“They want us isolated.”
I lead her into the access corridor behind the secure server room—a concrete throat lined with frost-coated pipes and dull, flickering lights. The air smells like coolant and panic.
Then we hear it.
A breath.
Just one.
Soft.
Too soft.
We spin at the same time, weapons raised.
She fires first. A searing bolt of violet crashes into the wall—missing the cloaked assassin by inches. He flickers into view, crouched low, blade already mid-swing.
I lunge.
He’s fast. Faster than anything outside Reaper-born training should be. He twists under my strike, blade kissing my ribs, but I catch his wrist with a spur and twist until something snaps. He grunts, tries to retreat, but Aria’s already there—her shock baton slamming into his throat.
He seizes. Drops.
No time to breathe.
Three more come in through the ceiling vent—silent, precise. The first two rush Aria. I intercept the third. My glaive unfolds in my grip like a promise. We clash in the narrow corridor, sparks and bone and steel turning the world into a screaming blur of motion.
I take a cut to my thigh.
Another across my shoulder.
But I don’t slow.
I drive the glaive through the assassin’s chest, twisting as I slam him into the concrete. He twitches once, then goes still.
I turn—and my blood runs cold.
One of them’s got Aria by the throat.
She’s struggling—boot kicking, elbow jamming backward, but he’s strong. Augmented. His blade is rising?—
I don’t think.
I throw myself between them.
Pain.
White-hot.
The blade punches into my side—just above the hip, between the ribs. It sinks deep. Too deep. My breath stutters. My vision flares white.
But I don’t stop.
I wrap one arm around the bastard’s neck and drag him back, pinning him to the wall with my full weight. He struggles. I drive my elbow into his temple. Once. Twice. Until he slumps.
And then I’m falling.
The world tilts.
