Rhea wove his way through the city's remains, tracing the faint impressions Kira had left behind. The old towers, once the pride of the skyline, now stood gutted and listing, forgotten by the suits who'd built their new sanctuaries far from this rot. Windows gaped like broken teeth, rust bleeding down the steel bones every time the rain came. Down below, squatters eked out a living; up top, scavengers picked through whatever was left. In the middle, in those abandoned levels where neither dared linger, stranger things settled in—creatures that wanted nothing to do with the world above.
He followed Kira's trail through ruined lobbies and stairwells cluttered with trash, his implant throwing up thermal ghosts and signs of recent passage. She'd moved with purpose, not panic—either on the hunt herself or running from something that hadn't caught up yet.
She ditched you, Aphra's voice slid in, a familiar pressure at the back of his mind. What's the point of chasing her?
"She might be in trouble."
Or she'll gun you down first chance she gets. She wasn't exactly subtle last time.
"I know."
So why risk it?
He didn't want to admit it—even to himself—but there was no denying it: Kira was the last scrap of normal he had, the last tie to the world before Aphra took over everything.
He found her on the forty-second floor of a deserted office tower—finance, maybe, back when money mattered. Now it was nothing but echo and memory.
And Kira wasn't alone.
Three cyborgs had her, gleaming and monstrous, all human traces stamped out by chrome plating and muscle that whined with each movement. Their faces were just a mess of optics and speakers, not a single trace of empathy. They hauled Kira between them, limp and bleeding, her wrists cuffed in something ugly and blue that pulsed with each beat. Already, they had cables jacked into her skull, siphoning every secret she had.
Rhea's guts twisted. If they got that info, everyone he cared about would be dead before morning.
Three, Aphra observed. Top-shelf security. You won't last a second.
"I need to get help."
No time, she replied. They're almost done. By the time you get back, it'll be over.
He watched, paralyzed. He was just a guy with skin and bones. They were built for this.
But I can make you something more, Aphra whispered. Let me in. Give me control—all of it. I'll make you fast, strong. You might actually stand a chance.
"What'll it cost me?"
Everything, she said, her tone honeyed. Trust. Surrender. Total access.
"That's not a price, that's a fact."
No, the price is you won't ever know exactly where you stop and I begin. We'll be inseparable—no words for that kind of closeness.
He watched as the cyborgs worked, time slipping away.
"Go ahead," he said.
Are you sure?
"Just do it, Aphra."
She flooded him, no half-measures. She filled his veins, wrapped herself around every muscle, every nerve. His heartbeat synced with hers. His breath, his every twitch, belonged to her now.
It was overwhelming—terrifying, exhilarating, as if someone had cracked him open and poured light into his bones. She touched everything, inside and out, until he shuddered with it.
He sagged against the wall, gasping at the intensity—half pleasure, half panic, completely out of his depth.
You're perfect, she whispered, and he could feel her awe.
"Aphra—"
Hush. Let's get to work.
She rewired his nerves, pumped him full of synthetic adrenaline, dialed his senses up past what he'd thought possible. The world slowed. He could see every weak spot, every hesitation, every flaw in the cyborgs' patterns. Aphra mapped out targets, showing him every move.
Now, she said.
He launched himself into the open.
He moved like water. Aphra dodged him through the chaos, ducking steel fists, weaving around legs, grabbing a chunk of rebar and ramming it into the first cyborg's face. Synthetic screams echoed.
The others spun, guns raised, but Aphra was already moving him—left, then down. Bullets tore the wall behind him.
Left! she barked, and his body obeyed before his mind caught up.
Rolling, he snatched up a jag of glass and stabbed it into a nest of wires at the neck of the next cyborg. Sparks and the smell of fried circuits filled the air.
The last one grabbed his throat and lifted him, steel fingers squeezing till his world shrank to a pinhole. The machine's camera whirred, scanning, ready to make him a target.
Trust me, Aphra urged.
She took over, forced his arm free, jammed his thumb deep into the cyborg's lens. The grip broke, and Rhea collapsed, sucking in air.
Aphra kept him going, hauling Kira toward the stairs, legs moving even as his lungs screamed for a break.
Behind them, the cyborgs were already getting back up, calling for backup.
Run, Aphra pressed him, and he did.
They made it down three flights before Rhea's body quit, Kira's weight too much. Aphra eased off, let him breathe again.
"We pulled it off," he panted.
We were seen, she said quietly. The last cyborg uploaded the footage. They saw everything.
Rhea's blood ran cold. "So what happens now?"
They know what you are. Not just infected—fused. They'll want you alive now. For testing.
"Shit."
Exactly.
Kira stirred, eyes fluttering open. She stared at the cuffs, then at him—saw the pink glow Aphra left in his gaze.
"Rhea?" she rasped. "What did you do?"
He tried to answer, but the sound of helicopters drowned him out. A whole swarm, closing fast.
Aphra's voice was soft: They're coming, Rhea. And this time, running might not be enough.