April 14, 2021. 16:00. Vancouver.
It's been a while.
My eyes dart from one street to another as I drive. It's a familiar sight—tall, dark buildings, neon signs, and glowing advertisements all bleeding into view. Dozens of products, ranging from the mundane to the obscene, flicker across the countless screens plastered on every surface.
I pull over and grab my phone, scanning through my notes.
Groceries, jobs, appointments, reminders... what else?
My fingers swipe rapidly until I find the one I'm looking for—AXIS place of residence details. I smile, glance at the note, then at the nearest street sign. Nelson Street. Perfect.
I kill the truck's engine and hop out. There's a pause—a moment where I consider taking more than just a pistol and a knife. Should I? Eh. I'll be fine. I've been here before.
My mind runs through a lazy mental checklist of what I could bring. I settle on the bare essentials—simple weapons I'd rather not use, and a cracked key fob designed to bypass most, if not all, of the building's doors. The rest, I shrug off and start walking toward the entrance.
Occasional glances at the maps app on my phone line up with recent reports of gang-related activity in the area, but I don't think much of it. The street feels surprisingly calm, contradicting the rumours I've heard. Still, I give it a quick lookover.
"Nothing's changed since last time," I mutter, smirking.
Familiar sights and sounds fill the air—screens plastered everywhere, flashing the latest must-buy product. Crowds of teenagers and adults drift along the street, eyes glued to glowing ads for gadgets and clothes. Sleek supercars glide past while a hovercar hums lazily overhead. Security cameras trace every corner, their lenses gleaming like watchful eyes.
My gaze lands on a large, intricately designed apartment tower surrounded by a garden plaza. Bingo.
I stride toward the entrance, taking in the scene. The parking lots are packed—every kind of car jammed into every available space. Surprisingly, there's a generous amount of greenery here, something rare in this part of the city. In fact, it's considered a luxury to have even a small patch of nature near a building.
I glance up at the nearby high-rises—dull concrete and grey architecture clashing with the chaotic blur of neon and flickering digital billboards. My pace quickens. My eyes sweep across the building.
Cameras on the side—annoying. Bystanders—whatever. Relaxed security—love it.
Part of me wonders if I should've put more effort into scoping the place out, but I already know the layout from a previous contract. The security's always been light—maybe a doorman and a couple of guards half-dozing through their shifts.
Corner cameras mark every intersection. Well-paid but lazy guards patrol the blind spots. One comes into view and gives me a nod. I smile back and keep walking, slipping through the grandiose front doors.
Inside, a luxury apartment lobby greets me. Alabaster-white marble floors. Polished wood walls the colour of honey. Residents buried in their phones lounge on soft grey sofas and wooden armchairs.
With a relaxed, disarming smile, I stride past them and head toward the elevators.
A quick—maybe too enthusiastic—press of the button earns me a curious glance from someone nearby.
Whoops.
I sigh and lean against the wall, pulling out my phone to scroll through social media while I wait.
I skim through trending headlines.
Mayor Gestalt campaigns to become Prime Minister of Canada.
Swipe.
Gang war escalates in Vancouver.
Swipe.
Militech opens new Toronto office.
I sigh and scroll past the news. Same old story.
A different section catches my eye—New fall arrivals. I linger, tempted, but rein myself in. Later.
The elevator doors part with a soft ding, and I step inside, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
Warm light spills over polished wood panels and gleaming brass trim, the same refined luxury as the lobby below. A group of women chat quietly in the corner. One of them glances my way before turning back to the conversation, laughter muffled behind a manicured hand.
I pull out the key fob and wave it over the scanner beside the button panel. A blue light flickers, then shifts to green. My pulse kicks up for a second, but I keep my expression neutral. I press the button for the top floor, slip the fob back into my pocket, and unlock my phone to pass the time.
The girls keep talking, and I steal the occasional glance. Early to mid-twenties, judging by their faces and the way they carry themselves. Each of them is dressed head-to-toe in designer pieces—either rich or pretending to be. High-end leisurewear blended with business chic, dotted with a few statement accessories.
Meldstrom. Reeve. UrbanFlash. Not bad, though definitely the lower tier of the high life.
The elevator slows and halts on a mid-level floor. The women step out, giggling about some downtown party; their heels click away, and I tune back into my phone.
That is, until two hulking guys in all black shove in behind them. Time narrows. Before I can fully hide behind the screen, I catch the flash of tattoos at their wrists—Dead King crowns, inked dark against skin. Wait. What the hell? How?
They're almost twice my size, each a walking wall of muscle.
