April 14, 2021. 23:55. Vancouver.
We push toward the building entrance, brushing past a crowd dancing the cool night away. The LED-lit structure gleams against the polished hoods of nearby sports cars and luxury SUVs. Smoke and expensive cologne hang thick in the air, clinging longer than they should. I scrunch my nose, cough, and wave the haze aside before following the rest of the party inside.
The mingling voices and faint pulse of bass only deepen my desire to get this over with.
My boots crunch against the pavement as Shock hums a tune to herself, fidgeting with a strange handheld device about the size of her palm. It's definitely not a phone—more like a black rectangular box with wires running into her bag.
I raise an eyebrow but don't ask. Probably one of those portable netrunner computers.
She catches my look and jabs me lightly in the side, grinning.
"Interested? It's what I use for hacking!"
She's surprisingly friendly—more than I'd expect from someone tied to the mafia. I shake my head, quick to wave off the offer.
"A little, but… it's not really my thing."
"Oh, how come? I'd love to teach you!" She raises a finger enthusiastically as we walk. "Y'know, it's actually way simpler than people think! Ever heard of Python? It's a great way to start learning code!"
She looks at me with that eager spark in her eye, and I almost feel guilty turning her down. Damn, it's like kicking a puppy.
"Yeah, I've heard of it. Got a few friends who know a thing or two about coding. Personally, though, I just don't care for it."
Her shoulders droop, and her voice softens. "Oh."
I can't help but snort and chuckle at her sudden disappointment. Truth is, I did try to learn programming once—but I got impatient fast. That's the real reason I asked Wissen to introduce me to someone like Nano. Not that anyone else needs to know that.
Despite my lack of interest, I don't want to leave Shock hanging, so I decide to humor her a bit.
"Still, if I ever decide to learn, I'll let you know." I offer her a small smile.
"Yay!" She beams, nodding happily as we fall back in step with the group.
Tetra trails behind, silent as ever. He glances around the area, looking like someone completely new to the idea of partying. Meanwhile, Azure and Remi keep exchanging glances for reasons I've long since given up trying to understand.
Instead, my eyes dart between clusters of well-dressed men and women laughing and drinking near the Dead Kings' guards posted by the massive double doors. Some wear streetwear, others formal attire.
Dressing up for an event is fine—I like it too—but my gaze keeps snagging on the faint outlines of concealed weapons beneath jackets and dresses.
My heart beats steady, but my mind races.
Good call leaving the duffle behind; there's too many people, and too many eyes.
A woman's tinkling laugh pulls me around. She's in a sequined dress, clinging to a man in a tailored suit—clueless to the Dead Kings' violent side.
Mister, walking ahead, signals for us to stick close. "It'll be alright," he mutters, just loud enough for the party to hear. "I've got this handled."
I don't share his optimism—he's the fixer here, not me. My gaze drifts to the two guards posted by the doors.
One is tall, chocolate-skinned, wearing a gold chain; he straightens as our group draws near, eyes narrowing. Beside him, a shorter, broad-shouldered man with a neat goatee scans us, his hand lingering near his holster.
"Mister?" the tall guard says, surprise threading his tone. "Didn't expect a visit. These your friends?"
Mister steps forward, calm and businesslike, and nods. "Good to see you, Royce." He gestures to us with a quick sweep of his hand. "They're with me. I'm here on urgent business. I need to speak with Blake—it's potentially lucrative for the Dead Kings, and very time-sensitive."
Royce hesitates, weighing us with a practiced look. "You know how it works, Mister. Blake doesn't do walk-ins—or randoms." His eyes flick across the group, assessing.
"I understand. I wouldn't be here otherwise. Tell him it's about a major distribution deal—expands the Dead Kings' reach. I wouldn't waste his time."
The shorter guard with the goatee glances at Royce, then back at us, his hand still hovering near his weapon. Royce weighs Mister's words for a moment before speaking.
"Stay here. I'll let him know."
He disappears inside, leaving us waiting by the doors. Before they close, I catch a glimpse of him pulling out his phone to make a call.
I take the opportunity to scan the area again. The opulence around us does little to calm my nerves, but Mister remains unfazed. Tetra avoids making eye contact with anyone, while Azure and Shock seem to be enjoying the party. Remi, on the other hand, keeps throwing sour looks at the nearby Dead Kings guards, though none of them react. The man with the goatee stays alert, but relaxes slightly once it's clear we're not about to cause trouble.
Minutes drag by as we wait. I'm tempted to ask why Remi even came along, considering his history with the gang, but I never get the chance.
Royce eventually returns, giving Mister a casual nod before gesturing toward the entrance.
"You're lucky you're in good standing," he says. "Blake's willing to talk—but you know the rules. Don't make me regret this."
The guard with the goatee shoots a pointed look at Remi as Royce says it. I pretend not to notice, but it's clear enough. Mister's reputation got us in, and Remi's might be the reason we get kicked out—or worse.
Both guards step aside and usher us in without further issue.
As the doors swing open, the thumping bass hits like a physical force. The party swells around us, lights flashing and sound pounding in my chest.
I keep my guard up, forcing my senses to adjust to the chaos.
