The air inside the armored convoy truck smelled like sterile steel and recycled coolant.

Riko moved through the narrow, dimly-lit passage with the loose-limbed, predatory grace of a man who’d been doing this since he could hold a gun.

His cybernetic arm whirred softly with each step, the gold-plated screws catching the low light. Ahead, the convoy’s internal layout matched the intel they’d scraped from a dead Auditor’s comms unit three days ago. Mostly matched. CYPHER loved to tweak blueprints just enough to fuck with you.

“Left junction mate,” Deadeye’s voice came through the bone-conduction comm, flat. “Two tin men on patrol. Cycle’s forty-five seconds it is. Go on, move now—proper or wait a full ninety.”

“We’re not waiting ninety,” Riko murmured, thumbing the safety off his pulse rifle. The itch for violence was a live wire under his skin today. ‘Bad mood’ didn’t cover it. He’d woken up with the phantom ache in the steel of his jaw plates. He wanted CYPHER blood. Wanted to hear it splatter on the floor.

He rounded the corner, the rifle coming up smooth and silent. Two Auditors in full tactical rigging, their chrome augments gleaming dully under the emergency strips. Didn’t give them a chance to see it coming.

The suppressed pulse rifle fired twice—thump-thump—a sound like a heart giving out. The tin men dropped without a scream, neural overload frying their systems from the inside out. Clean. Ghost-run clean.

“Clear,” Riko said, stepping over the bodies already scanning ahead.

Jugg’s bulk filled the path behind him, the big man’s frost-glass eyes scanning the ceiling conduits. “Conduit’s hot as a motherfucker!” he boomed, voice like rolling thunder. “Aux power’s goin’ to the forward holds... somethin’ back there’s guzzlin’ a fuckton of juice.”

“Medical or tech?” Riko asked, already moving.

“Shit both, if the stars’re smilin’!” Jugg grinned flanking his side. “Also got a secondary containment back behind a fancy-ass bulkhead. Pretty as a peach... smells like Apex money all over.”

“Ignore it. We’re here for the pods and the hardware. Not interior decorating.”

Deadeye materialized from a shadowed alcove, his platinum hair almost white in the gloom. He fell into line without a glance at the bodies. “We’ve seven minutes before the next systems handshake, we have. If we’re not at extraction by then, the external sensors’ll recalibra’e, see—and we’ll light up like a Torch-blasted festival, we will.”

“I hear you,” Riko said, though he was only half-listening. His focus was on the map overlay projected in his left eye. The main cargo hold was thirty meters ahead, sealed behind a blast door. It would be full of pod chassis, crates of Commons-tier limb replacements, maybe even a few Apex neural interfaces if this haul was as rich as the intel suggested. It would keep their camp fed, armed, and scrapped for a quarter-cycle. A good run. A necessary run.

He could hear Havoc ahead, the younger raider’s footsteps too loud, his breathing a little too excited. Riko’s jaw tightened. Havoc was a liability in tight quarters. A beautiful, unhinged, explosive liability.

They reached the blast door. Jugg was already at the control panel, his steel fingers prying open the housing with a sound of tearing metal. “Fuckin’ encrypted,” he muttered. “Good ass encryption. CYPHER’s gettin’ cute.”

“Aye, but can ye crack it?” Deadeye asked, his voice betraying the first hint of strain. The clock was in all their heads now, ticking down.

“Can I crack it?” Jugg snorted. “Bitch, I was crackin’ CYPHER’s shit while you were still a gleam in some Apex fuck’s optimization report.” His fingers danced over the exposed circuitry, pulling wires, splicing leads. The door hissed, then slid open with a groan of protesting hydraulics.

“I’m no one’s bitch, see?” Deadeye shouldered past him. “Big talk’ll get you flat if you’re not careful, eh?”

Jugg’s only response was a dark chuckle.

The hold beyond was vast, cold, and stacked high with cargo pods. Each one was a sleek, ivory capsule, marked with CYPHER’s helix logo. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Next to them, crates stamped with medical cross symbols and tech hazard warnings.

