April 18, 2021. 15:09. Richmond.
"Thank you for the assistance," Dante says, bowing his head in gratitude. "If it weren't for your quick arrival, I'm not sure what would've happened."
We're gathered around what's left of Terminal C—scattered luggage, shattered glass, and the faint sting of gunpowder lingering in the air. Dante leans against a support beam, one hand pressed to the bandage wrapped around his shoulder. His suit jacket lies draped over a chair, stained dark red.
Wissen crosses his arms, nodding once. "You made the right call contacting us. Without our intervention, this place would've been a bloodbath."
"Yeah," Shock mutters, stepping over a few of the bodies. I checked their phones and internal comms—it's the same encryption as our guys from Naples. This is all internal, no doubt about it."
"Dawg, these guys got a hate boner for you." Remi scoffs, still gripping the rifle he picked up. "They really don't want y'all leaving Canada." He nudges one of the corpses with his boot and flashes a grin. "We sure showed them, though."
Azure exhales, leaning against a baggage cart. "They had the numbers, though. If they'd been smarter, we'd be the ones in the morgue."
"They were sent to stop me from returning to Italy." Dante's voice is tight, a grimace flickering across his face. "My rivals know that once I set foot on Italian soil, I'll be one step closer to becoming the next Godfather. They can't afford that."
"So, what's the plan?" I ask, wiping down my SMG before stowing it.
For a moment, Dante says nothing. Then his gaze hardens.
"No matter what, I will return to Italy. But my enemies are relentless—they'll try to stop me at every turn." He looks around at each of us. "I'll need your assistance once more. I'll pay you all to protect me during the journey and ensure I arrive safely. I was supposed to fly tonight, but I'll reschedule for the thirtieth of April. I ask that you accompany me on that flight and stay by my side until this is over."
Silence settles over the group as we weigh his request.
"Godfather business, huh?" Remi lets out a low whistle, grinning wide. "Shiiiit, gotta admit, that sounds pretty damn dope. Say less—I'm in. Always wanted to see Italy anyway."
Shock's eyes go wide, glowing with sudden joy. "Wait, I get to go home? Like home-home?" She nearly bounces on her heels, her voice bright as a bell. "Oh my gosh! I can't wait to see the family again!"
Wissen folds his arms, thinking. Then he glances toward Tetra with a small nod. "We'll go. I've got contacts out there. I can dig up more intel on Ras while we're moving."
Tetra scratches the back of his neck, hesitant. "Huh… never been to Europe before." A beat. Then a faint grin. "But sure, count me in."
Mister stays quiet—motionless—his faceless visor fixed on Dante.
The silence stretches until, finally, he nods. "If I'm crossing borders, I'll need more resources."
Dante inclines his head in agreement. "You'll be compensated accordingly. Whatever you require, you'll have."
Azure shifts, arms crossed, uneasy. "I don't know... sounds a little out of my league. Mechanics aren't exactly top-tier in mob wars."
I give her a small, reassuring smile. "Think it over. You don't have to decide right now."
She hesitates, still mulling it over, and I almost leave it at that. But then I add, "Who knows? Someone who actually knows how to keep our tech running overseas might be more valuable than you think."
Azure lets out a short laugh, the edge in her posture fading. "Yeah, it's not like you'll find someone better than me."
It's not much, but it's enough to keep her thinking about it. And, strangely, it makes me think too. I'd been halfway to walking away from this whole thing—until that small bit of advice I just gave her circles back on me.
My hand drifts to my pocket, pulling out my phone. Calendar: August 4th—Milan photo shoot.
Right. Forgot about that.
I pause, thinking it through. Getting familiar with the country ahead of time wouldn't hurt—language, layout, maybe even a few contacts.
Mixing business and opportunity never scared me anyway.
"Fine," I say at last. "I'll go."
Wissen raises a brow in quiet amusement, but I ignore him and enter the details into my phone, setting daily reminders. April 30th—countdown on.
Dante exhales—tension bleeding from his shoulders.
He bows his head slightly. "Grazie. Your assistance is invaluable. I promise you—the reward will be worth it."
No one replies. Silence falls heavy over us, the kind that settles after a storm.
The airport hum fills the space again—emergency lights flickering across shattered glass, twisted belts, and scattered luggage. Gunpowder still hangs in the air, stubborn and stale.
A muted wince crosses Dante's face as he adjusts the bandage on his shoulder. One of his men rolls a half-ruined suitcase toward him, and he sinks onto it, the weight of command—and exhaustion—pressing down.
Then Azure speaks, thoughtful but firm. "Okay—I just realized something." She looks around at us. "Not to ruin the mood, but are we seriously going to let a mafia boss walk out the door with a literal prototype railgun?"
