The air in the Lower Sectors didn't just smell; it had a texture. It coated the back of my throat like a layer of warm grease, tasting of ozone, sulfur, and the biological rot of a city that had stopped caring about its basement.

  “Radiation levels are climbing,” Handy whispered in my ear, his voice a frantic buzz against the auditory implant. “We just passed the ‘Not Great’ threshold and are rapidly approaching ‘My Circuits Are Itching’. Are you sure this is necessary for a high school diploma? I could hack the grade book. It would take five seconds.”

  Relax, I thought, adjusting the strap of my bag. Mr. Holder wants data. We get data. Then we leave before I grow a third eye.

  The mag-lev train hissed as it departed the platform, the sleek silver car looking out of place against the graffitied concrete of Sector 4 station. It shot back up toward the light, leaving us behind in the gloom.

  Danny Troy stood next to me, checking the seal on his jacket. He looked comfortable here. Too comfortable. While I was busy trying not to breathe too deeply, he was scanning the shadows with that relaxed, predatory stillness that made the hair on my arms stand up.

  “Welcome to the basement,” I said, kicking a discarded canister of synth-soda. It rattled across the cracked pavement, the sound echoing too loudly in the hollow station.

  Danny looked up at the flickering halogen lights. “It’s charming. In a post-apocalyptic sort of way.”

  “Wait until you see the rats. They’re size of terriers and have attitude problems.”

  We walked out of the station and into the street.

  Above us, the sky was a memory. The upper levels of Chicago formed a ceiling of steel girders, mag-lev tracks, and the underbellies of skyscrapers, blocking out the sun. The only light came from neon signs advertising pawn shops, noodle bars, and illegal cyber-clinics. Pink and green light pooled in the puddles of oily water, making the decay look festive.

  “Where to first?” Danny asked. He wasn't clutching his bag or checking his pockets like a tourist. He walked with his hands free, ready.

  I pulled out my tablet, ignoring the way the screen flickered in the heavy electromagnetic interference. “Holder wants structural density readings from the old textile district. Three blocks east. Then we hit the abandoned water processing plant for radiation samples.”

  “Lead the way, Captain.”

  We headed east. The streets were crowded, but not like the upper levels. Up there, people rushed. Down here, people drifted. Scavengers in rags pushed carts full of scrap metal. Cyber-junkies leaned against walls, their eyes glowing blue as they jacked into local networks. A drone buzzed overhead, its surveillance camera broken, dangling by a wire like a plucked eyeball.

  “Handy,” I subvocalized. “Keep a 360-degree scan. If anyone looks at us for longer than three seconds, I want to know.”

  “Everyone is looking at you, Nikki. You’re wearing clean clothes and you have all your teeth. You stick out like a sore thumb. A sore, wealthy thumb.”

  I pulled my hood up. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

  Danny fell into step beside me. He moved silently, his boots absorbing the impact on the wet concrete.

  “You walk quiet,” I noted.

  “Habit.”

  “From New York?”

  “Sure. New York.”

  He wasn’t going to give me anything. I respected the hustle, even if it was annoying.

  We reached the textile district. It was a graveyard of brick and iron. Massive factories, long dead, loomed over the street, their windows shattered teeth in gaping maws. Vines of genetically modified ivy—thick, black, and pulsating—choked the walls.

  “Okay,” I said, stopping in front of a building that looked like it was held together by rust and prayers. “This is it. Factory 49. Let’s get the readings.”

  I handed Danny the Geiger counter. “You take point on radiation. I’ll handle the structural scan.”

  He took the device. His fingers brushed mine—gloves this time, thank god. No lightning bolts today. Just a faint, static hum that made my wolf brain perk up and pay attention.

  Pack, the wolf whispered.

  Not pack, I corrected. Partner. Temporary.

  We worked in silence for a while. The only sounds were the click-click-click of the Geiger counter and the distant wail of a siren.

  I placed my sensor against the brick wall. The readout spooled across my tablet.

  Structural Integrity: 42%. Critical Failure Imminent.

  “This building should have collapsed ten years ago,” I muttered. “The masonry is practically dust.”

  “It’s the ivy,” Danny said. He was crouching near a storm drain, waving the wand over a patch of glowing moss. “The roots are reinforcing the foundation. Nature is holding it together.”

