"Don't move, Selah. One more inch and I'll blow your head clean off the shoulders."
The cold steel of a barrel pressed hard into the base of my skull. I froze, my boots skidding on the wet concrete of the alleyway. I didn't need to look back to know who it was. That voice—too calm, too polished, like a damn press release—belonged to Marcus. My former teammate. My 'brother' in the Enforcer Corps.
"Marcus," I spat, the taste of copper and grit in my mouth. "Since when do you sneak up on people in trash-filled alleys? Not very heroic of you."
"Heroism is for people who still have a job," he snapped. "You're a traitor, Selah. A liability. The Bureau doesn't do liabilities."
I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "A traitor? I was the one bleeding out while you were polishing your medals! Who betrayed who here?"
"Shut up!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "Just shut the hell up and turn around slowly."
I didn't turn. Instead, I glanced at the flickering neon sign of a nearby electronics shop. In the window, a wall of monitors was broadcasting the evening news. My face filled every single screen. The headline scrolled in bold, blood-red letters: TRAITOR SELAH: THE FALLEN STAR.
On the screen, Director Vivian was speaking. She looked serene, her voice like silk wrapping around a razor blade. "It is with a heavy heart that we announce the passing of Enforcer Selah during the breach. She fought bravely, but the casualties were too great. We will honor her memory by purging the rot she left behind."
"Dead?" I whispered. "She already buried me on live TV."
"It's cleaner this way," Marcus muttered. "No one misses a ghost. Now, hands up. Do it now or I'll make sure the news report was actually accurate."
I felt the trigger tighten. I had two choices: die in a dumpster or fight back. I chose the latter.
I didn't just move; I exploded.
I slammed my elbow back into Marcus's ribs, feeling the satisfying crack of bone. As he gasped, I spun, grabbing his wrist and twisting it with a sickening pop. The gun clattered to the ground, but Marcus wasn't done. He lunged, his hand glowing with a pale, kinetic light—his signature power. He slammed a fist into my stomach, sending me flying backward into a stack of rusted crates.
I hit the metal with a scream, the air leaving my lungs in one violent rush. I lay there, gasping, staring up at the grey, smoggy sky. My vision blurred. My ribs were screaming, and my energy reserves were bottoming out.
"You always were too stubborn to know when you're beaten," Marcus said, stepping over the debris. He looked down at me with a mix of pity and disgust. "Give me the drive, Selah. Just give it to me and I might let you die quickly."
"Go... to... hell," I wheezed.
I reached deep, past the pain, searching for that spark of raw power that had made me the top Enforcer for three years. I didn't just want to fight; I wanted to erase him. I felt the Void energy surge—not a glow, but a vacuum, a hunger that sucked the light out of the alley.
I snapped my hand upward. A wave of crushing gravity slammed into Marcus, pinning him against the brick wall with the force of a freight train. The air vanished from his lungs. He clawed at the bricks, his eyes bulging, unable to even scream.
"This is for the funeral," I hissed, pushing myself up. My legs were shaking, but I forced them to hold. "Who paid you, Marcus? Was it Vivian? Did she promise you a promotion for my head?"
Marcus couldn't answer. He was too busy trying not to have his chest collapsed by the sheer pressure of my will. I stepped closer, my fingers crackling with dark energy. I was seconds away from ending it. One more pulse, and he'd be a stain on the pavement.
Then, a voice drifted through the alley. It wasn't Marcus's panic or the city's noise. It was a low, smooth drawl that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Now, now. That's hardly the way to treat a former colleague."
I spun around, my gravity field snapping shut.
Standing at the mouth of the alley was a man who looked like he'd stepped straight off a recruitment poster. Golden hair, a jawline that could cut glass, and a white tactical suit that didn't have a single speck of dirt on it. Kane. The 'Golden Boy.' The Bureau's favorite puppet and my personal nightmare.
He wasn't attacking. He was just... watching. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing on his lips.
"Kane," I spat. "Come to join the party? Or are you here to give me a eulogy?"