She jerks her chin toward the heavily tarped weapons case near the exit. "In hindsight, we should've thought about Dante's enemies getting their hands on it and turning it on him... or on us."
The air shifts. Even Remi's grin fades.
Mister smooths his coat. "There's maybe less to worry about than you think—the prototype is incomplete. The power cell's unstable, and the targeting software isn't calibrated either."
"Fair point, but that doesn't mean it can't still kill a dozen people in a straight line," Azure says, stepping forward. "I've seen military schematics for stuff like this before. The output's insane, even at partial charge. If Dante's enemies get a hold of it, we're all screwed."
Tetra folds his arms, brow furrowing. "Yeah… she's not wrong. That thing's basically a war crime with a trigger, right? I don't want to picture it on city streets."
Dante throws his hands up, half-amused, half-weary. "I get your concerns. I don't intend to mass-produce it, and I won't unleash it unless absolutely necessary. But my enemies won't pull punches. If a final confrontation comes, I want at least one ace to play."
"So—one shot," Wissen says flatly. "That's our compromise."
"I'll take it," Dante agrees.
"Fine. Works for me." Azure shifts, turning to Shock. "Wanna help me?"
Shock gasps theatrically. "Of course~! I've always wanted to see a railgun's security up close."
They move to the crate. Azure kneels and peels the outer casing off with her finger tools, stripping the carbon housing like a surgeon. Her hands are fast and exact; damaged paneling clatters aside. Shock crouches beside her, hooking a cable from her black box to the weapon's topside, eyes bright with curious thrill.
Remi crouches nearby, watching with a crooked grin. "Shiii— we really messing with that thing, huh?"
Azure keeps her head down, fingers busy. "We're making sure it doesn't kill anyone it's not supposed to, genius. After that, I'll leave the mafia shootouts to the rest of 'Team Dante'."
Her tool-hands shift from screwdrivers to clippers as she picks through the railgun's innards. "Shock, can you hide our tampering in the weapon's systems?"
Shock's grin widens as her eyes and nails light up electric blue. "Yeah, Remi." She wags a finger at him like a teacher catching a smartass student. "Call it a failsafe hack. We'll keep it functional—mostly. There's an auto-fire routine buried in the firmware; I'll just disable that."
She starts pinching the air, manipulating invisible windows only she can see. "Okay… HUD's altered to mask the changes. We're golden."
I watch from a few steps back, arms crossed. Relief bleeds through me—the railgun's always felt like a coin flip between asset and disaster.
At least now, it's tilted a little more in our favour. Or that's what I tell myself.
After a few more precise motions, Azure leans back and exhales. "Okay. One shot. Maybe. And only if you pray first."
Dante steps forward, peers into the case, then nods. "That will suffice. I appreciate the compromise."
Shock powers down her glow, snaps the casing closed and taps the top with a satisfied click. "It should still aim well enough—as long as the target isn't running."
Azure flexes her fingers until they look normal again. "Good. Less chance of someone going full meltdown with this."
Glances pass between us—silent, but in sync. The kind that says, "we did what we could," and that'll have to be enough.
With the weapon a little bit more neutralized for now, people start to move, the tension easing as the group shifts back into motion.
Shock and Tetra stick around, helping Dante's crew clean up what's left of the mess. Wissen stays too, half-absorbed in his next call—already coordinating with contacts to stall any police interference. His voice carries that clipped, no-nonsense tone that says the problem's handled before it even starts.
Azure pulls out her phone, scrolling through her calendar. "I'm heading back. Gotta check on my shop before I even think about this Italy thing."
"Aight, well, I got the munchies, so I'm gonna dip." Remi stretches, hands behind his head as he ambles toward the exit. "Deuces!" He flashes a peace sign and disappears down the corridor.
Mister's already pacing near the far wall, phone to his ear, probably sorting logistics for the overseas trip.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance around at the wreckage—shattered glass, burned metal, the faint scent of cordite still clinging to the air.
Everything's moving fast now, and my head hasn't quite caught up.
Azure gives a small wave, her tone lighter than before. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah, sure," I say, waving back without slowing down.
As I walk out through the ruined terminal, my thoughts scatter between the Dead Kings, Blake's bar invite, and Dante's looming protection detail. Guard duty isn't really my thing—I'm usually paid to end lives, not shield them.
Still, that's a problem for later. One job at a time.
…
April 18, 2021. 19:40. Burnaby. 12 days left till Italy.
Neon lights buzz and flicker overhead. Muffled hip-hop seeps out into the cool suburban night, mixing with the hum of passing cars. Dusty windows stare back at me. What a vibe.