Jackpot.

“Move,” Riko ordered, his voice low. “Deadeye, secure the perimeter. Jugg, start tagging what we can carry. Havoc, with me—we sweep for stragglers.”

Havoc didn’t answer. Riko turned, and the kid wasn’t there.

“Fuck,” Riko breathed.

He found him fifty feet back, standing in front of that decorative bulkhead Jugg had mentioned. It was fancy—polished brushed steel, inlaid with what looked like real wood veneer, a style that screamed Apex wastefulness. Havoc had his ionic pulse shotgun cradled in his arms, his head tilted, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Havoc,” Riko said, the word a warning.

“Look at this,” Havoc murmured, his voice giddy. “It’s nice. Lock’s biometric. Fancy.”

Deadeye appeared at Riko’s shoulder, his permanent scowl deepening. “No time for mucking about bruv. Five minutes forty-three to handshake. Just leave it.”

“But it’s expensive,” Havoc said, as if that explained everything. He raised the shotgun.

“Havoc, don’t you fucking—”

BLAM

The ionic blast was deafening in the enclosed space. A blue-white pulse of energy hit the biometric panel, which exploded in a shower of sparks and molten metal. The sound echoed down the convoy passage, a ringing, undeniable announcement of their presence.

Riko saw red. Pure, undiluted rage flooded his system. He crossed the distance in three strides, grabbing Havoc by the collar of his fur-lined coat and slamming him into the opposite wall. “You fuckin’ brain-dead waste of oxygen! You just rang the dinner bell for every Slug in the convoy!”

Havoc just laughed, silver-blue eyes bright with manic glee. “Had to see what’s inside!”

Jugg barreled over, his big hands closing around the barrel of Havoc’s shotgun, wrenching it away. “Give me that before you kill us all, you little shit—” He froze, his gaze snapping to the now-open bulkhead. The frost-glass eyes widened. His jaw, steel plates and all, went slack. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, well I’ll be damned.”

The tone—not anger, not frustration, but sheer, unadulterated shock—made Riko release Havoc and turn.

The bulkhead’s door had teetered open to reveal that it concealed not a storage closet, not a treasure vault, but a containment suite. It was small, climate-controlled, lined with soft, pale lighting. It smelled clean, like filtered air and something floral. Expensive.

And in the center of it, seated on a low, padded bench, was a woman.

Riko’s brain stuttered. For a second, the world narrowed to the input from his eyes and the input from his gut, which was screaming that this was impossible.

Women were extinct. They were myths. Ghost stories Raiders told each other over stolen liquor when the night was especially dark.

She was real. She was here. In a CYPHER convoy. Being shipped like cargo. It was like looking a unicorn in the face.

A fuckin’ Liesl.

His mind raced, things falling into place. The high security. The auxiliary power draw. The decorative bulkhead—not to hide treasure, but to hide this. This wasn’t a standard transport. This was a black-site move. A Juno transfer. And they had just blown it wide open.

Deadeye finally reached them, his face a mask of impatient fury. “If we’re not movin’ in t’next sixty, I’m leavin’ without—” His words died. He stared. The stoic, unflappable precision of him fractured, just for an instant. His grey eyes widened. He sighed. “Oh, fer fuck’s sake, then.”

But Havoc was already moving. He shook off Jugg’s slackened grip, snatched his shotgun back, and stepped into the suite. The smile on his face was sinister, unhinged, possessive.

He ignored the stunned silence of his crew, his world having narrowed to the new, fascinating toy in front of him.

He moved close, too close, invading the space. He lowered the shotgun, using the barrel to gently, almost mockingly, lift a strand of her hair. Then his free hand came up, fisting in it, pulling her head back just enough. He leaned in, his nose burying in the hair in his fist, and inhaled deeply—a long, psychotic drag of scent. He sighed, a sound of pure, twisted delight.

He pulled back, his silver-blue eyes locked on hers, his voice a menacing, intimate whisper.

“Well, look what I found,” he crooned, stroking the barrel of the gun near her temple. “A pretty, pretty thing. What do I call you, lovely?”

