Chapter 8 · The Dirty Deal

"Sit. Now." Sloane didn't just say it; she shoved me into a rusted metal chair that shrieked against the concrete floor.

I hit the seat hard, the impact rattling my spine, but I didn't fight her. Not yet. My skin was still humming from the neural sync—that jagged, electric itch that told me we were still tethered. If she walked too far away, my nervous system would start eating itself. That was the leverage. That was the leash.

Sloane stepped back, her boots clicking on the grime. She didn't look at me. She looked at the flickering holographic display of the safehouse, her face bathed in a sickly neon green.

"You're a walking bio-hazard, Kael," she said, her voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "The lab didn't just wipe your head. They turned your DNA into a fucking Swiss Army knife for illegal plugins. Do you have any idea what that makes you?"

"A prize?" I spat, leaning back and crossing my arms. "You're the Enforcer. You should know the market price for a Zero-type. Why aren't you handing me over for the bounty?"

She turned then. Fast.