my ribs—hot, sharp, but not deep. My spurs retaliate, catching his arm, tearing through composite plating like parchment.
He tries to scream. His voice is modulated static.
I twist, slam him into the floor with enough force to crater the tile. My teeth find his throat.
Cyborgs don’t bleed the same as organics. Their fluids smell like ozone and rot.
The room reeks of it.
I stand over the wreckage, panting, violet fluid slicking my chest. Emergency sirens wail distantly.
I don’t feel the pain yet.
I feel something else.
Fury.
Satisfaction.
And one sharp thought cutting through it all—Aria.
If she had been here...
They’re escalating. And I’m done playing defense.
