"You're late, Lorne. If the Enforcers catch us here, I'm not paying you a damn cent," Jax hissed.
He was jammed against the damp brick, sweating straight through his cheap jacket. Sirens wailed two streets over. Getting closer.
Lorne didn't even look at him. She was locked on the door.
It wasn't a door. It was a Black Gate. A slab of obsidian that ate light. No handle. No keyhole. Just a violet vein pulsing down the middle like it had a heartbeat.
"Shut up and let me work," Lorne snapped.
"I'm just saying, my contact said a Warden locked this thing. A real one. Not some rent-a-cop," Jax muttered. He crept closer. Reeked of cigarettes and panic.
Lorne dropped to her knees. Grit biting through her jeans. Fingers hovering over the cold metal.
Most people saw a wall. She saw clockwork. Pins. Gears. Teeth grinding so loud it hurt.
"Almost," she breathed. "Almost there."
"Wait — you hear that?" Jax grabbed her shoulder. Fingers digging in. "Someone's coming!"
"Touch me again and I'll lock you in there with it," Lorne snarled. She ripped his hand off. "Get back!"
The last pin clicked. Not out there. Inside her head. Snap.
The violet vein flared white-hot. Then nothing. The obsidian smoked. Dissolved. Left a hole that stank of ozone and old blood.
A man slumped against the far wall. Tactical coat shredded. Soaked red. Breathing wet and ragged.
"Is that him?" Jax whispered over her shoulder. "The fugitive?"
Lorne stepped in. Glass crunching under her boots.
Even half-dead, the guy looked expensive. Sharp jaw. Arrogant brow. Eyes opening — storm-grey, pissed off, not scared.
"You took your time," he rasped. Voice like gravel.
"Who are you?" Lorne kept her distance. "You don't look like you belong in the slums."
"Someone who's gonna die if you don't get me out in thirty seconds," he said. He tried to move. Hissed. Fresh blood bloomed across his chest.
"Holy shit — that ring," Jax shoved past her. Eyes lit up. "That's a Warden's signet. Lorne, if we hand him to the Council we don't just get paid. We get pardoned. We're out. Tonight."
The Gate behind them thickened. Smoke turning solid again. Closing.
"We're not handing anyone over," Lorne said.
"Are you insane?" Jax spun on her. "You're broke, Lorne! Your family's debt will bury you! This is the score!"
"The job was open the door, grab the asset," Lorne stepped between him and the man. Hand in her pocket. On her tools. "Not sell him. I'm not a snitch, Jax. Back off."
"Got spirit, little bird," the man coughed. A bloody smile. "Wasted on a traitor, though."
"I'm not a traitor," Lorne snapped. "I'm a professional."
"Professional who just walked into a trap," he whispered.
The room groaned. Walls shuddering. Like a thousand locks turning at once.
The smoke surged. Not closing. Hunting.
"What's happening?" Jax screamed. Scrambling back.
"It's not a gate," the man said. Pain gone from his voice. Cold now. In command. "It's a contract. And you just signed it."
Heat seared Lorne's chest. Sharp. Wrong. She gasped. Clutched her shirt. Something cold and hard locked into place under her skin. Like a key turning where no lock should be.
"What did you do?" she yelled.
"I didn't," he said. Grim smile. "It chose you."
A chain ripped out of the floor. Rust and iron screaming.
It snapped around his wrist first. Then whipped —
— and slammed around hers.
Bone-jarring snap. Lorne flew forward. Shoulder slamming into his chest. Wind knocked out. Nose full of iron and expensive cologne and blood.
"Get it off!" she shrieked. Yanking. Chain didn't budge. Fused to skin. "Get it off me!"
"Welcome to the club," he groaned. His head tipped against her shoulder. Heavy. Breath hot against her ear. "We're tied now. Literally."
His body heat bled into hers. Too close. Her pulse hammering against his ribs. His fingers twitched against her wrist, right where the iron bit.
"I'll break it," she hissed. Eyes stinging. "I'll cut it, pick it, whatever —"
"Try," he whispered. Breath ghosting her neck. She shivered before she could stop it. "But till the contract's done, if I die, you die."
Boots outside. Heavy. Four of them.
Grey armor. Mirrored visors. Enforcers.
"Lorne Vale," the woman in front smiled. Sharp. Cruel. Violet blade humming in her hand. "Hope you enjoyed the heist. You're coming with us."
Lorne stared at the chain. At the man she was chained to. At the blade.
"Run," he ordered. Barely standing. Hand closing around hers. Tight. Hot. "Now."
Lorne hauled his dead weight and bolted —
"Don't you dare —" the woman lifted her blade, violet light flaring, and brought it down right where Lorne's throat had been —