The problem with being hunted, Rez was learning, was that it made you see hunters everywhere.
Two days after his world inverted, the Spark Sense was a constant, jangling companion. It buzzed when a delivery truck backfired on Flamingo. It spiked when a stranger's gaze lingered on him a second too long in the 7-Eleven. It was a live wire in his brain, tuned to a frequency of dread, and it had turned the vibrant, chaotic symphony of Vegas into a nerve-shredding alarm.
He was on a rooftop—not his own, but a lower one across the street, a vantage point to watch his own apartment like a paranoid bird. The "nest" was a cramped HVAC unit's shadow. He'd spent the morning trying to control the camouflage, the Chameleon Core on his chest now a permanent, cool weight. He could hold the invisibility for almost a full minute if he breathed right, but the Spark Sense made it hard to focus. It was screaming a low, constant warning about the entire city, a bass note of impending doom beneath everything.
That's when he saw her.
She moved across the rooftops not with his own skittering, spider-like grace, but with a silent, predatory flow that was wholly human, yet impossibly efficient. A dark blur against the bruised purple twilight, she navigated the urban canyon like it was her native habitat. She leapt a ten-foot gap between buildings without a running start, landing in a roll that absorbed the impact without a sound. She used fire escapes and vents not as stairs, but as a gymnast's uneven bars, swinging and propelling herself upward with an economy of motion that spoke of relentless training. She was dressed in tactical gear that looked custom-made, not military-issue—matte charcoal grey, form-fitting and non-reflective, with strategic padding at the joints and no identifiable logos or bulky armor plating. Her face was hidden by a mask that covered her nose and mouth, leaving only a slice of intense, focused eyes visible, reflecting the city's glow. In her hands, she carried a compact, futuristic-looking crossbow, its stock folded against the barrel.
And her trajectory was an unwavering line straight for his apartment building.
Rez's breath hitched in his throat. Larry? No. The silhouette was all wrong—smaller, lighter, feminine. Night Widow? The name from his terrified imagination materialized, and the thought was a spike of ice in his veins. But the Spark Sense, while screaming a general chorus of danger, wasn't aimed at her with the same terrifying, singular laser-focus it had for the soldier. This was different. A tangled, confusing knot of threat and… something else. A faint, discordant resonance, like hearing an echo of his own new instincts in a different key.
As she reached the roof adjacent to Desert Palms, she didn't pause to surveil. In one fluid motion, she raised the crossbow, aimed at the parapet of his building, and fired. Not a bolt, but a thin, black grappling line that shot out with a soft, pneumatic thwump. The head of the line flared, not with a hook, but with a magnetic clamp that anchored silently to the metal-reinforced concrete. She gave the line a sharp tug, then swung across the gap in a controlled arc, landing on his roof with the silence of a shadow.
She was here. For him.
Rez's mind raced, a frantic torrent of half-formed plans. Fight? He had strength, webs, but no skill. Flight? He could probably out-climb her, but to where? His apartment was a trap, but it was also the only place he had left. He watched, frozen, as she moved to the roof access door—the same one he'd used. She didn't try the handle. From a pouch on her thigh, she produced a small, pen-like device. She pressed it to the lock. A blue LED on the device flickered, and Rez heard, even from across the street, the faint click-clunk of the magnetic lock disengaging. She was inside.
She's in my home.
The thought broke his paralysis. A new, raw instinct surged—not the spider's, but something deeply, humanly territorial. This was his sanctum, messy and doomed as it was. The place where he'd been changed. It felt like a violation more intimate than the bite itself.
He didn't think. He acted.
Pushing off from the HVAC unit, he sprinted to the edge of his rooftop and jumped. He didn't use a web. The gap was maybe fifteen feet. His enhanced legs coiled and unleashed, propelling him in a soaring, parabolic arc that felt more like flying than jumping. He landed on the fire escape of his own building with a clang that was far too loud, his sticky grip the only thing keeping him from tumbling backwards. He scrambled up, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, and slithered over the parapet onto his roof.
The access door stood slightly ajar. He approached it, the Spark Sense a shrill whistle in his skull. He could hear faint, deliberate movements from below. The soft scrape of a drawer opening. The tap of a finger on his keyboard.
Rage, clean and hot, washed over the fear. She was going through his things.
