Chapter 11 · The Neon Hideout

"Stop walking like you own the place, or we're both dead before the first stall," I hissed, grabbing Kane’s wrist and yanking him hard into the shadow of a rusted ventilation duct.

He stumbled, his shoulder slamming into the corrugated metal with a loud clang. He didn't flinch, but his eyes—sharp, cold, and far too observant—scanned the neon-drenched chaos of the Sector 4 Black Market.

"I'm a Rusk," he said, his voice a low vibration that I could feel in my own chest. "I don't do 'hiding'."

"You're a Rusk with a ticking bomb in your chest and a target on your back," I snapped, stepping closer until I could smell the sterile scent of the med-bay still clinging to his collar. I pressed my palm against his chest, feeling the erratic, heavy thrum of the engineered heart. "Right now, you're just a very expensive piece of luggage. Follow my lead, keep your mouth shut, and don't look anyone in the eye. Got it?"

Kane looked down at my hand, then back at me. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.