Late at night, Karen Wake sat on the hood of a black SUV, her legs stretched out before her as she gazed at the New Roman Harbor. She’d already counted the docked cargo ships three times—twenty-seven in all. They bore names like , , and , the city’s classical obsession stamped even onto its rusted steel hulls.

  The wind picked up, whipping her obsidian-black hair across her face. Karen growled, wrestling the tangled strands and stuffing them under the wool collar of her jacket.

  On her left, Franklin Henderson checked his flip phone for the fourth time in ten minutes. His deep blue eyes were tight with a nervous energy Karen knew all too well. "It’s twelve-thirty, K. Your dealer is late. We’ll have to leave soon."

  “Go ahead,” Karen replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just don’t show up tomorrow expecting your spot back.”

  She didn't need to remind herself that men like Franklin were a dime a dozen—muscular, mouthy, and perpetually hungry for their next hit of the monster. She watched him rub his nose and knew he was thinking about the "Bull" classification the Slayer Division gave his kind. He was strong, sure, but only as strong as the amount of green crystal he could snort before his heart gave out. She just hoped he’d be someone else's problem by the time the inevitable overdose hit.

  Dan, on her right, was the opposite. He stood still, a lean silhouette against the harbor lights. He’d been on her payroll for a year, managing his doses with a discipline Franklin lacked. More importantly, he was her early warning system.

  “Seems fine,” Dan said, his voice calm as he adjusted his reflection in the passenger-side mirror. “I’m not picking up on anything negative. Jim’s just a horny old dude. He’s never given me the 'danger' vibe.”

  “See?” Karen tucked a stray hair back into her coat. “Enjoy the night air, Franklin. Try acting like a regular person for once.”

  A flash of headlights cut through the dark. A silver sedan pulled in, its tires crunching on the gravel. Karen slid off the hood, her boots hitting the pavement as Franklin and Dan instinctively drifted into a loose V-formation behind her.

  Officer McMillian exited the car clumsily, nearly tripping over his own seat belt. He was still in his NRPD uniform. Karen’s jaw tightened. A cop in charge of evidence lockers shouldn't be seen in full blues in a vacant lot with a known MJ distributor. It was sloppy.

  “Hey, Karen! I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week,” the overweight officer called out, moving in for an embrace that smelled of cheap coffee and sweat.

  Franklin stepped in, a wall of muscle blocking the path. “Wait a minute there, friend. No one touches Ms. Wake unless she says so.”

  “Ignore him, Jimmy. He’s been a bear all night.” Karen brushed past her muscle to plant a practiced, cold kiss on the cop’s blotchy cheek.

  The man flushed, his few remaining wisps of grey hair fluttering in the breeze. He patted a stuffed brown satchel slung over his shoulder. “Is that bag of goodies for me?” she asked with a tilted smile.

  “You know it.” He dumped the contents onto the hood of his sedan.

  Green crystal bricks, shimmering like sickly emeralds, spilled out. Ten pounds of the monster.

  “I can’t move this much, Jimmy,” Karen said, the calculation running instantly through her head. “I run a boutique operation. If I push this much MJ onto the street, the gangs are going to notice a new player in their sandbox.”

  Jim wiped sweat from his brow, leaning heavily against his car. “Things are changing, Karen. The Slayer Division is flooding the streets with new agents. The Mayor’s got the NRPD on double patrols. After tonight, I can’t get to the lockers for a long time. I figured this would keep you supplied until you worked something out.”

  “ I can work something out,” Karen scoffed. Losing her untainted supply would ruin her. She was the only neutral player left in a city of monsters.

  “You’re the smartest woman I ever met, Karen. You’re the full package,” Jim added, his eyes wandering in a way that made her stomach churn. He waited until Franklin and Dan were busy loading the SUV before leaning in. “So, about the payment. If these were different times, I’d be asking for a more… personal favor.”

  Karen forced a half-smile, her skin crawling.