MALEPOV

The air inside the armored convoy truck smelled like sterile steel and recycled coolant.

Riko moved through the narrow, dimly-lit passage with the loose-limbed, predatory grace of a man who’d been doing this since he could hold a gun.

His cybernetic arm whirred softly with each step, the gold-plated screws catching the low light. Ahead, the convoy’s internal layout matched the intel they’d scraped from a dead Auditor’s comms unit three days ago. Mostly matched. CYPHER loved to tweak blueprints just enough to fuck with you.

“Left junction mate,” Deadeye’s voice came through the bone-conduction comm, flat. “Two tin men on patrol. Cycle’s forty-five seconds it is. Go on, move now—proper or wait a full ninety.”

“We’re not waiting ninety,” Riko murmured, thumbing the safety off his pulse rifle. The itch for violence was a live wire under his skin today. ‘Bad mood’ didn’t cover it. He’d woken up with the phantom ache in the steel of his jaw plates. He wanted CYPHER blood. Wanted to hear it splatter on the floor.

He rounded the corner, the rifle coming up smooth and silent. Two Auditors in full tactical rigging, their chrome augments gleaming dully under the emergency strips. Didn’t give them a chance to see it coming.

The suppressed pulse rifle fired twice—thump-thump—a sound like a heart giving out. The tin men dropped without a scream, neural overload frying their systems from the inside out. Clean. Ghost-run clean.

“Clear,” Riko said, stepping over the bodies already scanning ahead.

Jugg’s bulk filled the path behind him, the big man’s frost-glass eyes scanning the ceiling conduits. “Conduit’s hot as a motherfucker!” he boomed, voice like rolling thunder. “Aux power’s goin’ to the forward holds... somethin’ back there’s guzzlin’ a fuckton of juice.”

“Medical or tech?” Riko asked, already moving.

“Shit both, if the stars’re smilin’!” Jugg grinned flanking his side. “Also got a secondary containment back behind a fancy-ass bulkhead. Pretty as a peach... smells like Apex money all over.”

“Ignore it. We’re here for the pods and the hardware. Not interior decorating.”

Deadeye materialized from a shadowed alcove, his platinum hair almost white in the gloom. He fell into line without a glance at the bodies. “We’ve seven minutes before the next systems handshake, we have. If we’re not at extraction by then, the external sensors’ll recalibra’e, see—and we’ll light up like a Torch-blasted festival, we will.”

“I hear you,” Riko said, though he was only half-listening. His focus was on the map overlay projected in his left eye. The main cargo hold was thirty meters ahead, sealed behind a blast door. It would be full of pod chassis, crates of Commons-tier limb replacements, maybe even a few Apex neural interfaces if this haul was as rich as the intel suggested. It would keep their camp fed, armed, and scrapped for a quarter-cycle. A good run. A necessary run.

He could hear Havoc ahead, the younger raider’s footsteps too loud, his breathing a little too excited. Riko’s jaw tightened. Havoc was a liability in tight quarters. A beautiful, unhinged, explosive liability.

They reached the blast door. Jugg was already at the control panel, his steel fingers prying open the housing with a sound of tearing metal. “Fuckin’ encrypted,” he muttered. “Good ass encryption. CYPHER’s gettin’ cute.”

“Aye, but can ye crack it?” Deadeye asked, his voice betraying the first hint of strain. The clock was in all their heads now, ticking down.

“Can I crack it?” Jugg snorted. “Bitch, I was crackin’ CYPHER’s shit while you were still a gleam in some Apex fuck’s optimization report.” His fingers danced over the exposed circuitry, pulling wires, splicing leads. The door hissed, then slid open with a groan of protesting hydraulics.

“I’m no one’s bitch, see?” Deadeye shouldered past him. “Big talk’ll get you flat if you’re not careful, eh?”

Jugg’s only response was a dark chuckle.

The hold beyond was vast, cold, and stacked high with cargo pods. Each one was a sleek, ivory capsule, marked with CYPHER’s helix logo. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Next to them, crates stamped with medical cross symbols and tech hazard warnings.

