Violet Glitch-neon shattered the dark.
A strobe light cut relentlessly through thick chemical smoke. The club was suffocatingly hot, smelling of fried wiring, spilled alcohol, and the damp heat of too many bodies pressed together.
Will's jaw unhinged. He possessed the desperate, starving urgency of a trapped animal.
He threw back a heavy glass tumbler. Engine-grade rotgut slid down his throat, burning like battery acid.
He did not issue the command to swallow the alcohol. The command to slam the empty glass down onto the sticky wooden bar did not come from his brain.
His nervous system flooded with an intoxicating, narcotic rush of pure endorphins. Hands moved with brutal, ancient confidence, grabbing a woman's waist. His arms pulled her flush against his chest. He felt the slick sweat on her bare skin. Her mouth crashed into his in a heavy, frantic kiss.
He attempted to turn his head to scan the exits.
The neck muscles flatly refused to fire. Locked entirely behind his own retinas, Will could do nothing. Khan was devouring the room, and his own flesh roared in response. A conquering heat hammered through his pulse. He was a screaming passenger strapped to a hedonistic joyride.
Another pair of hands tangled violently in his hair.
Vocal cords vibrated. A deep laugh tore out of his chest. A booming roar forged on the blood-soaked steppes of the old world.
Fuck yes, a massive voice echoed in the void. This is what an empire tastes like.
The sensory overload severed instantly.
His vision snapped to absolute black.
He opened his eyes.
The transition was deadeningly quiet. He lay on scavenged, high-thread-count sheets, the luxury of the looted fabric registering a fraction of a second before the catastrophic ruined bone did. A crushing hangover compressed his skull. Beneath that, the jagged edges of his fractured left collarbone ground together. Three cracked ribs screamed with every shallow breath.
[PASSIVE ABILITY: UNBROKEN] did its silent, ugly work.
The agony was total. The biological shutdown response never arrived. Will experienced the absolute reality of his broken machinery without losing fine motor control. His mouth tasted of copper and stale ash. The ceiling above him was dark, exposed pipework.
He did not immediately try to move.
Controlling his breathing, he stared at the ceiling. He traced the rigid, geometric angles of the rusted pipes, counting the joints the same way he used to count the ceiling tiles in the oncology waiting room. Tracing the math of the space brought his heart rate down. The blinding panic in his chest slowly receded, replaced by the cold, structural logic of survival. He was finally in control of his own spine.
Turning his head required deliberate effort.
Radiating ambient heat indicated three other people occupied the massive mattress. Two women slept beside him, their faces vaguely recognizable from the peripheral crowds at the club. They breathed with heavy, exhausted unconsciousness.
"The ale was absolute piss, but the women knew how to ride."
Khan's voice echoed directly into his skull, vulgar and highly satisfied. "You are fucking welcome, boy."
Will kept his jaw clamped shut.
Sliding his legs off the mattress, he located his boots under someone's elbow and extracted them without waking her. He stood up and searched the floor. His melted belt pouch lay completely empty next to a table leg. Forty seconds of quiet sorting identified his ash-stained jacket. Pulling his shirt over his head, he noticed a phone number written on the inside of the collar in thick marker. He had absolutely no idea whose handwriting it was.
"I didn't promise them shit," Khan noted. "I just told them you were a warlord who knew what to do with your hands. Go get some coffee from the one in the kitchen. She has a spectacular ass."
Will turned the handle.
The kitchen was a retrofitted industrial prep station.
Mara leaned casually against the metal counter. The harsh overhead bulb caught the rich, dark brown of her skin, a striking, gorgeous contrast against the thin white cotton of Will's discarded undershirt. It hung loosely over her frame, but as she turned to pour the coffee, the fabric clung just enough to highlight the curve of her hip. Will thoroughly appreciated the view.
She held up a chipped ceramic mug. "You drink it black, or do you need me to ruin it with algae-milk?"
Will held her gaze, openly admiring the dark skin of her shoulder slipping out from the collar. "Black is exactly what I need. Thank you."
Mara smirked, catching the double meaning instantly. Her eyes dragged from his neck down to his torso. She stopped on the massive, ugly purple bruising spreading across his left side, and the jagged, broken line of his collarbone. Then, her gaze shifted to the thick, newly woven muscle mass of his right arm. It was the undeniable, systemic proof of his 10 Strength stat.
"You've been lifting heavy," Mara noted. Her tone shifted from flirtatious amusement to genuine shock. "You've also got three cracked ribs and a snapped collarbone. You shouldn't be standing, let alone drinking coffee."
Will accepted the mug. "I'm used to taking a hit."
Mara leaned back against the counter. "Mara."
Taking a sip, he realized it was actual coffee. "Will."
She stepped into his space. She didn't ask about his injuries again. Instead, she slid her arms loosely around his waist, mindful of the bruising, her body heat radiating instantly through the thin cotton shirt.
