Then breaks.
A shimmer moves through the crowd, too fast, too purposeful. Two figures—slim, cloaked in distortion fields, blurred at the edges like unfinished thoughts. The first flicks their hand, and a pulse of light erupts—bluewhite and mean. Disintegration wand. The kind that liquefies bone before it sears flesh.
The second unsheathes a blade humming with violet static—a pulse katana. Exquisite. Fatal.
I don’t wait.
My table flips before the kaf has time to spill. The glass explodes against the stone tiles. Juno shrieks. I shrug out of my blazer mid-motion, rolling into a low crouch as the bone spurs erupt down my arms like the unfolding of a deadly flower—ivory, jagged, singing through the air as I twist.
The wand goes off, cuts a clean hole through three patrons and part of the hedge. Screams erupt.
I’m already moving.
The first assassin swings again, but I catch the blur of their movement, drive my knee into their gut with enough force to crack synthetic ribs. They stagger. I follow with a clawed swipe that rips through their cloaking tech and part of their neck. They crumple, gurgling.
The second one is faster.
They leap—straight for me—and I spin just in time to catch the blade across my ribs. It glances off a spur, but burns.
I growl low in my throat.
My glaive is sheathed magnetically across my back. I reach for it in one smooth motion. It hums to life the moment myfingers touch it—sonic-forged, Reaper-made, every inch of it tuned to my rage.
The assassin’s eyes widen. Too late.
I sweep the glaive low, and their knees disappear. They scream, drop. I follow through, pivoting with the weight of the weapon and driving it through their chest. It pulses once—silent thunder—and their body folds around it like paper.
Silence.
Then panic.
The crowd erupts. Running. Screaming. A sea of luxury and terror, gowns catching on chairs, blood slicking the polished floor. Cameras flash. Drones buzz. Somewhere, security shouts into comms, but I don’t wait to explain.
I turn to the cameras. I want them to see.
The devil doesn’t hide.
I drop the glaive tip-first into the stone. Let it sing. Let them remember.
Then I walk away, coat trailing behind me, soaked in blood that’s not mine.
Let them come.
I’m ready.
The blood’s still hot on my skin.
I dip my hands into the basin of nanite-infused water, steam curling around my wrists like curious ghosts. The water shimmers with iridescent flickers as the machines inside hum to life, stripping away the gore, healing the shallow laceration across my ribcage where the pulse katana skimmed. The scent—antiseptic and ozone—sinks into my nose, foreign, unwelcome.
It’s not the blood that bothers me. It’s never the blood.
It’s what comes after.
I stare into the water as it stains and clears again, the nanites working double time to purify and mend. My reflection distorts,jagged around the edges. A flash of fang. Bone spur. A ripple of red eye beneath the surface.
A victim.
The word makes my jaw tighten.
