She names a figure so obscene I feel it in my ovaries.
I hesitate for exactly one heartbeat.
“Done.”
My bank node pings in protest as I transfer the funds, but I ignore it. Money comes and goes. Beauty, however—beauty haunts you. And these heels? They could resurrect the dead and have them begging for styling appointments.
The woman unlocks the case and retrieves the box with reverence. “You don’t want a bag.”
“No,” I say, tucking the box under my arm like it’s a newborn. “I want everyone to know.”
She snorts and waves me off.
Back outside, the air hits me like a warm slap. I head back the way I came, slower now. I can feel eyes on me, like the district senses weakness in my swagger. But I don’t care. I’ve got the shoes. I’ve got the damn shoes. If someone tries to rob me, they’re getting a mouthful of stiletto.
I pass the same churro cart—still not brave enough to look closer—and then the alley tightens again into the bottleneck between two stacked apartment blocks. I hear the sound ofbroken glass crunching under someone else’s step, but I don’t turn my head. Tourists flinch. Natives keep walking.
Then—just ahead, off to the right—I hear it.
Raised voices.
Two male. Aggressive, sharp.
I pause, hand tightening on the box.
“—told you I needed more time?—”
“That’s not how Otto does business.”
Otto?
My breath catches.
Before I can take another step,plasma firelights up the alley.
A single bolt. Quick and brutal. The hiss-snap of it sizzles through the air, echoing off concrete and neon.
I stop. Dead in my tracks.
The scent hits me a second later—ionized air and something sharper underneath. Something that smells like a welding torch and the end of someone’s life.
I don't move. I don’t breathe. I just stand there, heart pounding, fingers clenched tight around the shoebox, afraid to turn my head.
I duck instinctively, knees folding fast as I sink behind the side of a rusted refuse bin, heart thudding in my ears like a drum line on stimulants.
The box presses into my chest—Dolce & Goblonnox, now a stupid luxury anchor. I hold it tighter anyway, like clinging to a dream makes it real.
There’s a chain-link fence ahead, bent and peeling, with gaps where the metal's rusted away completely. I crawl toward it, grit scraping my palms, the alley’s wet filth seeping into my leggings. The scent is stronger now—burnt copper and scorched ozone, like a dying machine.
I find a crack wide enough to see through and press my face to it.
Two figures. One on the ground, one standing tall and too relaxed for what he’s just done.
The guy on the ground is barely more than a heap now—human, trembling, clothes ragged and hands lifted in a last-ditch, pitiful gesture of mercy. His voice warbles, thin and desperate. “Please, Saul, I’m beggin’ you, just gimme another week—Otto don’t have to know, I swear?—”
The name hits me like a spark.Saul. Otto. This isn’t some random alley shakedown. This is Nine business.
And the one towering over him—oh stars, he’s even worse than I imagined.