"The guy operating your mouth last night was a lot of fun," Mara murmured, looking up at him. "A little theatrical, roaring about empires, but he definitely knew what to do with his hands."
Will looked down at her. He didn't remember a single second of last night. Khan had stolen the entire experience. Will looked at Mara's mouth. He leaned in and captured her lips.
It wasn't the frantic, animalistic crash from the club. It was slow, deliberate, and deeply appreciative. His hands found her waist, sliding down to grip the curve of her ass. He squeezed firmly, pulling her flush against his uninjured side.
Gods be praised, Khan's voice echoed in his skull, vibrating with immense approval. The eunuch finally wakes.
Mara let out a soft sound against his mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair, riling his blood up instantly. The heavy gravity of the hangover vanished completely under the sudden spike of adrenaline and heat.
Just as Will backed her against the metal counter, Mara planted a hand flat against his chest. She pushed back gently, breaking the kiss with a wicked smirk.
"Down, killer," she whispered, her breath warm against his jaw. "You don't have time for round two."
Will kept his hands firmly on her hips. "I can make time."
"Not for this, you can't." Mara stepped out of his grip, picking up her coffee mug. "Vesper is looking for you."
Will froze.
The name dropped the temperature in the room by ten degrees. Nobody in the PATH kept Vesper waiting unless they wanted to disappear into the lower tunnels.
"Since when?" Will asked, his casual demeanor vanishing instantly.
"Since an hour ago. Word is moving through the Lounge." Mara pointed her mug at the door. "Better get walking, Majesty."
Will downed the rest of his coffee. He rinsed the mug in the aluminum sink and grabbed his jacket.
"Thanks for the coffee, Mara."
"Don't lose the shirt."
The transit back to the Neon Lounge took twenty minutes, but the tunnels were not empty.
The PATH had refused to die quietly. It had mutated into an underground favela, loud and aggressively alive. Scavenged string lights and neon tubing hung from the exposed ceiling grids. Old corporate retail corridors were subdivided into tiered, scrap-metal apartments stacked three levels high.
Through a massive, vertical transit shaft in the ceiling, Will caught a glimpse of the sky above the city. It was the same poisoned, permanent neon-violet he remembered. Far out, at the edge of the visible skyline, the gray mist wall crept forward, hiding shadows too large to be architecture.
Will ducked beneath a sagging bundle of wires on pure muscle memory.
A shower of sparks rained down from an elevated catwalk. He sidestepped it without breaking stride. "Watch the jacket!" he called out.
A grimy gear-mechanic lifted a welding mask and flashed a grin. "Watch your own head, scav!"
The air was thick with the smell of frying oil, melting iron, and heavily spiced shawarma. A street vendor turned a spit of blackened, mutated squid over an open Glitch-flame. Further down, a makeshift red-light district spilled out onto elevated metal walkways. Women and men leaned over rusted railings, shouting down at the crowds below. Nobody was hoarding scraps in the dark here. They were bartering, arguing, and surviving together.
Yes! Khan's voice boomed in Will's skull, vibrating with violent joy. This is a true camp! Buy that beast-meat. And look up there. We are going up to those catwalks right now. Turn around.
Will kept walking.
He just felt a hot, territorial rage. His body was his own. The warlord had taken his skin for a joyride, and a vicious, protective instinct demanded an absolute wall between them immediately.
Will pulled a broken, scavenged comm-radio from his pocket and held it near his face, seamlessly adopting the irritated, loud voice of a street hustler getting screwed on a deal to blend into the noise of the favela.
"I told you, the price is the price!" Will barked at the empty air, glaring at a passing scavenger to sell the performance. "You try to hijack my run again, I'll bury you."
Who the fuck are you talking to? Khan asked.
The boundaries are non-negotiable. You step out of line, I cut you out.
Khan paused. The warlord caught the trick instantly. Ah. A performance for the street. You are threatening a ghost in a market.
Will pushed past a cart of scrap metal. You don't take the wheel unless I hand it over.
Khan laughed. It was a dry, arrogant sound. I'll call you whatever the fuck I want, boy. I own that spine.
Heavy, reinforced steel doors marked the entrance to the Neon Lounge.
Will pushed through the entryway. The harsh amber light of the transit tunnels vanished, replaced instantly by the signature violet lighting of the club interior. Ambient noise hummed comfortably, filled with morning logistics and quiet conversations.
He navigated through the scattered tables.
Walking directly toward his usual semicircular leather booth in the back corner, he spotted Sia. She had one leg folded comfortably under herself on the upholstery. She held a glass of pale liquid she definitely did not pay for.
Watching Will approach, her expression was that of someone waiting patiently to deliver highly entertaining information.
Will slid onto the leather bench across from her. He sat back against the cushion, careful not to aggravate his ribs.
Sia set her glass down on the table. She did not break eye contact.
"So. The Emperor." She tilted her head, her smile sharpening. "And now Vesper."
Will stared at her. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sia rested her chin on her hand and laughed.