  “But,” Jim continued, “I need help with a job. A guy named Cassius Scaeva contacted me. Fresh off the boat, works for some mystery group. He needs a guide—someone who knows the local players. He’s paying enough to cover the extra half of your delivery.”

  “When should I expect him?” Karen asked, the relief of avoiding Jim’s touch outweighing the risk of a new partner.

  Jim promised to be in touch and disappeared into the night. As the taillights faded, Dan stepped away to answer a vibrating phone. Franklin held the door for Karen, muttering, “I don’t know why you let that bastard touch you.”

  “The joke’s on him, Frank,” Karen laughed, leaning back into the leather seat. “I haven’t taken my shot today. He probably absorbed twenty rads just from that kiss.”

  “That’s what I don't get,” Franklin said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “You’re hiding from the Feds because they want to force-feed you power suppressants, yet you sell MJ just to buy the same damn shots on the black market.”

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  “I don’t pay you for your philosophy, Frank. Drive.”

  As they pulled out, Dan turned around from the passenger seat. “Karen, someone’s at the Loft. Stacy says he’s refusing to leave.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “She says he’s tied to the Legion brothers.”

  Karen groaned. The Legions. Alexander and Titus were dinosaurs—old-school gangsters trying to rule a world of supermen with Tommy guns and suits. If the rumors about Ivan Tusk’s "Ivory Elephants" were true, the Legions were months away from being wiped off the map.

  “What time is it?”

  “Past one-thirty,” Dan said. “Stacy’s nervous. You know she’s not used to the rougher types.”

  Karen thought of Stacy Beaufort—her curator, an old hippie who still wore tie-dye and talked about the 60s as if they hadn't ended. Stacy was the face of the gallery, the "legitimate" owner of the dream Karen’s mother never got to finish.

  “Tell her we’ll be there in fifteen.”

  They parked in the alley. Karen entered through the back, moving through a freight elevator filled with crates of damaged Greek pottery and half-restored Renaissance paintings.

  “You feel anything?” Karen asked Dan as the elevator climbed.

  Dan looked up at the ceiling of the elevator, where the constellation Aquarius was painted. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, sensing the intentions in the room above. “No immediate danger. Just… a weird feeling. I might be coming down.”

  The doors opened to the gallery—a sprawling space of artifacts and history. Stacy hurried over, her flowing, brightly colored robes fluttering.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Wake, but he was insistent.”

  “Who is he, Stacy?”

  “Nick Morgan. I checked with our contacts downtown. They say he’s the new arms dealer for the Legion Gang. It’s hard to believe, he looks so young…”

  The name hit Karen like a physical blow. She didn't wait for an explanation. She marched past the displays of forgotten civilizations and threw open the blue office door.

  Inside, sitting in an oak chair, was a man with shaggy brown hair and deep blue eyes. Nick. Her childhood friend.

  “Nick? Is that really you?”

  “Hey, Karen,” Nick said, flashing a wide, familiar smile as he stood.

  “Don’t get close,” Karen warned, her voice tight. “I’m warming up. If the lights went out, I’d be glowing. Better safe than sorry.”

  She dismissed Dan and Stacy, shutting the door. She spotted a black duffel bag in the corner. “Going somewhere?”

  “I hope so.”

  Karen moved to the desk, pulling out a bottle of MAX Whiskey. She poured two glasses, the amber liquid a small comfort. “What kind of trouble are you in, Nicky? I heard you were selling guns to the Legions. That’s a long way from the playground.”

  Nick downed his glass in one go. “I would’ve come to your house, but I thought you were still living here. When did it become an art gallery?”

  “A year ago. I thought Mom could run it… when I found her.”

  Nick set his glass down. “You sound like you actually believe the state reports about the accident.”

  “Never,” Karen snapped. “They buried an empty box. Until I see a body, she isn't dead.”

  Nick took his drink in hand, sipping it slowly this time. “You sound like you actually believe those state reports about her death,” he said, the glass cool against his palm as he watched the amber liquid swirl.

