The Reaper ripped through Lincoln Heights morning traffic like it was personally offended by the concept of gridlock.
One-fifty. Two hundred. Why not three? Physics is negotiable when you're riding something that has the personality of a sociopathic panther.
Ahead, Soo-Jin danced the Blade through lanes—that vicious, origami-folded murder machine someone clearly designed while high on spite and nano. All sharp planes and worse intentions. My Reaper was a battering ram with anger issues; hers was a scalpel that fucked at Mach speeds.
Precision assassination on twenty-inch rims.
She was faster by pedigree, slipping through gaps that hadn't even decided to exist yet. Her AI played chess with traffic four moves ahead, tagging threats before they could finish blinking. The Blade's skin shimmered—adaptive camo flirting with the scenery like it was deciding whether to eat it or just humiliate it.