He yanked the door open and dropped into the stairwell, not using the steps, but falling and catching himself spider-like on the wall halfway down, then dropping again to the second-floor landing. His apartment door was also slightly open. He could see a sliver of his living room, the blue glow of his dormant monitors.
He took a breath, willed the camouflage, and felt the familiar, cool ripple pass over his skin. He became a shimmer in the air, a heat haze with intent. He nudged the door open with a foot and slipped inside.
She was at his desk. Her back was to him. She had one of his gaming headsets in her hand, examining it not with curiosity, but with a clinical, analytical detachment, as if assessing its potential as evidence or a weapon. Her crossbow was slung across her back. Up close, he could see more details—the tactical gear was worn but impeccably maintained. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe, practical knot. She moved with a poised stillness that was more unnerving than any aggressive stance.
Rez's eyes darted to his bedroom door. It was closed. Had she been in there? The thought of her touching his bed, his clothes, made his skin crawl.
He had to get her out. Now.
Still invisible, he moved with exaggerated care to the small kitchenette. His eyes landed on the toaster. It was stupid, it was childish, but it was all he had. He picked it up—the cord pulled taut, then the plug popped from the wall—and with all his enhanced strength, he hurled it at the far wall, away from her.
CRASH-BANG-THUD!
The toaster exploded against the drywall in a shower of plastic, metal, and crumbs.
The woman didn't jump. She didn't scream. She dropped into a low crouch in one fluid motion, her head snapping towards the sound, the crossbow now unslung and in her hands in a blink. Her eyes, visible above the mask, scanned the room with methodical precision. They didn't widen with fear; they narrowed with calculation.
"Thermal camouflage," she stated, her voice muffled by the mask but clear, calm, and young. Younger than he expected. Maybe his age. "Ineffective against motion tracking or focused air disturbance scans. But a decent parlor trick."
Rez's blood ran cold. She knew. How could she know?
"Show yourself," she said, turning slowly, the crossbow tracking an invisible arc across the room. "I'm not with the military. I'm not here to cage you. I'm here because you're a statistical impossibility that just landed in my backyard, and impossibilities have a habit of attracting very bad people."
The words hung in the air. The Spark Sense was a discordant mess—threat, yes, but the threat was layered with a blunt, frustrating honesty. She wasn't lying. But she was still dangerous.
Rez let the camouflage drop. He flickered back into visibility, standing by the overturned kitchen stool, his wrists held slightly away from his body, ready.
She turned the crossbow towards him, but didn't raise it to her shoulder. It remained at a low ready. Her eyes swept over him, and he saw it—a flicker of something that wasn't fear or aggression. It was recognition. A scientist looking at a confirmed specimen.
"Rez Crown," she said. "Nineteen. CrownCast streamer. Average upload speed, above-average engagement metrics, chronically under-monetized. No prior medical history of note. No family in state." She tilted her head. "And now, the host subject for an off-the-books Chinese bioweapon. How's the headache?"
He blinked, thrown. "The… what?"
"The synaptic overload. The sensory bombardment. Your brain is trying to process input from five new biological subsystems at once. It manifests as a persistent occipital lobe headache, pressure behind the eyes. Am I wrong?"
He was, in fact, fighting one right now. He said nothing.
A ghost of a smile might have touched her eyes. "I'll take that as a correct diagnosis. You need to come with me. This place is compromised. It's been compromised since the moment your bio-signature flared on my scanners forty-eight hours ago."
"Your scanners?" Rez echoed, his voice tight. "Who are you?"
Before she could answer, the Spark Sense exploded.
It wasn't a warning. It was a detonation. A white-hot spike of pure, predatory malice that speared through the apartment walls. It came from outside. From the street. It was the feeling he'd had on the roof, but magnified a thousand times, focused and hungry and close.
The woman's head snapped towards the window. Her body tensed, all pretense of conversation gone, replaced by the readiness of a coiled spring. "He's here. Earlier than I projected." She looked back at Rez, her eyes urgent. "You have exactly one choice. You can stay here and let the man who thinks you stole his destiny turn this apartment into an abattoir, or you can trust the person who actually understands what's happening to you. Now."
Outside, a car alarm suddenly wailed, then was cut off with a sound of shearing metal and a sickening crunch.