The evening air brushes against my back as I stand by the curb.
Funny coincidence I ended up here.
A hand-painted sign hangs above the entrance—crimson letters spelling out "The Vix Lounge", glowing soft under amber street lamps that line the narrow block.
The place sits on the corner, tucked between older brick apartments and newer glass-fronted condos trying to gentrify the area. A little further down, Azure's garage squats further down the block—all grease, spare parts, and rusted dreams she's turning into rent money.
Across the street, a few Dead Kings haul furniture alongside the bar staff. Vans and old sedans crowd the curb, their trunks spilling boxes of liquor and sound equipment. It's busy but organized—everyone knows their role.
Pedestrians wander past without much interest. Couples heading to dinner, loners on smoke breaks, the occasional group of teens pretending not to notice the gang tags etched into the lampposts.
Despite the rough exterior, The Vix Lounge has a decent rep—good cocktails, soft leather seats, and enough polish to pass as upscale in Burnaby standards.
I'll give it credit—it looks good. Relaxed. A little worn in, but cozy in a way most places I've been lately aren't. Close enough to the main drag for attention, far enough for trouble to stay quiet.
I approach the entrance, eyes sweeping the sidewalk for anything out of place.
By the time I'd prepped my gear and made it here, Blake had already sent over more details: meet the guards, check in with Mister, and make sure no one hijacks the bar before closing.
At least I had time to change. The dress from earlier wouldn't have lasted another chase—it was a miracle that it survived the first. Now I'm in a plain white tee, black sweats, boots, a grey hoodie, and a cap.
Simple, unremarkable. The kind of outfit that doesn't start questions.
I still don't know what I'll be dealing with tonight, so I brought enough gear to handle armored targets—mechanical or otherwise.
Anything more complicated than that, and I'll need someone better with implants.
A few Dead Kings loiter by the door, rough around the edges but familiar. I nod; they nod back, stepping aside with a casual salute. Expected.
Inside, the energy shifts. The lighting's low, warm. Dark red leather booths line the walls, divided by short partitions. Vintage chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting gold across polished hardwood. The bar stretches the length of the back wall, bottles gleaming in neat rows behind it.
The air smells faintly of leather, tobacco, and expensive cologne—sharp, rich, and just a little intoxicating.
I spot Mister first. He's leaning against the bar, looking perfectly at ease amid the chaos. His face is hidden, as always, but I can tell he's scanning the room even while murmuring something to one of the Dead Kings.
When I approach, he turns slightly and gives me a small wave.
"Didn't expect you here this early," I say. "Thought you were coming later."
He shrugs. "Blake wanted a second opinion on the security. He wanted to make sure the hired hands weren't just decoration."
"Well, what do you think so far?" I ask, glancing toward a cluster of younger guys by the pool table. They're gripping their drinks like it's the only thing keeping them steady.
Mister pauses, longer than usual. "It's a mixed bag," he admits. "A few have potential. The rest... let's just say Blake's got some training ahead of him."
Before I can reply, a shout cuts through the low thrum of music.
"Yo! Lily!"
I turn and spot a familiar face—Dreadlocks, the guy I knocked out at AXIS' apartment, and the same idiot who tried hitting on me. Bandages wrap his arm and head, but he looks better than before—upright, alert.
Beside him stands his friend, Buzz-cut, now sporting a fresh serpent tattoo coiled around his neck. Both look healthier—fed, rested, like they've been given a second chance.
"Hey," I say cautiously, stepping closer. "Didn't think I'd see you two again."
Dreadlocks scratches his nose, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, we got released early. Figured we'd take it easy, but we still wanted to help out with some light work, y'know."
"Oh really? How's that treating you?"
He hesitates, shifting awkwardly. "Well, uh… we also heard you were gonna be working here tonight."
I raise an eyebrow, half-curious, half-guarded. "Uh-huh…?"
Buzz-cut elbows him in the ribs. "Man, relax." Then he turns to me. "We just wanted to clear the air, yeah? No hard feelings about before. You fight like a damn demon, though—damn."
"Y-Yeah! For real, we thought you were gonna kill us—back at AXIS' apartment and again in Blake's office." Dreadlocks nods quickly. "Most solos don't leave witnesses. We just wanted to know why you didn't finish the job." He raises both hands defensively. "Not complaining, obviously! Just curious."
I sigh and shrug, keeping my tone even. "You guys weren't the problem. You just got in my way. Honestly, I was the careless one—rushed the job, didn't check the guard rotations before trying to snag AXIS' Porsche."
