"Don't move another inch or I'll let them shred you."
Vane's voice scraped against my ear. He had me pinned against the cold metal of the ventilation shaft, his chest crushing into my back. I could feel his heart thrumming—erratic, fast, beating in perfect sync with mine.
"You're the one with the badge, Officer," I spat. I tried to twist my arm, but the neural bond flared. A spike of white heat shot straight to my brain. I gasped, knees buckling. "Maybe stop crowding me before we both have a stroke."
"Shut up." His grip tightened on my wrist. He didn't let go. He couldn't. If he shoved me too far, the bond would snap both our systems. "Drones are circling. Three of them. High-yield thermals. If I don't mask your signature, you're a charcoal briquette in ten seconds."
I glared at him over my shoulder. His eyes were flint—cold, hard, scanning the HUD flickering in his peripheral vision.
"Since when does Central Enforcement care about a slum-rat fixer?" I sneered. "Just hand me over and get your promotion."
"I'm not handing you over to a squad that shoots first and asks questions to corpses."
He reached into his tactical vest and clicked a jammer into the bond port. The oppressive humming in my skull dimmed, but the heat between us didn't. Vane leaned closer, his breath warm against my neck, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"Now. Tell me why the blackout report says this sector was stable five minutes before you blew the rig."
I froze. "What report?"
"Don't play dumb, Quinn. I read the dispatch. No energy spikes. No anomalies. Then suddenly, the whole district goes dark and I find you bonded to illegal tech that shouldn't exist." He pressed closer, his body heat searing through my clothes. "Someone lied on the report. Someone high up."
"Maybe your bosses aren't as honest as you are."
"I don't do honesty. I do results," he snapped. He shoved me forward, pivoting toward the alley exit. "Right now, the result is you're my only lead on who's scrubbing the logs. If you're working for Vale, I'll make this fast. If you're just a pawn, you might actually live through the night."
"I don't know any Vale!"
I yelled it too loud. A drone's searchlight swept the brickwork above us, blinding and white.
Vane reacted instantly. He slammed me down behind a rusted dumpster, his body shielding mine. The impact knocked the wind out of me. I was staring right into the hollow of his throat, smelling ozone and expensive aftershave—a scent that didn't belong in the Lower Ring.
"Quiet," he breathed.
His hand splayed across my shoulder, pinning me to the grime-streaked concrete. The proximity was suffocating. Every time he breathed, I felt the ghost of it on my lips.
"Get off me," I whispered. I didn't move.
"You're shaking." His eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to the alley. "Scared? Or just realizing how screwed you are?"
"I'm not scared of you," I lied.
My heart hammered. Because of the bond, he felt it. He knew I was lying. He probably liked it.
"You should be," he said. "Because if the bond doesn't kill us, the people who sent those drones will. Now, walk. Slowly. If you trip and trigger a sync-shock, I'm leaving you for the scavengers."
"You can't leave me," I countered, a jagged smile forming. "Remember? Thirty feet. You'd be dead before you hit the street corner."
Vane's jaw tightened. He hated that I knew it. He hated being chained to a girl who smelled like soldering flux and desperation.
"Move. Now."
We navigated the ruins in a suffocating silence. Every time I lagged, he yanked me forward. Every time he stopped to scan, I felt a magnetic tug in my chest. He was leaching into my headspace, his cold calculation bleeding into my panic.
"Where's your hideout?" he asked. "The one with the illegal rigs."
"Why do you care?"
"Because if I find the hardware you used to trigger the blackout, I can prove the report was faked. I can get the drones off your back. And mine."
"I didn't trigger it!" I snapped. "I was fixing a leak! The blackout happened *around* me. I'm a victim here, you arrogant prick."
"Victims don't carry military-grade encryption keys in their boots."
Vane stopped dead. He looked down at my ankle. "What's in the boot, Nora?"
I jumped back. "Nothing! Just... scrap!"
"Liar."
He stepped into my space. He didn't grab me this time; he just loomed, his shadow swallowing me. He wasn't an officer anymore. He was a predator who'd found a scent. "Give it to me, and maybe I'll forget to mention the key in my report."
"Go to hell."
He smirked. "I've been there. It's boring. Give. It. Here."
I backed away, heels clicking on wet pavement, until I hit the door of my apartment complex. I fumbled with the lock, fingers shaking. "Just... come inside. I'll show you the rigs. Just leave the key alone."
He followed me in, his presence filling the narrow hallway. The air smelled of damp cardboard and old grease. As we climbed the stairs, the bond pulsed—a dull, heavy ache.
"One wrong move," Vane warned, hand resting on his holster, "and I'll cuff you to the radiator and figure out the key later."
"You're real charming," I muttered.
I pushed the door open. I expected the clutter of my workbench. I expected to hear Mia humming.
But the silence was wrong. It was too heavy.
I stepped inside and stopped.
"Mia?"
No answer. The room was trashed. Tools scattered like shrapnel. The workbench had been flipped, the soldering iron still plugged in, smoking against the floorboards.
Then I saw the wall.
Written in a smear of dark, drying blood, seven words stared back at me:
DO NOT LET THE OFFICER FIND MOM'S KEY.
Vane's breath hitched behind me. I didn't have to turn around to know he was looking at my boot.
"Nora," he said, his voice devoid of mockery. "Where is your sister?"