  “Bio-engineered nature,” I corrected. “That ivy was probably designed to eat concrete, but it got confused.”

  He stood up, checking the numbers. “Radiation is high here. Not lethal, but I wouldn't want to picnic.”

  “Good thing we skipped lunch.”

  I looked at him. The neon light from a nearby "Girls! Girls! Cybor-Girls!" sign washed over his face in waves of sleazy pink. It highlighted the sharp angle of his jaw, the dark smudges of fatigue under his eyes.

  “You okay?” I asked. The question slipped out before I could check it. “No sun down here, but the air quality is basically poison.”

  He took a deep breath, inhaling the smog. “Actually? It’s better. The sun… it drains me. This? The dark? It wakes me up.”

  He looked toward the shadows of the alleyway, and for a second, his eyes flashed. Not a reflection. A glow.

  My stomach twisted.

  “You’re weird, Troy,” I said, focusing on my tablet.

  “So I’ve been told.” He stepped closer, peering at my screen. “You’re good at this. The tech stuff.”

  “I’m good at everything,” I said, masking my nervousness with bravado. “Cheer captain, math whiz, urban explorer. I’m a triple threat.”

  “And humble too.”

  “Humility is for people who aren't perfect.”

  He laughed, a low, dry sound. “Is that why you push people away? Because you’re perfect?”

  I froze. My finger hovered over the SAVE button.

  “I don’t push people away,” I said defensively. “I maintain a tactical perimeter.”

  “Right. Tactical. Is that why you ran away yesterday?”

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “I didn't run. I… advanced in the opposite direction. I had things to do. Places to be.”

  “Uh-huh.” He leaned against the crumbling wall, crossing his arms. He looked at me, not with judgment, but with that unnerving curiosity. “You’re afraid, Nikki.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “You’re afraid of being seen.”

  The air between us grew heavy. He was too close to the truth. He was peeling back the layers of sarcasm and pom-poms to find the terrified girl underneath.

  “Look,” I snapped, shoving the sensor into my bag. “We’re done here. Next site.”

  I turned to march away, needing to put distance between me and his x-ray vision.

  “Nikki,” he started.

  Then, he stopped.

  His head snapped to the left. His posture shifted instantly from relaxed to rigid.

  “Quiet,” he whispered.

  I didn't need him to tell me. My ears swiveled, catching the sound over the hum of the city.

  Whir. Scrape. Whir. Scrape.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  It sounded like skateboards on sandpaper.

  “Company,” Handy warned. “Five signatures. Approaching fast. And Nikki? They aren't selling girl scout cookies.”

  I dropped into a crouch, hand flying to the hidden pocket in my bag where the knife lived.

  From the shadows of the alleyway, they emerged.

  “Well, well, well! Look what the garbage chute coughed up!”

  The voice was high, screechy, and synthesized.

  Five figures slid out of the gloom.

  They were Sliders.

  I hated Sliders.

  They were a gang of thrill-kill junkies who modified their bodies with anti-gravity nodes on their knees, elbows, and palms. They didn't walk. They slid, gliding inches above the filth, moving with a jerky, insect-like grace.

  And because this was Chicago, and everything had to be a nightmare, they dressed like clowns.

  Neon greasepaint glowing in the dark. Wigs made of fiber-optic cables. Smiles painted too wide, filled with sharpened metal teeth.

  “Fresh meat!” the leader cackled. He was wearing a purple polka-dot suit and had a red cyber-eye that spun lazily in its socket. He pushed off the wall with a gloved hand, sliding across the pavement in a long, smooth arc to block our path.

  “Tourists!” another shouted, spinning in a circle on his knees. “Rich kids! I smell credits! I smell tech!”

  They circled us. It was a dizzying display. They moved like water bugs, darting in and out, scraping against the concrete, defying physics.

  Danny stepped up, putting himself between me and the leader.

  “We don’t have anything for you,” Danny said. His voice was calm. Boring, even.

  “Oh, he speaks!” The leader—let’s call him Bozo—slid closer, hovering just inches off the ground. He pulled a jagged vibro-knife from his belt. The blade hummed with a nasty green energy. “I know you have plenty, pretty boy. Nice jacket. Nice boots. And the girl…”

  Bozo licked his lips with a forked tongue. “She looks expensive.”

