The taxi smelled of pine air freshener and old cigarettes. Arvin sat in the back, his broken hand cradled in his lap, his forehead pressing against the cold glass.
The city blurred by—streaks of red taillights and neon signs.
"You're burning up," Nova said, touching his neck.
"I'm fine," Arvin lied. He wasn't. The fever was a physical weight. The edges of his vision were vibrating. Every time a car honked, he heard it as a scream.
System instability at 40%, Dante reported. The voice was faint, like a radio station drifting out of range. I cannot hold the door much longer, Arvin. The hinges are melting.
"Where are we going?" Arvin asked out loud.
"Meatpacking District," Nova said to the driver, then turned to Arvin. "There's a veterinary clinic off Washington Street. The back room isn't for dogs."
"A vet?" Arvin laughed weakly. "Fitting."
The taxi dropped them off on a cobblestone street slick with rain. The trendy clubs and high-end boutiques were two blocks over. Here, it was just loading docks and the smell of raw beef and ozone.
Nova didn't hesitate. She walked toward a rusted metal door sandwiched between a dumpster and a shuttered warehouse. She banged on it—a specific rhythm. Three hard knocks. Pause. Two quick taps.
A slide shutter opened. A pair of yellow, bloodshot eyes peered out.
"Closed," a voice rasped.
"Tell Doc that 'Vee' is here," Nova said. Her voice was different. Harder. The Queens accent she usually suppressed was thick on her tongue now. "Tell him I'm cashing in the chip from the chaotic summer."
The eyes widened slightly. The shutter slammed shut. A moment later, the heavy bolts clanked back.
The door opened. A massive man in a stained butcher's apron stood there. He wasn't the doctor. He was the wall.
He looked at Arvin's pale face and the splinted hand. He looked at Nova. He stepped aside.
They walked into a long hallway lined with white tiles. It looked like an abattoir, but instead of carcasses, there were gurneys.
In the main operating room, a man was stitching up a laceration on a teenager's arm. The man was skinny, wearing thick glasses and a lab coat that had seen better days.
"Vee," the doctor said without looking up. "I thought you got out. Found a nice, safe coffee shop."
"I did, Doc," Nova said. "But the coffee got spilled."
She pulled Arvin forward. "He needs a chemistry set. High grade."
Doc tied off the stitch, patted the teenager on the shoulder, and shooed him out. He wiped his latex gloves on a rag. He looked at Arvin.
"He looks like a junkie," Doc observed. "Withdrawals?"
"Suppression failure," Arvin managed to say. He leaned against an operating table. "Psycho-voltaic."
Doc froze. He took his glasses off and cleaned them on his coat.
"You're using big words for a junkie," Doc said softly. "Where did you hear that term?"
"I didn't hear it," Arvin said. "I'm living it. I need a synthetic dopamine agonist with a lead-lined binder. And I need it in..." He checked his watch. The numbers were swimming. "...four hours."
Doc laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "You're asking for military-grade neuro-blockers. I patch up knife wounds and sell Oxy, kid. I don't build Frankenstein monsters."
"You used to," Nova said. She stepped between them. "Before you lost your license. You worked for Chem-Tech. You know the synthesis."
Doc looked at Nova. His expression hardened. "That life is over, Vee. And you know why."
"I know," Nova said. She reached into her purse. She didn't pull out money. She pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It looked old.
She placed it on the metal table.
"You owe me," Nova said. "For the night I didn't tell the cops where the stash was. For the three years inside I took so you could keep this place."
Arvin looked at Nova. Three years? The sweet, clumsy barista had done hard time?
She is a predator too, Dante whispered, sounding almost impressed. She just retracted her claws.
Doc stared at the paper. He sighed, a long, defeated sound.
"I can't make the pure stuff," Doc muttered. "I don't have the centrifuge for it. It'll be dirty. It'll hurt like hell going in."
"Will it keep the voltage down?" Arvin asked.
"It'll act like a surge protector," Doc said. "But it's temporary. Maybe twelve hours. After that, your brain will fry, or you'll stroke out."
"Twelve hours is all I need," Arvin said.
"Fine." Doc turned to his cabinets. "Strap him down. If he seizes while I'm injecting the spine, he's paralyzed."
Nova grabbed the leather restraints on the table.
"Get on the table, Arvin."
Arvin climbed up. The metal was cold against his back. Nova buckled the straps across his chest and legs. She was efficient. Too efficient.
"Nova," Arvin whispered as she tightened the strap over his good arm.
"Yeah?"
"Three years?"
Nova didn't look at him. She checked the buckle.
"Everyone has a past, Arvin. You have a monster in your head. I have a file in the archives." She looked at him then. Her eyes were sad. "Just don't die on me, okay? I hate filling out paperwork."
Doc walked over with a syringe. The liquid inside was a murky, glowing green.
"Bite down," Doc said, shoving a piece of rubber tubing into Arvin's mouth. "This is going to feel like pouring liquid nitrogen into your spinal column."
Arvin bit down.
Doc located the vertebrae at the base of the neck.
He pushed the needle in.
Arvin didn't scream. He couldn't. His back arched off the table, straining against the leather. His eyes rolled back into his head.
And in the darkness behind his eyelids, the Iron Door didn't just rattle.
It turned white hot.