"If anything, I'm thankful it wasn't any more complicated." I fold my arms, grimacing a little at the memory. "It wasn't my most professional moment. I got greedy, and it nearly cost me."
"As for Blake's office," I continue, glancing between them, "I was trying to calm things down between you two and Remi. I might've made it worse in hindsight... but looks like it all worked out."
Buzz-cut gives me a wide, slightly forced grin. "Can't say I'd have done better. Respect for owning it, though." He gestures at Dreadlocks' bandages. "We lucked out. Doc says recovery's gonna be smooth."
"Oh—and, uh," Dreadlocks clears his throat, "we good now? Didn't wanna leave things weird."
I can't help a small laugh, giving him an amused smile. "You guys forgive fast. Sure this is all good?"
He nods. "Yeah, you're on our side now, right? And you seem cool after what happened in the gauntlet. No reason to hold a grudge."
Buzz-cut chuckles and slaps his friend's shoulder. "Also, this guy's been bragging non-stop about surviving two encounters with you. Keeps saying he's got 'the devil's luck.'"
Dreadlocks groans. "Hey, man, she doesn't need to know that."
"Literally everyone knows about it," Buzz-cut says, smirking. "She would've found out sooner or later."
"Damn, me and my big ass mouth," Dreadlocks mutters.
Before they can get any more sidetracked, I cut in. "Right, well." I smile, more genuine this time. "If you guys are cool, then so am I. Glad we cleared this up."
I extend a hand—hesitate for just a moment—then follow through. No harm in a little goodwill. "What are your names, anyway?"
They stare at me like I've just offered them a job.
Both blink, glance at each other, and then back at me.
"Name's Kane," Dreadlocks says finally, taking my hand. "Nice talkin' with you, Lily."
Buzz-cut follows a second later. "Ryker," he says, giving a firm shake.
Their politeness catches me off guard. I retract my hand, smiling a little. "Yeah, nice to talk with you both." Guess the gauntlet really did win me some respect.
The tension between them finally eases. Kane leans against the bar while Ryker crosses his arms, watching me with a faint grin.
For a moment, I just study them—something about the sight jogs a memory. "Actually," I say, "there's something I wanted to mention."
Kane stiffens immediately. "Y-Yeah?" His back goes ramrod straight when I put my hands on my hips.
I stare him down for a moment, then point at him. "We're 'buddies' now, so I'll overlook it. But you really need to drop that creepy hitting-on-girls act. If it were anyone else, I doubt it would've ended so lightly."
He winces, and I keep going. "Oh—and never say 'choombait' again. I'll let it slide since things were heated, but seriously. Don't."
Kane nods quickly, like a scolded kid. Ryker bursts out laughing and jabs him in the ribs. "Told you, man. That shit ain't slick."
"Yeah, yeah." Kane scratches the back of his neck and shoves him off. "Sorry about that. Won't happen again." His voice wavers a little, but I let it go. The message landed.
"Good." I clap my hands together and smile. "We're cool then. Don't worry about it."
My eyes sweep across the lounge—checking faces, windows, exits. "Anyway, I should get back to work. I'll be seeing you guys."
I wave as I turn to leave.
"See you!" Kane calls out.
"Yeah, we'll be here if you need us!" Ryker adds with a grin.
A soft smile lingers as the tension fades—replaced by something that almost feels like mutual respect. Feels… nice, actually.
I make another slow lap, eyes tracing the windows and corners, making sure everything stays quiet.
Once everything checks out, I make my way back to Mister, who's been on his phone the whole time. After hanging up, he listens as I run through my findings—what's solid, what needs work. What starts as a quick report turns into a full-on discussion about tightening the lounge's security once we're off-duty.
Minutes blur by as we make another sweep together, inspecting every corner from the front entrance to the storage rooms in the back. By the time we finish our circuit, the place feels sharper—or maybe we're just tired of looking at the same walls.
Mister heads back inside, but I linger near the front a little longer. The street's quiet enough—steady traffic rolling through, headlights flickering by.
That's when I spot Remi on the sidewalk, talking way too loud for his own good.
What the hell? I squint, making sure my eyes aren't playing tricks on me.
Sure enough, walking beside him is Azure—half exasperated, half amused—as the two make their way from her garage toward the lounge.
They both wave, and I return the gesture without thinking. As they get closer, bits of their conversation drift my way.
"So what I'm hearing," Remi says, falling half a step behind Azure, "is that if I buy you a drink, you'll think about not charging me double for the repairs?"
Azure doesn't even look back. "If you buy me a drink, I'll consider not setting your fuel line on fire."
