There’s no such thing as coincidence.
I know this even before I see her.
The Justice building’s lower archives are supposed to be secure—sealed, shielded, and silent. Yet here I am, skulking through steel halls because something gnaws at the edges of my instincts, a low static hum that prickles beneath my skin.
Then I see her.
Aria. Just stepping into the corridor, oblivious to the danger lurking like a virus in the digital shadows. Her coat flares slightly with her stride, datapad in one hand, her lips pursed in that eternal war against emotion.
And behind her—movement.
Two of them.
Cloaked in phase shimmer, just visible in the refracted light. Fast. Methodical. Not thugs this time. Not meatheads. These arespecialists.
My body moves before thought does.
I roar her name, a sound that barely registers over the sudden hiss of energy discharges. Her head turns—and in that instant, the first blast streaks through the air, aimed at her spine.
I intercept.
My forearm takes the hit, the blast punching through flesh and muscle, burning into bone. It hurts like hell. I smell scorched dermis. But it doesn't drop me.
It ignites me.
I slam into the nearest merc like a meteor, body-checking him so hard he ricochets off the steel wall with a crunch that sings in my ears. He crumples, groaning, twitching.
The other fires again.
Misses.
Aria’s screaming now, ducking for cover, the datapad shattered at her feet. Her eyes lock on mine for half a heartbeat—pure panic, pure fire.
I lunge for the second one.
He’s better. Faster. His arm cannon pulses again, searing a groove down my side. I don’t care. Pain is noise. I tackle him, fists full of synthflesh and chrome. I rip. I tear. Ibreak.
Blood—violet and black—sprays across the archive shelves. The scent is acid and oil, vile and sweet.
He gasps something in Varnox dialect.
I twist his head until it pops.
Silence falls like a guillotine.
Aria’s breath is ragged. Her knees buckle, and she catches herself on a desk corner, wide-eyed.
“You’re hurt,” she whispers, voice cracking.
I look down. My forearm is wrecked. Charred meat over fractured exoskeletal structure. It pulses with pain, but I don’t flinch.
“I’ve had worse,” I rasp, stepping toward her.
She doesn’t retreat.
Instead, she reaches out—hesitant fingers brushing against my uninjured shoulder. That touch anchors me more than I expect. I’m still trembling, not from rage… but from whatalmosthappened.
If I’d been late...
