Saul is Grolgath, all lumpy lavender skin and overconfident posture. His suit looks like it was designed by someone hallucinating luxury: gleaming gold pinstripes, electric blue trim, and lapels that could double as weapons. He’s chewing gum, blowing a bubble like he’s bored to tears. He’s not looking at the man like a killer—he’s looking at him like a parking ticket.
Then I see what’s in his hand.
It’s not a gun. It’s worse. A white orb pulsing with pink light—the kind of pink that doesn’t belong in nature. A micro fusion block. No trigger. No aim. Just energy and instant regret.
My breath catches in my throat.
“Too late, slug,” Saul says, his voice pure sleaze wrapped in smug. “Uncle Otto says no more chances. Makes us look soft.”
He tosses the gum aside and activates the fusion block.
The man on the ground doesn’t even have time to scream properly. There’s a whump of energy, then a light so hot and bright it stings my retinas through the fence. The sound is like metal screaming—then silence. Nothing left but a smear on the pavement and the echo of a life erased.
I gasp.
It’s instinctual, too sharp, too loud.
Saul’s head whips up. He squints. Looks toward the fence.
My heart explodes in my chest.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
I don’t think—I move.
Shoebox be damned—I fling it behind me, the corner catching the edge of the bin with a crunch. The heels go flying, a sparkling burgundy arc in the neon dark.
Sorry, darlings.
I bolt.
My boots slam into the wet ground, splashing filth behind me as I run like every mistake I’ve ever made is chasing me. My lungs burn, my legs scream, but I don’t stop. Glindora’s narrow alleys blur past—flashes of gaudy lights and oblivious bystanders. I slam into a vendor’s cart, send glowing fish crackers flying, and keep going. People shout after me, angry, confused. I don’t look back.
Somewhere behind me, a voice calls out—deep, slurred. Saul? Someone else?
I don’t wait to find out.
Sirens wail.
Real ones. Authority-grade.
Blue arcs of light cut through the haze up ahead. A patrol hover lifts off from a roof, drawing a sleek circle above the block like a predator bird.
I hit the next turn, nearly fall, grab a railing, and pivot down a side stairway that dumps me onto a lower service corridor. It smells worse here—wet synthfur and alley stew—but I barely register it. My whole body’s gone full survival autopilot.
A wall of black-and-silver uniforms block the exit.
Law enforcement.
Alliance Police.
I try to stop, but momentum carries me straight into one of them. The officer grabs me before I can fall, his visor reflective, unreadable.
“Citizen, stop. You match a fleeing profile from the Glindora incident. Are you armed?”
“I’m—what? No, I?—”
Another officer flanks me, weapon holstered but hand ready.