"Shit, choom." Remi clutches his chest like he's mortally wounded. "You flirt like a frag grenade."
"And you survive like a cockroach." Azure glances over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "Persistent, mildly annoying, and somehow still alive."
I step up beside them, raising a brow. "You two flirting, or should I call pest control?" I shoot Azure a knowing look—half teasing, half testing the waters of normal conversation. She just shakes her head, but a flicker of amusement flashes in her eyes.
Ah, it's one of those dynamics.
Remi grins wide. "Hey, now that I think about it, I should be the one owed a drink. She's the reason I was bike-less for a week."
Azure snorts. "You left yourself bike-less when you decided to 'test your suspension' on a stairwell."
"I was chasing someone!"
"Into a fountain."
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. It feels strange—sharp, light, and… unfamiliar. "Okay, that's actually impressive." I cover my mouth, failing to stifle the rest.
Azure gestures at me with her thumb. "See? She gets it."
"Y'all ganging up on me now? Damn." Remi groans. "Fine, y'all win. I'll retreat gracefully."
"Please," Azure says dryly. "You don't 'retreat'. You just orbit back around like a fucking satellite."
"That's 'cause I'm powered by spite and charm, baby." He winks, finger-gunning at her.
I can't help a quiet snort. "Pretty sure one of those ran out a while ago."
Remi grins, unbothered. "Still got charm, though, right?"
Azure crosses her arms. "You've got something. Can't say it's charm, but it's definitely loud."
"I'm a work in progress," he says, giving a dramatic bow. "Besides, y'all need me to keep the mood light. Everyone else here broods like someone they cared about got flatlined."
That line hits harder than it should. I laugh anyway. Habit. "At this rate, I'm surprised you haven't been flatlined yet."
Maybe that's why I tolerate him—all noise, no depth. He fills the space so I don't have to.
"You never know when a handsome rogue might be just what the crew needs." Remi adjusts his jacket, unfazed. "Such as yours truly."
"Keep dreaming," Azure says, leaning against the wall.
"Dreams come true all the time, choom. You ever seen a mechanic win a beauty contest?"
"You ever seen a toaster win a marathon?"
I chuckle as we start toward the entrance. "Pretty sure the toaster's got better odds, Remi."
"Shit, dawg, you wound me." He clutches his chest in mock pain. "You're both cruel. Funny, but cruel."
"Cruel builds character," Azure replies smoothly.
"And concussions," I mutter, nudging her with my elbow. "Seriously though, you're really not giving him a shot?"
"I did. He tripped over his own ego, fell into my workbench, and knocked over three toolkits. That was date one."
Remi groans, dragging a hand down his face. "You make it sound like I haven't grown."
"You haven't," Azure and I say together.
The pause that follows cracks open into laughter—brief, real, and light in a way I don't often allow myself.
Then it fades, as laughter always does, leaving behind that quiet ache I've learned to ignore.
Mister's voice cuts in from behind us. "Remi, if you're done harassing the mechanic, remember we're still in a public space."
"Yeah, yeah," Remi mutters. "I won't ruin the vibes."
I share a glance with Azure. She rolls her eyes, amused. I just smile back—the kind of smile you give when you're not sure if you're in on the joke or just passing through it.
For a moment, it almost feels normal—like we're just regular people hanging out at a bar. Almost.
Then something outside cuts through the chatter.
… Was that screaming?
I turn toward one of the open windows, half expecting it to be my imagination — but no. The sound is real.
Muffled chaos drifts in from the street, faint but growing. A few Dead Kings near the windows exchange uneasy glances. Kane nudges Ryker and tilts his chin toward the noise.
"The hell's goin' on out there?" Kane mutters, scratching his head. "It's gettin' loud."
Ryker squints through the glass, his jaw tightening. "Shit… cars are flipped. Looks like a wreck. Wait—" He freezes. "Is that gunfire?"
"Move real quick," I say, brushing past them for a better look. I lean toward the same window, peering through the slanted blinds.
Out on the main street, everything's chaos—vehicles overturned, metal warped and smoking. People scatter in every direction, some diving into alleys, others lying still on the pavement. Gunfire rattles in the distance, sharp and rhythmic, followed by the desperate sound of someone screaming for help.
Mister's phone buzzes. He checks it wordlessly, visor glowing with the screen's reflection. His posture shifts—subtle, tense—before he mutters something under his breath.
"What's going on?" I ask, keeping my voice low but steady.
He doesn't answer right away. The room falls silent except for the faint thrum of the music still playing in the background. Finally, he speaks—voice filtered, but brittle around the edges.
"Cyberpsycho incident," he says flatly. "Just reported. Burnaby. Main street."