  My hand tightened on my knife handle inside the bag.

  Let me out, the wolf snarled. I hate clowns. They taste funny.

  Hold, I ordered. Not yet.

  “Walk away,” Danny said.

  “Or what?” Bozo giggled. “You’ll file a complaint? You’ll call your daddy?”

  The other four Sliders closed in, their anti-grav pads whining. One of them, a girl with blue hair in a black victorian dress and a sledgehammer, dragged her weapon against the ground, creating a shower of sparks.

  “Cut them,” Blue Hair hissed. “Cut them and see if they bleed credits.”

  They were going to attack. I could see the muscles bunching in Bozo’s legs. I could smell the chemical cocktail of aggression stims sweating out of their pores.

  I braced myself. I’d have to reveal it. I’d have to move fast, pop the claws, take the leader out before he could use the knife. It would blow my cover. Danny would see.

  But I couldn't let him get stabbed.

  I started to pull the knife.

  Danny moved.

  He didn't attack. He just took one step forward. A heavy, deliberate step that seemed to shake the ground.

  He looked directly at Bozo.

  “Leave.”

  The word didn't come from his throat. It seemed to come from the pavement, from the walls, from the air itself. It was a physical impact, a bass note that vibrated in my teeth.

  The shadows around Danny seemed to stretch, reaching out like tendrils of smoke. His eyes, usually a dark void, flashed with a sudden, terrifying crimson light.

  It wasn't technology. It wasn't a voice modulator.

  It was pure, distilled dominance.

  Bozo froze mid-slide. His anti-grav pads sputtered.

  The other Sliders stopped their circling, their manic giggling cut short as if someone had severed their vocal cords.

  Bozo stared at Danny. The fear on the clown’s face was instantaneous and total. His jaw went slack. The vibro-knife shook in his hand.

  Danny didn't blink. He held the gaze, projecting a wave of predator so strong I almost whimpered. My wolf rolled over and exposed its belly in submission.

  Alpha, the wolf whined. Strong Alpha.

  “We…” Bozo stammered. His synthesized voice cracked. “We were just… joking.”

  Danny took another step. The shadows curled around his boots.

  “Go.”

  The command cracked like a whip.

  Bozo dropped his knife.

  “Run!” he shrieked. “Go! Move! It’s a Reaper!”

  He spun on his knees and shot down the alleyway, his anti-grav engine whining in protest. The others scrambled after him, tripping over themselves, sliding into walls in their panic to get away from the boy in the gray hoodie.

  In three seconds, the street was empty.

  Silence rushed back in, heavy and confusing.

  My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stared at the back of Danny’s head.

  The shadows receded. The oppressive weight in the air lifted.

  Danny let out a long breath and rolled his shoulders. He turned around.

  His eyes were black again. The red flash was gone. He looked tired, normal, just a guy standing in a dirty street.

  “Clowns,” he said, shaking his head. “I hate clowns.”

  I gaped at him. My hand was still clutching the handle of my knife inside the bag.

  “What…” I started, my voice squeaking. I cleared my throat. “What was that?”

  He blinked, looking innocent. “What was what?”

  “The voice! The… the vibe! You looked at them and they wet their pants. That guy dropped his weapon. He called you a Reaper.”

  Danny shrugged, bending down to pick up the discarded vibro-knife. He inspected it, then tossed it into a dumpster.

  “Street lingo,” he said casually. “You have to know how to talk to these guys. You can’t show fear. If you project confidence, they back down. It’s psychology.”

  “Psychology?” I stepped closer, pointing a finger at his chest. “That wasn't psychology, Danny. That was… voodoo. That was mind control. Your eyes glowed.”

  He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s the neon, Nikki. Reflections. And I just lowered my voice. It’s a trick I learned in New York. People are cowards if you stand your ground.”

  “Handy,” I whispered. “Analysis.”

  “Analysis is: I am terrified,” Handy replied. “That audio signature registered on the infrasound spectrum. It’s the same frequency lions use to paralyze prey. Also? He has zero cortisol spike. He wasn't scared. He was bored.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m surviving,” he said softly. “Just like you.”

