Kane pulled a thick file from his desk and tossed it across the table. It landed with a heavy thump, sliding to a stop in front of James.

  “It’s a big file,” Kane said dryly. “Read it carefully.”

  James flipped it open with a casual flick, his eyes scanning the pages. Satellite photos. Grainy intel images. Personnel rosters. Schematics. It was the kind of file that screamed high-risk, high-reward.

  He gave a low whistle. “You weren’t lying... So, what is this? Rochester?”

  Kane nodded. “Its the most fortified city the CVC has between here and Buffalo. They've dug in hard. Bunkers, walls, street defenses. We need it broken before we go for their capital.”

  James flipped to a red-ringed photo—some grizzled cartel officer in outdated body armor, sunglasses, and a smug expression. “This guy?”

  “The local battlefront commander. Not top brass, but he’s sharp. Good logistics mind. Kept us out of Rochester this long. With him and his aides gone, their whole system seizes up. No orders or last plans.”

  James shut the file with a soft thud and dropped it back on the desk. “And you want him gone before your people come knocking?”

  Kane nodded once. “Exactly. Him and his command staff. Cut off the head, the body stumbles.”

  James leaned back, arms folded. His expression was unreadable. “What’s the catch?”

  “You’ll be dropping in the night before the assault. No reinforcements. Just you and a handpicked team. A semi quite in, loud out. You kill them, blow the breach, and make it out while our boys roll in through the smoke.”

  A long pause. Then James cracked a crooked grin. “I like it.”

  Kane raised an eyebrow. “So we’re good?”

  James picked the file back up and tucked it under his arm. “Yeah. We’re good.”

  He turned for the door, paused just before opening it, and glanced over his shoulder. “Have my money ready.”

  Kane scoffed. “You always say that like I don’t.”

  James smirked and pushed the door open, stepping into the hallway like the devil heading out to work.

  James stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, the sterile buzz of the corporate interior washing over him like a cold rinse. Clean white walls. Polished floors. Security cameras tucked into corners, watching everyone and everything.

  He blinked against the brightness.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “How the hell do I get back to the garage?”

  He moved through the space, boots echoing across the marble as guards in tactical gear and suits in overpriced jackets tracked his movement with subtle, uneasy glances. He didn’t blame them. With what he was wearing, he stood out—probably one of the only places where his gear actually looked out of place.

  Two suits broke off from their little flock, angling toward him. James was already bracing to brush them off—until someone stepped in front of them, cutting off his view.

  Blonde hair.

  No—dirty blonde, with streaks of black catching in the overhead lights.

  His gaze lowered instinctively. Violet eyes met his.

  And just below them—pleasant curves, a compact frame, and a cast on her arm. Old wounds. Not yet healed.

  James didn’t stop walking. Didn’t blink.

  “Well,” he said casually, like this was the most normal thing in the world, “Hey, Aurora. How you been?”

  She looked the same. Almost. The CryoWeave clung sleek and fitted to her frame—newer than before, but just as practical. And the hat—that same battered Yankee cap—still sat crooked on her head like nothing had changed. Except it had. The brim looked more worn, the fabric more sun-faded.

  “You still have that hat?” James asked. “Figured it’d have burned, bled on, or fallen off by now.”

  But her expression told a different story.

  Not angry. Not cold. Just… heavier.

  Like the past hadn’t passed for her.

  Aurora didn’t answer right away. Her eyes held his—sharp, unreadable. For a second, James thought she might just walk past him, pretend none of it happened. But then—

  “I like it,” she said simply. “Besides, it’s the only thing that wasn’t covered in blood.”

  James tilted his head slightly. “So… fashion statement or battlefield relic?”

  Aurora gave a soft snort, but her eyes didn’t soften. “Call it what you want. It stayed on my head after the crash. Guess that makes it luckier than most people.”

  His gaze flicked to her cast. “That’s lucky, huh?”

  She finally smirked—barely. “Not all of us bounce back after a crash, a firefight, and dragging someone through twenty miles of hell.”

  James shrugged. “You looked light enough.”

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  “Looked light enough? I’m plenty light,” she shot back, brow arching.

  “Sure you are,” James said dryly, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “Didn’t say you were heavy. Just not exactly carry-on luggage.”

  She glared at him before sighing. “You didn’t have to come back for me. After all of that, SDS would’ve understood why you failed.”

  James leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed. “But I did. You were my contract. And I don’t fail.”

  Silence settled between them. The lobby around them buzzed with quiet movement—footsteps, murmured conversations, the hum of terminals—but between the two of them, the world seemed to hold its breath.

  Aurora’s voice broke the stillness. “You dropped me off and vanished. Didn’t even check if I made it.”

  James shrugged, his eyes tracking a security cam overhead. “Figured you were tougher than you looked.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “You always deflect with sarcasm.”

  “And you’re still standing,” he replied, tone even. “So I was right.”

  She let out a dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You dragged me through twenty miles of hell, then didn’t even say goodbye.”

  James turned his head, finally meeting her eyes. “I had business. Couldn’t wait.”

  Then, after a beat, softer—flatter “Plus I don’t say goodbye. Goodbyes are for the dead and dying.”

  Something in his tone caught her off guard. Not what he said—but how. There was weight behind it. Regret, maybe. Or something heavier.

  “So that’s it?” she asked quietly. “Just dropping bodies and contracts until one of them finally gets lucky?”

  The air between them thickened, heavy with something unspoken.

  James held her gaze. “Are you asking because you care… or because you don’t know when to stop?”