  “Never,” Karen blurted out, her voice sharp enough to cut. She leaned forward, the faint, internal warmth of her power causing the air around her to shimmer. “You can believe those Slayer Division bedtime stories if you want, Nicky, but I know better. They buried an empty box at Pine-Rose. They filled it with trinkets and called it a life. Until I see a body, I refuse to believe she’s gone—and God help anyone who tries to convince me otherwise.”

  Nick looked down at his glass, then back at her. “I understand. I’m not here to argue with you about the past, Karen. I’m here because I don’t think I have a future.” He checked his watch, a nervous habit she hadn't seen since they were kids. “I sold some prototype hardware to Alexander Legion. Energy-based sidearms. I told him they were the next step in the arms race, and he paid like they were. But they’re unstable, Karen. The cooling coils are faulty. In a week—maybe less—those guns are going to start melting in his men’s hands. When the first 'Ivory Elephant' gets a free pass because a Legion gun exploded during a firefight, Alexander is going to come for my head.”

  Karen finished her glass of MAX, the burn of the whiskey matching the cold calculation in her chest. This was a death sentence. “Nick... you’ve crawled into a very deep, very dirty hole. I’ve spent three years keeping my head down, carving out a neutral zone in this city. If I help the man who ripped off the Legions, I’m not just a businessman anymore—I’m a target. This threatens my entire enterprise. I can’t do it.”

  Nick didn't flinch. He expected the refusal. “I have money, Karen. Everything I made on the deal is in that bag. Take it all.”

  “It’s not about the money,” she laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Well, it is, but I doubt you have enough in that duffel to buy me a new life when the Legions burn mine down.”

  Nick set his glass aside and reached for the black bag at his feet. Instead of a stack of cash, he pulled out a thick, sealed manila envelope. “I’m not just paying you with paper, Karen. I’m paying you with the truth.”

  He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A few months ago, I was looking for a way to power those prototypes without using standard R-Field energy. So I started poking around the city’s main substations, trying to find a forgotten line I could tap into- where i could draw large amounts of power without the city knowing, it was a bust. To my surprise, however, I found that New Rome isn’t pulling its juice from just the regional nuclear plant or the coal fields out west. The city is being fed by a closed-loop Bio-Elemental stream.”

  Karen’s smile faded, her eyebrow cocking in genuine confusion. “What does the city’s electric bill have to do with me, Nick?”

  “Look at the readout.” He slid a single sheet of paper across the oak desk. It was a frequency graph, jagged peaks and valleys printed in stark black ink.

  Karen snatched the paper. As her eyes traced the lines, her breath hitched. She knew that rhythm. She felt that same frequency humming in her own marrow every morning before she took her suppressant shot.

  “There’s only one power source that generates that specific Bio-Element signature,” Nick said, his eyes locking onto hers. “It’s a rare, stable mutation. It only exists in two people. One of them is sitting right across from me.”

  “…And the other is my mother,” Karen whispered, the paper trembling in her hand. “Nick, don’t fuck with me. Are you telling me you know where she is?”

  “I don’t have a street address, no. But I know she’s hooked into the central hub. She’s the heartbeat of this entire city, Karen. They didn't kill her—they turned her into a battery. And as long as the lights are on in New Rome... she’s alive.”

  The office seemed to vibrate. The faint glow on Karen’s skin intensified, turning a pale, dangerous very light green. For the first time in years, the cynicism in her eyes was replaced by a terrifying, focused hope. Everything she had worked for—the drugs, the money, the gallery—suddenly had a singular, sharp purpose.

  “I could kiss you, Nick,” she breathed, her voice low and vibrating with power. “But your teeth would probably melt. Are you still at that factory on 45th?”

  Nick nodded, looking slightly relieved and slightly terrified of the energy rolling off her.

  “Go pack your things. We aren't just getting you out of town, Nicky. We’re finding her.