The interior is pure excess: bright lights, polished surfaces, and the hum of expensive tech. Laughter and shouts ripple through the space. The stadium floor has been transformed into a sprawling party—massive speakers, synchronized lights, bars and dance floors scattered among plush lounges and VIP sections. Booths selling Dead Kings merch line the edges, peddling everything from designer hoodies to custom knives.
My gaze sweeps across the crowd, tracing exits and corners. Mister might have gotten us through the front door, but that doesn't mean we're safe.
Not after what happened with AXIS' car. And I'm not about to make the same mistake twice.
A few windows and likely some old fire exits remain from before this place became a gangster base.
Mister slows his pace, falling into step beside Azure.
"Azure, you said you run a shop in Burnaby, right? Do you think I could send some equipment your way for modification later?"
Azure's grin catches the light as she walks beside him, confidence radiating from every step.
"Of course," she purrs at the hint of business. "Depends what kind of equipment we're talking about."
"I've got a vehicle that could use some work," Mister replies, tapping the base of his helmet. "And maybe an adjustment here."
Her gaze lingers on the helmet, eyes glinting like she's trying to see through it.
"Oh? An adjustment?" she repeats softly. "It seems to suit you just fine."
"No," he says, a touch lower. "The modulator."
Azure hums, clearly entertained. "Ahh, afraid someone might catch a glimpse of the real you?" she teases, voice bright enough to cut through the bass.
Her eyes dart everywhere at once—taking in lights, people, exits—like she's processing five conversations in her head at once. "We're surrounded by gangsters, music, and bad decisions, and you wanna talk business now? That's a bold move."
Mister doesn't respond, which only seems to excite her more.
Azure tilts her head, grinning wide. "Still, I never say no to a potential client. Worst case, you explode something and I get paid to fix it."
She skips ahead half a step, humming a quick tune that clashes with the rhythm around her. The grin stays—crooked and unbothered.
I tune out the rest of their conversation as we move through the chaos.
We pass by scantily clad partygoers and overly eager types trying their luck. Thanks to Mister, it doesn't take long before we're speaking to the right people and being escorted toward a sleek elevator.
Dead Kings guards in tactical armour become a more common sight as we near our destination.
The elevator glides upward, opening into a long hallway draped in dark velvet curtains and lit by warm, golden light. A muffled thump of bass from below still seeps through the walls. Polished floors reflect the gleam of golden skull statues—each one crowned and dripping with jewelry.
Shock lets out an exaggerated gasp.
"Oooh! Look at the lighting!" She points at the ceiling lights, spinning on her heel. "Y'all ever just—" She cuts herself off, striking an exaggerated pose before strutting down the hallway like it's a runway.
The rest of us watch, caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. A few nearby Dead Kings chuckle; others just stare. Tetra frowns, glancing at the group.
"Uh… am I missing something?"
Shock plants a hand on her hip, extending one leg forward dramatically. "Well?"
Remi snorts with laughter in the back while I keep walking. All things considered, her runway walk isn't bad.
Azure falls into step beside me, calling out over the music.
"Not bad, Shock! You might have a second career in fashion."
I nod her way. A bit rough around the edges—uncoordinated at points—but there's genuine enthusiasm there. "Yeah, you've got some energy in your step. Maybe an agent'll find you one day."
"You think? Yay!" Her grin widens into something bright and goofy. "Maybe I'll retire and become a star!"
Azure rolls her eyes, laughing as we catch up.
"Focus, princess. We're about to meet their boss."
Speaking of which…
I glance back at Mister. "By the way, did you ever meet Blake before? What's he like?"
He shakes his head. "No. Never got the chance. I've only dealt with middle management."
I lower my voice, careful that only the team hears. "So was that business excuse real, or just a way to get us through the door?" It might sound insulting, but I'd rather know if I need to start planning an escape route.
Mister remains unreadable. "It's real. There's another matter in Vancouver I wanted to handle."
He leaves it at that.
The hallway ends at a pair of massive double doors flanked by two armoured Dead Kings guards. Their gear gleams under the soft lights as they step aside and pull the doors open.
Inside is an expansive lounge—red velvet walls, polished black floors, and panoramic windows overlooking the chaos below. Plush leather couches and gold-trimmed tables complete the look of excess.
And then I see him.
A man—no, a thing—sits sprawled across one of the couches. Massive even while seated, his body is entirely cybernetic except for his head. His face is youthful, porcelain-smooth, with sharp, almost playboy-like features that clash against the cold, industrial frame of his body. His hair, styled in a trendy two-block fade, gives him a modern, suave edge—if you can ignore the rest of the machine.
Surrounding him are women dressed in sleek, provocative outfits, each exuding confidence and control. Azure lets out a low whistle.
We file into the room as the guards close the doors behind us.
I can't tell how augmented Blake really is, but one look at him says his body's built for heavy lifting—or killing. Even seated, he takes up an entire couch. The woman beside him looks like a twig in comparison.
I can appreciate the craftsmanship, but personally, a giant chrome body isn't my thing. Shock, on the other hand, looks starstruck.
"Oh. My. Gosh. He's like a real-life action figure. Where do I sign up?"
The hell? I glance her way but keep my mouth shut.
Before Mister can speak, Blake raises a glass from the side table. His voice comes through an artificial modulator—deep, gravelly, and metallic.
"Welcome. I hear you've got business with me."