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"Stay down."
I don't.
The guy with the gun steps closer, boots scraping wet gravel. Rooftop job. Supposed to be clean. Get the proof, get paid, get gone. That was four minutes ago, before my own crew turned the barrel on me.
"Jace." That's Kev. Twenty jobs together. His voice sounds tired. "You know how this goes."
I push up on one knee, ribs screaming. Blood's already soaking through my jacket. "Yeah. Someone pays you more."
"Someone paid us first." He shrugs. "You were just slower figuring it out."
The envelope's in my pocket. Proof that Cinderfall's biggest land deal runs on cooked books and dead witnesses. I was supposed to hand it to the client. Except the client sent Kev instead.
"Give me the envelope," Kev says.
"No."
"Jace."
"I said no."
He shoots me.
Chest. Center mass. I go down hard, skull bouncing off the roof edge. The sky's orange and wrong, smog catching the last light. Kev's boots come closer. He crouches next to me, pulls the envelope from my jacket, checks inside.
"Clean," he says to someone behind him. A second pair of boots. I can't turn my head. "No copies?"
"He didn't have time." That's Lina. She drove tonight. Her voice is flat, business. "Slate said he went straight from the drop to here."
Slate. The name sits in my chest next to the bullet.
"Good." Kev stands. He drops something on my chest. Small. Cold. I can't see what it is. "Sorry, man. City keeps score. You just ran out of credit."
They leave.
I'm still awake. That's the worst part. Lung's collapsed. I can feel it. Blood in my throat. The thing Kev dropped slides off my ribs and lands next to my face. It's a poker chip. Red and black. Slate's calling card. The kind he hands out when a debt's cleared.
I try to laugh. Can't. The air won't come.
Slate set me up. Kev and Lina pulled the trigger. And I'm dying on a roof in Cinderfall with a poker chip for a headstone.
The sky goes darker.
I stop counting breaths.
—
I wake up freezing.
Not roof cold. Morgue cold.
Metal under my back. Bright lights overhead. The kind that hum. I sit up fast, and nothing hurts. That's wrong. I got shot. Center mass. I should be dead.
I look down.
No blood. No hole. My jacket's gone. I'm in a standard morgue gown, the kind that ties in the back and doesn't. The room's small. Steel tables. Drains in the floor. A cart with tools I don't want to look at.
And a door. Closed.
I swing my legs off the table. My boots are gone. They left me socks. Considerate.
Then I see it.
Floating.
Right in front of me.
A book. Black cover. No title. It hangs in the air like someone nailed it to nothing. I reach out. My hand goes through it. Not solid. Not a hologram either. It's just there.
I blink.
It's still there.
"Okay," I say. My voice sounds fine. No blood in it. "What the hell."
The book opens.
Pages flip on their own, fast, then stop. The left page is blank. The right page has names. Three of them. Written in something that looks like ink but moves, slow, like oil.
Kevin Holt — 800 Lina Voss — 800 Ephraim Slate — 4200
I stare.
The names of the people who killed me. With numbers next to them.
"What is this?" I touch the page again. This time it feels solid. Cold. The ink shifts under my fingers, and new words appear at the top.
Ledger of Collected Debts.
Below that:
Balance Available: 0
"Debts," I say. "You're telling me they owe me."
The page doesn't answer. It just sits there. The numbers don't move.
I hear footsteps. Outside the door. Slow. Deliberate.
I step back. The book follows. It stays exactly one foot in front of me, same height, same angle. I move left. It moves left. I move right. It moves right.
"Great. Haunted."
The door opens.
A woman walks in. Tall. Dark coat, tailored. Blonde hair pulled back tight. She's holding a tablet in one hand and a gun in the other. The gun's bigger.
She stops when she sees me standing.
"You're awake," she says.
"You're armed," I say.
"You're supposed to be dead."
"I was. I got better."
Her eyes flick down to my chest. No wound. No scar. She frowns. "That's not possible."
"Yeah. I'm having a weird night."
She raises the gun. Not pointing it at me. Not yet. Just lifting it into ready position. "Who sent you?"
"No one sent me. I got shot on a roof. I woke up here. That's all I know."
"You died four hours ago. Gunshot wound. Coroner confirmed it. I saw the report."
"Coroner was right."
"Then how are you walking?"
I glance at the book. It's still floating. Still open. She's looking straight at me. Not at the book.
"You don't see it," I say.
"See what?"
"The book."
Her frown deepens. "What book."
I point. She follows my finger. Her eyes pass right through the ledger like it's not there.
"There's nothing there," she says.
"For you."
She takes a step closer. The gun comes up. Barrel level with my chest. Same spot Kev shot me. "I'm going to ask one more time. Who sent you."
"I told you. No one."
"You died. You vanished from the active log. Then you sat up. That doesn't happen."
"It just did."
"Wrong answer." She thumbs the safety off. "I need a name."
I hold still. The ledger's right there between us. She can't see it. I can. The names are still on the page. Kev. Lina. Slate. The numbers next to them.
"I don't have a name," I say. "I have three."
"What?"
"The people who killed me. They're in the book."
She stares at me. The gun doesn't move. "You're telling me you see a book. With names in it."
"And numbers."
"What kind of numbers."
"Debts. What they owe me."
Her jaw tightens. She's deciding something. Whether I'm useful or just insane.
"What's your name," she says.
"Jace Vale."
Her eyes narrow. She knows it. I see the recognition.
"You worked for Slate," she says.
"I worked with him. Until tonight."
"He's the one who set you up."
"That's the short version."
She lowers the tablet. Her thumb moves across the screen. She's pulling something up. Then she turns it toward me. It's a photo. Crime scene. Rooftop. Blood. My blood. A poker chip next to the stain.
"That's you," she says.
"Was me."
"You died on a Slate job. Slate's crew cleaned the site. The body got flagged because your ID pinged an old corporate file. That's how I knew to come here."
"Who are you?"
"Mara Quinn. I audit the city's off-book money. Slate's been moving product and capital through a dozen ghost accounts for two years. You were carrying something tonight. Proof. I need it."
"Gone. Kev took it."
"Then you're no use to me."
She raises the gun again.
I don't move. The ledger flips a page on its own. New text appears. This time it's a list. Locations. Dates. Transaction codes.
I read the first line.
Slate. Northside drop. 200k in bearer bonds. Logged under Kev's tag.
I look up at Mara. "I might be more useful than you think."
"How."
"The ledger. It's not just names. It's tracking everything they owe. Everything they took."
Her eyes stay locked on mine. "I don't see a ledger."
"You don't have to. I do."
She doesn't lower the gun. "If you're lying—"
"I died tonight. I'm standing here anyway. You think I'm lying?"
Silence. The hum of the lights. The faint drip of something in the next room.
Mara's finger rests on the trigger. She hasn't decided yet.
Then the door behind her opens.
A man steps in. Older. Gray suit. He's not holding a weapon. He doesn't need to. I know the face.
Ephraim Slate.
He looks at me. Then at Mara. Then back at me.
"Well," he says. "This is inconvenient."
Mara spins, gun swinging toward him.
Slate smiles.
And the ledger in front of me flares bright red, the number next to his name climbing fast.
4200… 4400… 4800…
He pulls a knife.
Mara fires.