"Stop screaming, Vesper. You're making the blood loss worse."
Jax didn't even look at me. He just kept scrolling through his tablet, the blue light reflecting off his glasses while I lay curled on the concrete floor of the Neon Slums. My side was a mess of shredded muscle and leaking plasma, and every breath felt like I was swallowing broken glass.
"You... you son of a bitch," I wheezed, clutching the wound. "The Agency... they gave the order?"
Jax finally looked down. His expression wasn't even cruel; it was bored. "Burned. That's the official term. You're a liability now, Vesper. Too much genetic drift, too many questions. You're not a top-tier asset anymore. You're just expensive trash."
I tried to lunge at him, but my legs gave out. I collapsed back into the grime, a wet, hacking cough rattling my chest. I could feel it—the genetic decay. My cells were eating themselves. The very mods that made me the fastest killer in the city were now turning my insides into slush.
"They can't just..." I started, but another spasm of pain cut me off.
"They can," Jax interrupted, standing up and smoothing out his suit. "The contract is void. The cleanup crew is five minutes out. I'm just here to make sure you don't crawl away and embarrass us by dying in a gutter. It's bad for the brand."
He stepped closer, the polished toe of his shoe inches from my face. I could smell his expensive cologne—sandalwood and coldness. It made me want to vomit.
"Any last words? Maybe a thank you for the years of high-end modifications?"
I didn't answer with words. I reached out, my fingers clawing into the dirt, and found the hidden shard of reinforced glass I'd dragged from the rubble. In one blurred motion—a remnant of my overclocked reflexes—I slammed the shard into the top of his foot, driving it straight through the leather sole.
Jax screamed, a sharp, undignified sound that echoed off the rusted walls. He stumbled back, clutching his foot, his face twisting into a mask of pure shock.
"You bitch!" he roared, reaching for the stun-baton at his hip.
I didn't wait. I forced my body to move, ignoring the scream of my DNA. I surged forward, a predator's instinct overriding the agony. I didn't go for his throat; I went for the tablet. I ripped it from his grip and slammed it against the concrete, shattering the screen into a thousand glittering pieces.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jax yelled, swinging the baton.
I ducked, the hum of the electricity missing my ear by an inch. I drove my elbow into his ribs, feeling a satisfying crack. He went down hard, gasping for air. I pinned him, my knee crushing his chest, the glass shard now hovering an inch from his jugular.
"Tell them," I hissed, blood dripping from my lip onto his cheek. "Tell the Agency that I'm not dead yet. Tell them I'm coming for the board members."
Jax laughed, a wet, pathetic sound. "You're... you're dying, Vesper. Look at your hands."
I looked. My fingertips were trembling, the skin turning a bruised, iridescent purple. The genetic collapse was accelerating. My vision flickered, the neon signs of the slums blurring into a smear of pink and electric blue. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the void was pulling me under.
I let go of Jax. I didn't have the strength to kill him. I just crawled toward the alley entrance, dragging my useless leg behind me. Every inch felt like a mile. The rain started then—not a clean rain, but a greasy, chemical drizzle that stung my open wounds.
I slumped against a dumpster, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm. I closed my eyes for a second, just a second, and I could already hear them. The cleanup crew. The sound of humming drones and heavy boots on wet pavement.
*Is this it?* I wondered. *The great Vesper, reduced to a heap of mutated meat in a slum?*
Then, the sound changed.
It wasn't the screech of Agency drones. It was the low, predatory growl of a high-end engine. Something heavy. Something expensive.
A pair of blinding white headlights cut through the smog, illuminating the alley. A black limo, sleek as a coffin and just as dark, slid to a halt inches from where I lay. The windows were tinted obsidian, hiding whoever was inside.
I tried to reach for my weapon, but my arm wouldn't obey. I just stared at the car, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
The rear door opened slowly.
A man stepped out.
He didn't look like he belonged in the Slums. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than this entire block, and his shoes were spotless. He was tall, with a jawline that looked like it had been carved from ice and eyes that held a terrifying amount of stillness. He didn't look at the grime, the rain, or the blood. He looked at me.
He didn't offer a hand. He didn't look concerned. He looked at me the way a scientist looks at a specimen that's halfway through being dissected.
"So," he said, his voice a low, smooth velvet that sent a chill straight down my spine. "This is the legendary hound of the Agency. You look more like a stray dog that's been kicked too many times."
I spat blood at his feet. "Who... the hell are you?"
He didn't flinch. He stepped closer, the scent of ozone and cold steel clinging to him. He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could see the faint, golden glow of a neural implant in his iris—something high-grade, something illegal.
"I'm the man who owns your debt now," he whispered. "And you're going to find out exactly how much it costs to buy back your life."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, shimmering vial of iridescent blue liquid. My eyes widened. I knew that hue. It was a stabilized gene-sequencer. The only thing that could stop the decay.
He held it just out of reach, his fingers long and steady.
"Tell me, Vesper," he said, a cruel little smile playing on his lips. "Do you want to live, or do you want to keep bleeding on my shoes?"
I reached for the vial, my fingers trembling, but he stepped back, his expression turning cold.
"Wrong answer," he said. "You don't get it for free. First, you're going to tell me where the Agency keeps the encrypted keys, and then—"