The sunset streamed through the windows, casting its light across the armchairs in the living room, the walls, and the picture of Adam walking among the cliffs by the sea. Scarlet patches here and there, alongside geometric patterns of shadows swallowing the rest of the loft.

  Adam and Vicky stepped into the darkness, almost blind.

  The crackle of energy reached their ears, and a blue flash pierced through the gloom ahead of them. It would have struck Adam square in the chest if not for another orb of light that intercepted it just in time.

  Stunned, Adam watched both masses of energy dissipate into tiny specks of light that rained down onto the parquet floor. Someone had just thrown a Fotia at him, and Vicky had saved him with one of her own.

  “Ding-dong,” a voice called out. “I rang the damn bell, but nobody answered.”

  Vicky recognized the voice and spotted the man in the shadows, sitting casually on the kitchen counter.

  “How…?” she stammered.

  “How’m I here?” the intruder said. “With a brand new pair o’ Auriga, that’s how! You thought stealin’ mine was gonna buy ya time, Vicky? We’re dogs on the same leash, y’know? One moves, the other’s right behind!”

  With a small hop, the man landed on his feet and stepped into the reddish glow of the sunset. He had a thick mustache, disheveled hair, and was dressed in a Markabian Empire infantry uniform—identical to the one Juzo had worn.

  “You!” Adam exclaimed, recognizing him. “You were one of the mercenaries who attacked Juzo and me in the park!”

  “Guilty as charged!” the mustached man declared. He raised his fists, his stance mimicking a boxer ready for a new round, and the sour stench of sweat wafted off him like disturbed dust.

  Adam wrinkled his nose. Clearly, some people needed a shower more than others.

  Pulling aside the open lapels of his jacket, the mercenary revealed elastic cross-shaped straps over his hairy chest. Beneath the jacket, a portable booster pack was strapped to his back. “Lemme give ya some advice, Juzo’s bro,” he said, “Don’t matter how high up you are—close your damn windows. Never know who’s gonna sneak in.”

  Vicky stepped in front of Adam. Why hadn’t she finished off this scumbag when she had the chance?

  “Adam, meet Simon Pesha,” she introduced him. “Believe it or not, there was a time when we were comrades. But he has this annoying habit of selling out to whoever’s paying… like now.”

  Simon let out a loud laugh. “And you, Vicky… always quick to find yourself a new boy toy, huh? Lover boy’s still warm in the grave, and here you are, gettin’ cozy with his damn brother.”

  “Simon, listen to me,” Vicky warned. “If you so much as lay a finger on him, I’ll take your head off. And if I don’t, your new boss will—he wants him alive.”

  “Oh, Vicky, Vicky! It was the Cyclops who sent me! How else d’you think I got these?” Simon boasted, flashing his new Auriga cuffs. “He said, ‘Go get her, and send my regards to the sissy boy.’”

  Adam took a step back. The sissy boy—he knew that mercenary was talking about him. What would happen to him now?

  Simon caught Adam’s fear and grinned, like a wild predator cornering its prey. He let out a boisterous laugh, which turned into a howl. His body twitched like an addict suffering withdrawal, sweat dripping down his hairy cheeks, and his face twisted with a sickly gleam.

  Though he stepped toward Vicky, his dark marble-like eyes locked onto Adam. ‘Don’t worry,’ his gaze seemed to warn. ‘You’re next.’ He shook his left hand, encasing it in crackling electricity, and formed a Fotia that he hurled like a baseball.

  Once again, Vicky countered the energy grenade with one of her own, moving so fast that Adam hadn’t even finished covering himself when the attacks canceled each other out. They exploded midair between the two sides, sending blue sparks raining across the living area.

  “Enough!” Adam shouted, throwing himself at Simon without thinking. Simon greeted him with a punch to the cheek. Adam took the hit—pain could come later—and tried to strike back.

  “Adam, get away from him!” Vicky yelled, watching them grapple. She knew Simon wouldn’t gravely harm Adam; his boss wouldn’t allow it—or so she thought. But the mercenary could take him hostage, and if that happened, the situation would spiral out of control. “Adam, step back!”

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  “Listen to your girl, sissy boy!” Simon taunted, shoving Adam off and sending him crashing into the sofas.

  Adam hit the leg of the coffee table and fell to the floor.

  Vicky activated her implants with a flick of her fingers and fired off her Fotias. Simon neutralized the first, making it collide with his own power grenade, and dodged the second. That Fotia struck the staircase leading to the loft’s bedroom, splintering the wooden steps.

  They exchanged fire again, but using the flashes and sparks as cover, Simon advanced and struck Vicky across the face. He followed up with a gut punch, dropping her to her knees, teetering on the edge of collapse.

  “That’s for the nut shot, you wicked witch,” Simon sneered. As if to add insult to injury, he wiped the sweat from his brow and flung it at her. “Women like you love this crap, don’t ya?”

