“Just for emergencies,” she says defensively.
“This counts.”
We hustle. I drag a barstool, rip off a leg, twist wiring around the metal. She wires the fusion charge with practiced fingers. Not elegant, but functional.
“You sure you’re just a news anchor?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “I’ve had a really bad week.”
We lay the trap.
I sprint left, tossing a flash grenade as I go. The room erupts in white fire. Odex moves—straight into our setup. Rhea hits the makeshift trigger. The floor buckles with a low groan and then?—
Boom.
Gravity folds like paper. The Odex drops with a roar, his body disappearing through the collapsing deck. The hold beneath is full of squirming, bioluminescent eels—live, electric, pissed off.
Screams. Hissing. Then silence.
The room breaks into applause.
“Best damn entertainment in years!” someone yells.
“Is it on the menu?” another hollers.
We don’t stay for autographs.
I grab Rhea’s hand and bolt through the service door, lungs burning, vision flickering. The pain in my shoulder’s a firestorm now.
“You’re hit,” she gasps.
“No time.”
“I said—you’re hit.”
I sag against the alley wall, dragging a hand down my chest. Blood. Too much.
“Dammit, Valtron.” She’s already at my side, ripping open her pack. “Sit. Down. Now.”
“You ordering me around?”
“Yes! Sit your seven-foot ass down or I swear I’ll tase you.”
I slump with a grunt.
She tears open a cloth packet, douses it in alcohol. “This is gonna suck.”
“I like a little pain.”
“Good. You’re about to be thrilled.”
She presses the cloth to the wound. I bite back a roar.
“You with me?” she asks.
“Still here.”
“You better stay that way.”