Jackpot.

“Move,” Riko ordered, his voice low. “Deadeye, secure the perimeter. Jugg, start tagging what we can carry. Havoc, with me—we sweep for stragglers.”

Havoc didn’t answer. Riko turned, and the kid wasn’t there.

“Fuck,” Riko breathed.

He found him fifty feet back, standing in front of that decorative bulkhead Jugg had mentioned. It was fancy—polished brushed steel, inlaid with what looked like real wood veneer, a style that screamed Apex wastefulness. Havoc had his ionic pulse shotgun cradled in his arms, his head tilted, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Havoc,” Riko said, the word a warning.

“Look at this,” Havoc murmured, his voice giddy. “It’s nice. Lock’s biometric. Fancy.”

Deadeye appeared at Riko’s shoulder, his permanent scowl deepening. “No time for mucking about bruv. Five minutes forty-three to handshake. Just leave it.”

“But it’s expensive,” Havoc said, as if that explained everything. He raised the shotgun.

“Havoc, don’t you fucking—”

BLAM

The ionic blast was deafening in the enclosed space. A blue-white pulse of energy hit the biometric panel, which exploded in a shower of sparks and molten metal. The sound echoed down the convoy passage, a ringing, undeniable announcement of their presence.

Riko saw red. Pure, undiluted rage flooded his system. He crossed the distance in three strides, grabbing Havoc by the collar of his fur-lined coat and slamming him into the opposite wall. “You fuckin’ brain-dead waste of oxygen! You just rang the dinner bell for every Slug in the convoy!”

Havoc just laughed, silver-blue eyes bright with manic glee. “Had to see what’s inside!”

Jugg barreled over, his big hands closing around the barrel of Havoc’s shotgun, wrenching it away. “Give me that before you kill us all, you little shit—” He froze, his gaze snapping to the now-open bulkhead. The frost-glass eyes narrowed. His jaw, steel plates and all, tightened. “Wait,” he breathed. “What the fuck?”

The tone—not anger, not frustration, but sheer, unadulterated shock—made Riko release Havoc and turn.

The bulkhead’s door had teetered open to reveal that it concealed not a storage closet, not a treasure vault, but a containment suite. It was small, climate-controlled, lined with soft, pale lighting. It smelled clean, like filtered air and something floral. Expensive.

And in the center of it, seated on a low, padded bench, was a man.

Riko’s brain stuttered. For a second, the world narrowed to the input from his eyes and the input from his gut, which was screaming that this was a trap.

The fuck is going on here? What’s he doing? Here. In a CYPHER convoy. Being shipped like cargo. It was unlike anything he’d seen on a hundred convoy ops.

A fuckin’ Slug?

His mind raced, things falling into place. The high security. The auxiliary power draw. The decorative bulkhead—not to hide treasure, but to hide this. This wasn’t a standard transport. This was a black-site move. A fucking transfer. And they had just blown it wide open.

Deadeye finally reached them, his face a mask of impatient fury. “If we’re not movin’ in t’next sixty, I’m leavin’ without—” His words died. He stared. The stoic, unflappable precision of him fractured, just for an instant. His grey eyes widened. He sighed. “Oh, fer fuck’s sake, then.”

But Havoc was already moving. He shook off Jugg’s slackened grip, snatched his shotgun back, and stepped into the suite. The smile on his face was sinister, unhinged, possessive.

He ignored the stunned silence of his crew, his world having narrowed to the new, fascinating toy in front of him.

He moved close, too close, invading the space. He lowered the shotgun, using the barrel to gently, almost mockingly, lift a strand of his hair. Then his free hand came up, fisting in it, pulling his head back just enough. He leaned in, his nose burying in the hair in his fist, and inhaled deeply—a long, psychotic drag of scent. He sighed, a sound of pure, twisted delight.

He pulled back, his silver-blue eyes locked on the man’s, his voice a menacing, intimate whisper.

“Well, look what I found,” he crooned, stroking the barrel of the gun near his temple. “A pretty, pretty thing. What do I call you, lovely?”