  Vicky was too sore and disgusted to let the words sting. You can’t give up against this trash, dear. Not now, she told herself and forced her body upright. There was no point in trying to provoke him into making a mistake; from his manic laughter, she knew he’d already crossed the line into madness. She had to do something more… drastic.

  Simon lunged like a madman in the middle of a psychotic break, his left fist raised and crackling with electric currents.

  Vicky blocked the attack with her forearm and, before Simon could swing at her with his other arm, she landed a punch square on his forehead, followed by an elbow to his nose.

  Dazed by the pain, Simon staggered backward, flailing his arms to steady himself.

  That’s when Vicky saw her chance. She grabbed his left wrist. If she could break it, the only implant he had would be useless, and he’d have to kiss his Fotias goodbye.

  But Simon wasn’t stupid. Even with his senses fogged from the dizziness, he reacted, shoving her off. He let out a triumphant yell, followed by a growl of rage. His cheek was burning, and he could barely keep his right eye open. His nose was numb, but he could smell the blood trickling down and staining his mustache. His breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling as he struggled for air. He didn’t even know if he was furious or exhilarated by the fight. His brain was just as numb as his face.

  He snapped out of it with those same ridiculous boxing movements and spat on the floor. The golden glint of Vicky’s hoop earrings caught his eye, and with a quick swipe, he hooked a finger through one of them.

  “I’ll rip your damn ear off!” he snarled. But as he yanked on the earring, it sent out a jolt of electricity that forced him to let go. “Aw, c’mon babe! Why you gotta play dirty?!”

  “Gently, Simon,” she said, showing how easy it was to take them off when done slowly. “See? Get closer, and I’ll show you…”

  Simon moved in for another attempt, maybe walking right into Vicky’s trap, but Adam tackled him from behind, slamming his face into the coffee table.

  “Adam, stay out of this!” she yelled.

  Trying to hold him down, Adam wrapped his arms around Simon’s waist in a bear hug, but the bastard squirmed like a greased eel. He was so sweaty it was impossible to keep a grip on him for more than a second. He grabbed the mercenary’s belt with one hand and threw a couple of punches at his face with the other—only a few landed.

  Simon yanked his hair, trying to shake him off, and took a couple of hits to the jaw, though none hard enough to make him back off. He caught the last punch, grabbing Adam’s wrist, and noticed the Auriga cuffs peeking out from under his shirt sleeves.

  “Well, well! Back from a little trip, huh?” Simon sneered, then sucker-punched Adam with an uppercut that left him sprawled on the floor, lip split wide open. “Stay down, sissy boy. Wouldn’t want ya scratchin’ up them shiny cuffs. Soon as I’m done here, I’m sellin’ ‘em for a—”

  A sharp pain exploded in his knee, cutting him off mid-sentence. Simon let out a blood-curdling scream that surely alerted any neighbors who hadn’t already heard the commotion. Vicky had taken advantage of Adam’s distraction to land a brutal kick right below Simon’s thigh.

  Simon stumbled to the side, instinctively dodging what he knew would be Vicky’s next strike.

  Without wasting a second, Vicky drove the heel of her boot into Simon’s chest. She lunged for his left wrist, aiming for the implant again.

  “What the hell?!” Simon bellowed. Was she trying the same trick twice? Did she think he was stupid enough to fall for it again so soon?

  Still unable to stand upright, feeling as if someone had just smashed a hammer into his knee and driven a dagger into his chest, Simon flexed the fingers of his left hand and conjured a Fotia. It bought him some time and once again threw a wrench into Vicky’s plans. As long as he held an electric grenade, she wouldn’t be able to break his wrist with a strike without succumbing to the raw energy first.

  Shielded behind the Fotia, he glanced down and spotted the cut on his chest, nestled among the hairs, courtesy of that bitch’s heel. More blood. The pain in his knee was bad, but the stabbing sensation there was excruciating.

  He started to hyperventilate. The humiliation of being beaten by the same woman twice outweighed all his physical agony. Rage clouded his vision, turning it crimson; the searing sting of wounded pride choked him, drowning out every other sound.

  He raised his arm, the same Fotia he was using to keep Vicky at bay now aimed squarely at Adam. Blood trickled from his nose again, soaking into his mustache and dripping down to his chin. He took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and then made a decision—a childish, spiteful decision. Realizing there was no way to get his way, he did what any brat might do: destroy the first thing within reach.

  He turned toward the front door and fired at the electrical panel.

  Simon’s Fotia exploded against the breaker box on the wall, spewing fire onto the carpet and the living room furniture, triggering a massive short circuit that made the apartment’s lamps and outlets burst into a shower of sparks. The fire sprinklers activated, and water burst into the loft, though the alarm stuttered out after a single pop.

  In the blink of an eye, the fire had spread faster than the automatic sprinklers could contain.

  Not satisfied, Simon fired another energy grenade at the kitchen’s gas pipe. A loud crack came just before a blast that sent pictures and decorations crashing to the floor. Flames hissed, shooting out in all directions, spreading destruction wherever they landed.