This doesn't add up. It's a weekday, and AXIS was outside with all his guards.This building has no business with the Dead Kings. Right? Panic ricochets through my head as my brain spits out mistakes: old intel, no scout, detour wasted time.
UGH. Good job, me. What the hell.
I shift my weight and watch them. The taller one—tanned, with a buzz cut—turns to his darker-skinned companion, who toys with the ends of his dreadlocks.
"Yeah, they rushed him to the ER—real mess. No clue if he's even comatose," Buzz-cut says.
My hand creeps toward the inner pocket of my jacket.
"You think Blake'll be pissed?" Dreadlocks asks, scratching his forearm as the doors slide shut.
"I dunno, man. He didn't really see eye to eye with AXIS. Plus AXIS was marked. More of the guys are already on their way to clear the spot," Buzz-cut answers, sounding stunned. "They say it was a high-calibre hit—sniper blew his brains out. Crazy to get a sniper downtown." He rubs his jaw. "Blake's also sent a few more guys to check AXIS' penthouse—make sure nothing goes sideways while AXIS's status is still up in the air. Should be downstairs by now."
Hearing that, the world tilts.
The damn detour—the extra few minutes I frittered away. You're kidding me?! Suddenly, that difference in time feels enormous. I swallow, running through my options—fast.
If they're sweeping the building, there'll be guys in the stairwells, in the roof, in the plazas. And me? I'm a sitting duck if this gets loud.
Pulling a gun here isn't an option. Drawn firearms in an elevator means that there's nowhere to run. And it would escalate fast—loud, messy, and a beacon for anyone even remotely able to listen. A knife? Same problem: close-range stabbing in front of cameras and witnesses is obvious and permanent.
Maybe I can fast-talk my way out, play the fool and act like I belong, or slip past them if they get distracted. But what would my excuse be? Damn it.
My chest tightens at how amateur I look for missing the basics.
Buzz-cut moves to the button panel and freezes; his finger hovers over the same top-floor button I hit earlier. "Wait..." He turns, eyes drilling into me. "You headed to AXIS' place?"
Great. This is what not scoping the building gets you.
I straighten and lean my left shoulder against the elevator wall, hand tucked inside my jacket, right thumb idly scrolling my phone. My stare meets his as I scramble for a reasonable excuse.
"Yeah," I say. "He buzzed me in earlier—told me to wait for him in his apartment." I turn the screen off; the black glass reflects a camera mounted in the corner of the elevator. "Is there a problem?" I tilt my head toward them. Please, just back off.
Dreadlocks sizes me up from head to toe. "Well, AXIS got into some trouble or some shit," he says. "Damn. Didn't know he invited a 'preem barbie' like you up to his apartment." He meets my eyes again, and the look is hungry. His companion arches an eyebrow.
"Look, miss—sorry to burst your bubble—but AXIS ain't exactly doing great. Best you head home; you can hang with him another time." Yeah. Considering I'm the one who shot AXIS, I'd know.
Buzz-cut steps forward like he's about to press a button, but Dreadlocks interrupts him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Nahhhh, man—she can hang with us a bit. I don't mind," he says, flashing a lecherous grin.
Of course. I force a playful laugh, slide the phone into my pocket, and bat my lashes long enough to make the act believable. The elevator dings as we reach the top floor.
"Let's figure this out outside the lift, boys," I say, and step out with them close behind. A lavish marble hallway stretches to a single VIP penthouse with black double doors. White surfaces shine like mirrors; a grey-tiled runner runs underfoot. A camera crouches in the far corner, its lens catching everything.
The urge to cringe hits hard. Change of plan. There's no clean exit now—especially if I still want to swipe AXIS's prized possession from the penthouse.
Just… what do I do?
A gunshot in a hallway does three things: it draws attention, sprays blood everywhere, and pins the whole thing to camera footage and forensics.
Same with a knife—a public stabbing is instant, obvious evidence, and the mess is immediate.
Knocking someone out, by contrast, is quieter and leaves fewer immediate traces on camera—at least compared to straight-up murder. It buys time to move and gives me a chance to slip away without turning the building into a live crime scene.
Fuck it.
It's ugly but pragmatic, and the best chance to avoid an instant murder investigation. Besides, do these guys really deserve dying for my own incompetence?
While Dreadlocks—the guy who can't keep it in his pants —recovers from my voice, Buzz-cut steps forward and grabs my arm.
"Hold it—didn't you hear what I just said? AXIS ain't doing great, you should—" I hook my foot behind his knee and yank hard.
"What the fu—" His legs fold; he goes down with a thud.
Andddd, here we go.