Rez made the choice. He didn't trust her. But he feared what was outside infinitely more. "Where?"
"Roof. Now." She was already moving, not to the door, but to the window. She slapped a small device onto the glass—a circular pad with a handle. A second later, with a sharp crack, the entire pane of glass came loose, held neatly in a frame of polymer foam. She shoved it inward, creating a silent opening. "They'll expect the stairs. They won't expect this."
Rez followed. As he passed his desk, he snagged his backpack, shoving his laptop and a hard drive into it by feel. He joined her at the window. The two-story drop was nothing. He went first, jumping out, twisting in the air, and landing in a crouch on the dumpster in the alley below, sticking the landing with an ease that still surprised him.
She followed a second later, not jumping, but rappelling down on a thin, high-tensile line from a device on her belt, touching down beside him without a sound. "This way," she whispered, and took off down the alley at a run.
They fled through a labyrinth of backstreets and service corridors, the woman navigating with preternatural certainty. Rez matched her pace easily, his enhanced legs making the run feel like a jog. After ten minutes, they emerged into a slightly better-kept residential area. She led him to a nondescript sedan parked under a streetlight. It was an older model, utterly forgettable. She clicked a fob, the locks popped, and she slid into the driver's seat.
Rez hesitated, the backpack clutched in his hand.
"Get in, or get caught," she said, not looking at him, her eyes scanning the mirrors.
He got in.
She drove not with panic, but with a smooth, defensive precision, taking turns at the last second, doubling back twice, her eyes constantly checking mirrors and blind spots. After twenty minutes of silent, tense navigation, they pulled into the garage of a small, well-kept bungalow in a quiet neighborhood west of the Strip. The garage door closed behind them, plunging them into darkness, then fluorescent light flickered on.
The garage was not a garage. It was a workshop. Neat, organized, but brimming with technology that looked like it fell off the back of a secret military convoy. Workbenches lined the walls, covered in disassembled electronics, schematics, and tools Rez couldn't name. A bank of monitors showed rotating feeds—traffic cameras, police bands, what looked like raw satellite data. In the center, on a mannequin, was a suit of armor. It was sleek, matte black, with a design that suggested speed and stealth over brute force. It was clearly related to the gear she wore, but more complete, more integrated.
The woman killed the engine and finally took off her mask.
Rez stared.
She was maybe twenty, with sharp, intelligent features, high cheekbones, and eyes of a striking, storm-grey hue. Her hair, now free from its knot, was a deep auburn, falling to her shoulders. There was no hint of the ruthless operative in her face now, only a weary, grim focus. But the resemblance was what struck him dumb. She looked… familiar. In a way that tugged at a recent, terrifying memory.
"My name," she said, turning to face him fully in the cramped space, "is Lyra. Lyra Vance."
The name meant nothing. But the Spark Sense gave a faint, curious pulse.
"You're wondering how I know what you are," she continued, getting out of the car. "Or you should be. Come inside. The garage isn't soundproofed."
She led him through a side door into a small, tidy kitchen, then into a living room that had been converted into a combination library and mission control. Books on biochemistry, quantum mechanics, and military history shared shelf space with server racks. More monitors glowed here. On one wall was a large, framed photograph of a man with kind eyes and a scientist's thoughtful smile, standing with a younger Lyra at what looked like a science fair.
"My father," Lyra said, noting his gaze. "Dr. Elias Vance. Former head of biodynamic fusion research at Aegis Forge."
Aegis Forge. The name rang a bell. A private defense contractor, often a rival to Black Ghost. Rez's Tech-Vision supplied a cascade of news snippets about government contracts, advanced prosthetics, speculative energy weapons.
"Three years ago," Lyra said, her voice dropping, losing its clinical edge for the first time, "my father was approached by a liaison from a joint US-UK black project. They had acquired… partial data. Schematics. Biological samples from a failed Chinese program called Silk Tempest."
Rez's heart stopped. Silk Tempest. The words were a key turning in a lock deep inside him.