  He looked at me then, and the mask slipped just a fraction. There was a plea in his eyes. Don’t ask. Don’t dig.

  I knew that look. I saw it in the mirror every morning.

  If I pushed him, he’d run. Or he’d lie more.

  And honestly? I didn't want to know. Not yet. Because if I acknowledged that he had superpowers, I had to acknowledge that I was attracted to a monster. And my life was complicated enough.

  “Fine,” I exhaled, letting go of the knife. “Street lingo. Remind me to take lessons. I usually just hit things with a pom-pom.”

  “Violence is valid too,” he smiled. “But words are cleaner.”

  He gestured toward a rusted fire escape ladder dangling from the side of a warehouse.

  “We need elevation for the final atmospheric reading,” he said. “Roof?”

  “Roof,” I agreed.

  *****

  We climbed. The metal was cold and gritty under my hands. The climb gave me a minute to calm my heart rate, to shove the wolf back into its cage.

  He’s dangerous, the wolf warned. But safe.

  Paradox, I told the wolf. Shut up.

  We pulled ourselves onto the rooftop. It was a flat expanse of tar and gravel, littered with old ventilation units and satellite dishes.

  But the view.

  We were high enough to see over the immediate cluster of factories. To the west, the sun was finally setting, a bloody smear trying to push through the wall of smog. To the east, the city center rose like a mountain range of crystal and light, beautiful and fake.

  But down here, the lights were different. Fires in oil drums. Holographic graffiti. The bioluminescent moss growing on the ruins. It had a strange, broken beauty.

  I walked to the edge, letting the wind hit my face. It smelled better up here. Still dirty, but thinner.

  Danny joined me. He didn't stand too close, but I could feel him. The gravity was back.

  “It’s a mess,” he said, looking out at the decay.

  “It’s home,” I said. “Broken, rusty, and probably carcinogenic. But it’s ours.”

  “You love it,” he observed.

  “I hate it,” I corrected. “But I’d fight for it.”

  He looked at me. The wind caught his hair, blowing it across his forehead. He looked less like a mystery now and more like a boy who was just… searching.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why fight for a place that’s trying to kill you?”

  I looked at the Pandora tower in the distance. I thought about my uncle. I thought about the wolf bite.

  “Because if we don’t, who will?” I said. “The Corps don’t care. The government doesn’t care. We’re just statistics to them. Overhead costs.”

  I turned to him. “Average girls don’t save people, Danny. But someone has to.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the city and the beating of my own traitorous heart.

  “You’re not average, Nikki Nova,” he said quietly.

  “I’m trying to be.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Average is boring. You’re… vibrant.”

  He reached out, his hand hovering near mine on the ledge. He didn't touch me. He just let the heat of his skin radiate toward me.

  “You know,” he said, a wry smile touching his lips. “For two people who are just ‘project partners’, we seem to find a lot of trouble.”

  “Trouble finds us,” I said. “We’re just magnetic.”

  “Maybe.”

  He looked down at his hand, then back at me.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “For what? You saved me from the clowns.”

  “For not running away,” he said. “After the ‘street lingo’.”

  I shrugged. “I told you. I don’t run. I advance in the opposite direction. And right now… the view is nice here.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “It is.”

  He wasn't looking at the city.

  My breath caught. The static in my head went quiet. The wolf sat down and watched.

  For a terrifying second, I wanted to lean in. I wanted to close the gap. I wanted to see if the lightning would strike again, or if this time, it would just be fire.

  “Alert,” Handy chimed, shattering the mood like a brick through a window. “Atmospheric sensors are peaking. Also, my romance algorithm is throwing up red flags. You are entering the ‘Danger Zone’, Nikki. And I don’t mean the song.”

  I jerked back, clearing my throat.

  “We should… get the readings,” I said, my voice high. “Before it gets dark. Zombies come out at night.”

  “Right,” Danny said, stepping back. The mask slid back into place, but it was thinner now. “Readings. Science.”

  We went back to work. We measured the decay. We logged the data.

  But as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the rooftop in shades of purple and bruise-black, I knew one thing.

  The shadows weren't just in the city. They were in him.

  And for some stupid, reckless reason, I wasn't afraid of the dark anymore.

  I wanted to know what was hiding in it.