We move. Two cloaked figures slide beside us—veteran operatives, silent. I hold the tracker tight. I give commands in whispers: “Team two, cover the transit bay. Team three, guard the rear. Team Alpha moves in.”
We breach the chamber. It’s smaller than the schematics say. Humid air presses in. A single lamp flickers overhead. Verin is bound, collapsed in a chair, gagged. The enemy operatives swivel as we come in—automatic weapons raised.
The firefight sparks in micro-bursts. Muzzle-flash, the staccato crack. The scuff of boots on concrete. The smell of burned insulation. I charge, grapple, punch. My vision tunnels. One operative goes down. Two more fall. The rescued man coughs, eyes wild.
But then the rear guard drops into place—they’rebrought in by the rival syndicate’s heavy hitters. I whirl. My ribs crack with the force of a punch to my side. Pain blooms like a supernova.
But I don’t stop.
No. Not tonight.
I plant a boot on the heavy hitter’s chest and yank out a stun bar. The man collapses. I catch myself against the wall, rib burning like hot coal under skin.
Garkin grabs Verin. “Move!”
I reach for Ben’s tracker in my pocket (I spent weeks hiding it there). I don’t call it—kid’s asleep, deserves normal. But I will: I will call him when it’s done.
Extraction. We storm out. The tunnels echo with steps, scramble, collapse. The radiator hiss. I taste copper blood in my mouth. I smell fear and relief blended like bad synth-wine.
We cross into the fresh air just as the sirens wail. I don’t run. I limp. My vision blurs. I see the roof’s edge. I stumble up the ladder. The rooftop garden is empty. Quiet.
I lean on a railing, ribs screaming. The night air hits me, cold and immediate.
Verin’s alive. The syndicate stalled. We bought time.
But something inside cracks.
I stay facing the city. The lights are distant now. Their shimmer less reassuring.
I reach into my pocket. I pull out a data chip. It holds the records I promised—charter documents for the orphanage grants, the restructuring proposals, the dissolution orders for the smuggling lanes. I hold it out in my palm. The mission tonight justifies it.
But I can’t hand it out. Not yet.
I slide the chip into my pocket.
I sit, silently, until the city beneath pulses and breathes.
Morning again.I walk into the classroom. My ribs still burn. I try to stand straight, but I’m off-balance. I fake it.
Ben waves. “Mr. K!” he calls.
I smile. “Morning, little boss.”
He beams. I adjust my sweater sleeves. My side aches like hell but I focus on the light in the room: kids pressing glitter crowns, hearing giggles, seeing colored paper stars shift in sunlight.
I catch Kairo at the back, checking something on her compad. She glances up, sees me. I nod. She nods back—brief, guarded.
Principal Jennings approaches. “Mr. Kuraken,” she says quietly. “May I speak with you after class?”
I nod. I know.
I spend the rest of the session conducting the class play rehearsal. I’m in high gear. I improvise when a prop falls. I laugh when the cupcake hat tilts. I let the kids ad-lib. I let them feel free.
And for that hour, I forget the tunnels. I forget the ribs. I forget the syndicate.
It’s just me. And them. And the moment.
When the bell rings, the kids scatter. I gather the props. I see Ben look at me, first with admiration, then with something like... wonder.