"The goal was the same: a bio-enhanced operative. But the Western approach was different. Less about conditioning a predator, more about… symbiosis. Creating a stable, controllable interface between human and… other." She walked to a desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a tablet. She tapped it, and a hologram sprang to life. It showed a DNA helix, but sections of it were highlighted in a familiar, sickly amber glow. "My father was a purist. He believed the key wasn't in the venom, but in the host's ability to adapt. He theorized a 'bridge' protein, something that could mediate the transformation without triggering a catastrophic immune response or neural meltdown."
She zoomed in on the hologram. Rez's Tech-Vision flared, automatically analyzing the complex protein structures. He saw flaws, elegant solutions, dead ends. He saw his own biology reflected in the code.
"He worked in secret. Too secret. He didn't trust the project's military overseers. He thought they wanted a weapon, not a breakthrough." Her jaw tightened. "He used himself as the first test subject for the bridge protein. A stabilizing agent, derived from his own modified genome, meant to make a host… receptive. Compatible."
She looked directly at Rez, and in her storm-grey eyes, he saw a depth of understanding that stole his breath.
"The night he administered the prototype to himself, there was a breach at the main Aegis lab. A containment failure. The primary Silk Tempest specimen—not the data, the actual organism—was stolen. Vanished. The official story was that Chinese operatives recovered it. The project was buried. My father was discredited, fired. He became a paranoid mess, convinced he was being watched, that his work was cursed." She hugged herself, a rare vulnerability showing through. "He died six months later. A car accident. The police said it was brake failure. I know it was because he knew too much, and he'd become an unstable liability."
The room was silent except for the hum of the servers.
"What does this have to do with me?" Rez whispered, though he was already piecing it together, the horror dawning.
Lyra's gaze was unwavering. "The spider that bit you, Rez. Subject X-99. It didn't just escape from the Chinese. It was liberated. By whom, I still don't know. But during its escape, its containment was damaged. It was leaking. Not just radiation. Trace amounts of bioactive compounds. My father's bridge protein was in its system. A contaminant from the Aegis lab breach."
She brought up a new image on the tablet. A map of Las Vegas. A dotted line led from McCarran to his apartment. Overlaid on it were faint, pulsing amber dots. "I've been monitoring for its signature since my father first told me about the theft. I detected the leak the night it landed. I tracked it. I saw it enter your building. I couldn't stop it in time." For the first time, a flicker of something like guilt crossed her face. "By the time I got there, it had already chosen a host. You."
The pieces slammed together with the force of a physical blow. The spider hadn't just bitten a random kid. His biology had been… prepped. Primed. By the ghost of a dead scientist's desperate experiment. The "perfect match" wasn't just luck. It was engineered, in a twisted, roundabout way.
"The bridge protein…" Rez said, his voice hoarse. "It's in me."
Lyra nodded. "It's the reason you're alive. The reason you're not a puddle of boiling flesh or a raving monster. It's mediating the transformation, allowing your body to adapt rather than reject. It's why your powers are… coherent. Stable, even if you don't control them yet. You're not just a Silk Tempest host. You're a hybrid. A fusion of the Chinese weapon and my father's dream of a stable symbiosis."
She took a step closer. "The man hunting you—Larry Jason. He was the military's chosen candidate. But he didn't have the bridge. He was raw. Unprepared. When the spider was lost, they gave him cybernetics instead. But he knows what he was promised. And he can smell the perfection in you. It's a taunt. A living insult. He won't stop until he either has your power or has destroyed it."
Rez sank into a chair, the weight of it all crushing him. He wasn't an accident. He was the unintended consequence of a war between secret projects, a science experiment that had absorbed another science experiment. His uniqueness was a target painted on his back in glowing, radioactive ink.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked. "Why help me?"
Lyra's expression hardened back into the focused operative. "Two reasons. First, because it's my father's legacy walking around in your skin. In a strange way, you're proof he was right. I won't let the wolves tear his proof apart." She paused. "Second, because you're not the only one with a bridge protein in their DNA."
She turned and pushed up the sleeve of her tactical shirt. On her forearm, just below the elbow, was a mark. Not a bite. A scar. A precise, surgical line. And around it, faintly visible under her skin, was the faintest tracery of faded amber lines, like old, healed veins.
"My father was paranoid, but he was also a preparer. Before he died, he gave me a choice. A small, stabilized dose of his own modified genome. To protect me, he said. To give me a 'fighting chance' if the shadows ever came for me." She flexed her hand. "I