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The power dies at 11:47 PM, which means I'm not getting paid for the last hour.
I'm alone in the grid above Stage B when every light in the building cuts out. The kind of dark that makes you stop breathing. My hand's still on the C-clamp I was tightening, and for three seconds I just stand there on the catwalk, waiting for the emergency system to kick in.
It doesn't.
The Paramount's been dying for two years. The owner keeps saying we'll make it through the season. I keep saying I need my paycheck on time. We're both liars. But if the main breaker's gone, that's not my problem. That's a call-the-electrician, shut-it-down-for-a-week problem. Which means no work. Which means no rent.
I climb down in the dark. Muscle memory. I've done this grid a hundred times. The ladder rungs are worn smooth and they creak under my boots. When I hit the stage floor, I pull out my phone for the flashlight.
That's when the stage lights come on.
Not all of them. Just the practicals. The ones that aren't even on the same circuit as the main system. Little work lights we use for setup. They flicker on one by one, washing the stage in this cold white glow that makes my skin look gray.
I don't believe in ghosts. I believe in short circuits and bad wiring and buildings that should've been condemned. But the practicals aren't wired to the breaker that just died. They shouldn't be on at all.
"Okay," I say out loud, because the quiet's starting to press in. "Cool. Very normal."
The freight elevator groans.
It's backstage left, the old lift we use to move set pieces up from the basement. Nobody's used it in a month. The motor sounds like it's chewing gravel. I hear the cables whining, then the clunk of the car settling at stage level.
I should leave. I should walk out the side door, go upstairs to my room, and let someone else deal with whatever this is.
But my room's not mine if I can't make rent. And if the building's got a real electrical problem, I need to know before I wake up to smoke.
I cross the stage. The work lights hum. There's dust in the air, lit up like snow in the white glow. The freight elevator's gate is half open. The car's sitting there, waiting.
There's someone inside.
I stop three feet back. My phone's flashlight cuts through the gap in the gate. There's a girl on the floor of the elevator. She's got silver hair, the kind that doesn't come from a bottle. It's too bright. Too clean. She's wearing something that looks like a tactical vest, black and gray, straps crossing her chest. Her right hand's pressed to her side, and there's blood leaking between her fingers.
Her other hand's holding a blade.
Not a knife. It's too smooth for that, too uniform. The edges glow pale blue, like someone dipped metal in cold light. She's got it angled up under her own ribs.
"Hey," I say. My voice comes out smaller than I want. "Hey, you need help?"
Her eyes snap open. They're gray. No, not gray. Silver, same as her hair, and they lock onto me like I just walked into a spotlight.
"Pulse," she says. Her voice is quiet, clipped. "Confirmed."
"What?"
She lowers the blade an inch. Blood drips onto the elevator floor. "You're not retrieval."
"I'm not anything. I work here. You're bleeding."
"Yes." She says it like it's obvious. Like I'm the one being weird. "I breached the perimeter. They're coming."
I take a step closer. The gate's still between us. "Who's coming? Do you need me to call someone?"
"No." Fast. Sharp. She shifts, tries to sit up straighter, and her jaw tightens. "No calls. No names. Don't let them take me."
The blade's still in her hand. Still angled at herself.
"Okay," I say slowly. "I won't. But you need to put that down."
"I can't."
"You're going to hurt yourself."
"That's the idea." She meets my eyes. There's no fear in her face. No panic. Just this cold, flat certainty. "If they take me operational, I'm a liability. Termination protocol is preferable."
Termination protocol. The words don't fit. They're too clean, too corporate for someone sitting in a pool of their own blood.
I pull the gate open. It screeches on the track. "You're not terminating anything. Put the blade down and let me see how bad it is."
She doesn't move.
"Please," I add, because I don't know what else to say.
Something shifts in her expression. Confusion, maybe. Like I just spoke a language she doesn't have a program for. Slowly, she lowers the blade. It doesn't disappear. Doesn't retract. It just... stops glowing. Fades to matte black and stays in her hand.
I kneel next to her. The blood's already soaking into the wood slats of the elevator floor. Her vest isn't a vest. Up close, I can see it's segmented, layered, like armor plating. The edges are too precise. There's no stitching. No seams.
"Where are you hurt?"
"Left torso. Projectile entry. No exit wound. Caliber unknown."
She talks like a report. I peel her hand away from her side. The hole in the armor's small, punched clean through. Under it, her skin's too pale, and the blood's still coming.
"You need a hospital."
"No."
"You're going to bleed out."
"Coagulation protocol active. I'll stabilize in forty minutes."
I sit back on my heels. "What are you?"
Her eyes flick to mine. There's a pause. A long one. Like she's calculating.
"Designation: Rowan Kade. Class-VII halo unit. Prototype neural-sync combat platform." She says it like she's reading off a label. "I bonded to your pulse signature 90 seconds ago. You're my commanding officer now."
"I'm a lighting tech."
"Irrelevant."
I laugh. I can't help it. It comes out sharp and too loud, and it echoes in the empty theater. "Okay. Sure. I'm a commanding officer. Of what, exactly?"
She tilts her head. "Me."
The work lights flicker. Just once. Then I hear it.
Boots. Multiple pairs. Hitting pavement in the alley outside. The rhythm's too even, too synchronized. Not random. Not casual.
Rowan's hand snaps back to the blade. Her whole body goes tense.
"Retrieval team," she whispers.