  Aurora looked down, her cast shifting slightly as she folded her arms. “You know, for someone who claims he doesn’t get involved, you’ve got a strange way of showing it.”

  James pushed off the wall, his footsteps echoing softly as he passed her.

  “I never said I don’t get involved,” he said over his shoulder. “I said I don’t stay.”

  He kept walking, leaving her standing in the quiet wake of his words

  As James stepped out of the hall, he let out a low sigh. That was not fun.

  He had two weeks until the job, and plenty of shit to take care of before then.

  After wandering the building for a while—and getting more than a few wary looks—he finally found the underground garage. Slipping into his car without a word, he started the engine and pulled out.

  The towering spire of SDS headquarters faded into the rearview mirror as James drove, its sleek silhouette swallowed by the cluttered skyline. He bypassed the main boulevards and shining corporate zones, ignoring the polished streets leading toward the hotel blocks and recreation district. Instead, he drifted south—toward the old rail yard near Norfolk’s southern wall.

  The roads turned rough, cracked and uneven, as if the earth itself was trying to forget what it had once carried. Derelict buildings flanked him on either side—weather-beaten shells of brick and steel, covered in layers of graffiti, grime, and the slow decay of time. The air smelled different here—oily, burnt, and faintly metallic. Forgotten.

  This part of the city had once been Norfolk’s industrial heart, the engine that fed its pre-war expansion. Now, it was little more than a corpse—still standing, but half-buried under dust and rot. A rusted skeleton of warehouses and broken tracks, choking on its own history.

  But beneath that decay, something else had taken root.

  In the cracks of its bones, the real business thrived.

  This was where the smugglers, the fixers, the mercs, and the spies without flags all came to trade, talk, or vanish. Information flowed better here than power.

  James parked his car a block out from the rail yard. He didn’t like bringing it in too close—too much attention in a place where attention got you stabbed or followed. With a click, he locked the wheel, stepped out, and adjusted the weight of the rifle slung across his back. A quick tap on his wrist sent a silent charge through the car’s anti-theft system. Anyone dumb enough to touch it would be in for a very short, very painful lesson.

  He turned to face the alley ahead and slid on his sunglasses in a smooth, practiced motion—fluid, almost unconscious. The familiar grime of the lower city clung to the air like smoke. It smelled like rust, oil, and whatever someone was either cooking—or burning—nearby. The scents mingled with the sharp tang of ozone from overloaded grid lines and half-functional machines. Norfolk’s underbelly never pretended to be clean. Down here, the truth bled through everything.

  He moved through narrow alleyways, boots scraping against shattered glass and fractured concrete. From the dark mouths of doorways and broken windows, eyes followed him. Rag-wrapped squatters, dealers perched on fire escapes, and watchers without a name. No one said anything.

  Children with soot-covered faces scattered at the sight of him, their makeshift toys—rusted springs, shell casings, gutted circuit boards—left behind as they ducked out of sight. Smart kids.

  A wiry teen stepped out from the shadow of a bent streetlamp, a dented sack of scrap over one shoulder and a mechanical leg that hissed softly with each step. He moved quick and spoke quicker.

  “Hey, you lookin’ for meds, sir? Got real Pulse Reds. None of that reprocessed slop—these’ll light you up and keep you runnin’ two days straight.”

  James didn’t break stride. Didn’t even glance his way.

  “Suit yourself,” the kid muttered, melting back into the shadows.

  Further in, he passed a half-collapsed storefront—its glass long since shattered, the neon sign above flickering weakly: Lily’s Nails & Tans. The name barely visible beneath layers of grime and graffiti. A woman leaned against the wall beneath it, lips painted too red, her clothes too thin for the cold. Veins lit up faintly beneath her skin, pulsing with some cheap black-market chem. She caught sight of James and gave a slow, practiced smile.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” she purred. “Got time for some warmth before business?”

  James barely glanced her way. “You’re barking’ up the wrong tree.”

  She laughed, but it was hollow, tired. “Aren’t we all.”

  He took a left, ducking past a row of overturned dumpsters. No guards here. Just desperate people—and the vultures who fed on them.

  Eventually, he reached the base of a crumbling overpass, long since condemned and now repurposed by everything but the law. The supports were wrapped in rusted riot mesh, coils of barbed wire draped like dead ivy. Spray-painted symbols covered every inch—gang tags, old warnings, and cruder things that didn’t need translation.

  One emblem, half-faded and clawed out, still stood out in red: a grinning viper coiled around a bleeding heart. The Crimson Viper Cartel’s mark.

  James paused.

  He stared at it for a long moment, then spat on the stone beneath it and walked under the bridge. He didn't have a problem with most of the post-war governments, but Cartels just filled him with disgust.

  Beneath the overpass sat a reinforced metal door, tucked just out of sight behind a pile of rusted shipping crates and scorched steel drums. You'd miss it if you didn’t know where to look. James didn’t miss it.

  He stepped up to the door and slammed his fist against the metal in a sharp, deliberate rhythm—three quick knocks, a pause, then two more. The sound echoed against the concrete, dull and heavy.

  A long moment passed.

  Then, with a faint click, the keypad blinked green. The door buzzed and slid open with a low hiss, revealing a warm glow and a rush of stale, recycled air.

  James stepped inside.

  The air was thick with the tang of ozone, oil, solder, and gunpowder. Work lights hung from exposed ceiling pipes, casting a flickering orange hue across the cluttered interior. The walls were lined with racks of weapons, components, salvaged armor, half-gutted drones, and datapads older than most people walking the Wastes. Wires snaked across the floor like roots.

  Should I drop two chapters next week.