—
The ride across the city feels like a wound held open.
Zay’s bike growls under me, the engine a steady vibration through my thighs, the wind pressing against my chest like a hand. Buildings whip past—graffiti and glass, old brick and new concrete, the familiar routes of a city that’s built on secrets.
Traffic parts around me. I don’t think about the red lights I run or the horns that flare in my wake. All I see is the road ahead and the image of Talia climbing out of a second-story window into the dark.
The Vipers’ headquarters sits where the old industrial district sours into the river—a converted factory, hulking and squared, its windows barred, its concrete walls tagged with layered graffiti. The Viper insignia is spray-painted across the loading bay door in a riot of greens and blacks—snake coiled around a crown.
Appropriate.
I park the bike across the street and swing my leg off slowly, taking a second to catalog the scene, to breathe.
Two guards at the front entrance. Both armed. One leaning casually against the brick, cigarette between his fingers; the other standing straighter, eyes behind mirrored sunglasses tracking everything that moves.
There’s a camera above the door, its little red light blinking. Another at the corner of the building, sweeping the perimeter. A third near the loading bay.
Fine.
I walk toward the entrance with my hands at my sides, visible, empty.
The guards straighten as I cross the street.
“Turn around,” Sunglasses says. “We’re closed to visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor,” I say.
His gaze sweeps me. “You’re a Raider.”
“You’re observant,” I say. “I’m here for Talia.”
The other one, Cigarette, snorts. “We don’t do daycare.”
“She walked out of my house,” I say, “and into yours. We both know that’s not nothing.”
“Not your business,” Cigarette says.
“She’s sixteen,” I reply. “She’s my business.”
“That’s debatable,” Sunglasses says. “Either way, it’s not your call where she stands.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But it is my call what happens if your boss uses her to start a war he’s not ready to finish.”
That makes them both pause.
“Let me talk to him,” I say. “You know who I am. You know he’ll want to hear what I have to say before you turn me away.”
They exchange a look. Sunglasses shifts his stance. Cigarette takes a drag, exhales slowly.
“Wait,” he mutters, and disappears inside.
I stand there on the concrete, the wind pulling at the loose strands of hair around my face, my heart a steady drum in my throat. I keep my expression neutral, my breathing even.
A minute stretches.
Two.
The door opens.
