Jarah moved through the dim corridors of the Megaplex Apartments in University Square, a sub-district in Franchise. The hallway reeked of booze and synthetic narcotics. Graffiti-tagged walls and newborns crying in an apartment downstairs made the place feel more like a slum than a housing project.

  Jarah’s Huntsman pulsed against his wrist, a silent guide leading him toward his destination. Apartment 17C. He stopped in front of the door, listening. Inside, muffled rap music thumped beneath the sounds of coughing and inhaler injections. He knocked twice. A dog started barking inside.

  A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a man with sunken eyes and a grin smeared across his face. His pupils were blown wide, his hands twitching at his sides. The stench of chemicals clung to him like a second layer of skin.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the man slurred.

  “Who are you?” Jarah asked in return.

  “I’m Deuce,” the man cleared his dry throat. “You don’t look like a delivery boy.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” Jarah dismissed, his eyes searching the room behind Deuce. “Is Robert home?”

  Deuce chuckled. “Who?”

  “Batch,” Jarah corrected. “Is he here?”

  “Oh,” Deuce snorted. “Yeah, he here. You tryna buy?”

  “Something like that.”

  Deuce stepped aside, waving Jarah in. The apartment was a disaster. Clothes, wrappers, and spent inhalers littered the floor. A Rottweiler the size of a shopping cart rested under a burnt-out table chained to a refrigerator in the kitchen. It growled at Jarah before snapping a few barks at him.

  “Shut up!” Deuce shouted at the dog.

  “Where is he?” Jarah asked while inspecting the area.

  “He’s on the toilet,” Deuce muttered, collapsing onto a stained couch. He scratched his neck, yawning. “Yo, Batch! Some greezy-muthafucka’ here for you, man!”

  Jarah turned to the bathroom door and stepped closer. His Huntsman flared red.

  Instinct took over. He moved fast, just as the bathroom door exploded outward, a shotgun blast tearing through the space where he had been standing. Wood splintered, debris flying in all directions. Deuce yelped, rolling off the couch, suddenly far more sober than before.

  Jarah’s boot connected with the ruined door, sending it crashing inward.

  The bathroom was empty—except for the gaping window. Outside, a figure clambered onto the fire escape, vaulting onto the adjacent rooftop.

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  Robert “Bad Batch” Bradley.

  “Bitch—” Jarah slurred.

  He didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, grabbing the window frame and hauling himself through. The cold wind slapped against his face as he hit the metal grating of the fire escape. Above, Bradley was already running, his jacket billowing behind him as he leaped across a narrow alley onto another building.

  Jarah followed. The rooftops were a maze of vents, ducts, and old satellite dishes. Bradley moved like a man who had done this before. Jarah kept pace, boots pounding against the tar-coated surface. His breath came steady. Bradley was fast, but panic made men sloppy. It was only a matter of time.

  Bradley vaulted over a ventilation unit and glanced back, eyes wild. “Fuck off, jit!”

  Jarah didn’t let up.

  The outlaw reached the end of the roof and jumped. The gap was wider this time, the street yawning below. He barely hit the next rooftop and rolled into a crouch. Jarah ran harder, pushing off with everything he had. He cleared the space, landing with practiced ease, never breaking stride.

  Bradley cursed and skidded to a stop near the edge of the next building. The gap was more expansive and treacherous, with a sheer drop into the street below. He turned, chest heaving. Jarah approached him quicker than he expected. His mind raced as he knew what would happen to him if he were caught. Then, he made his choice.

  Bradley pressed back for a head start. His heel dug into the gravel beneath him as he bolted to the edge.

  “Stop!” Jarah shouted.

  Bradley leaped. The cold wind was caught in his lungs as he couldn’t clear the gap.

  Jarah reached the edge just in time to see Bradley crash into a parked car below. Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. A crowd gathered instantly, murmurs turning into horrified gasps. Someone screamed. A few people looked up, spotting Jarah standing on the rooftop. He could already hear the whispers—pushed, thrown, murdered.

  His stomach twisted.

  Jarah turned away before the first sirens rang out in the distance—

  Roxie’s Bar was dark, the kind of place where people went to forget. Jarah sat hunched over a glass at the bar, the ice cubes long since melted. He swirled the crystal vodka, staring at his reflection on the warped countertop.

  He had failed.

  Not because Bradley was dead—death was inevitable in their line of work. But because he hadn’t brought him in. Hadn’t done his job. The bounty was for a capture, not a corpse.

  The drink burned his throat as he downed it in one go.

  “Another,” he muttered. The bartender obliged without a word.

  Minutes blurred into hours. He lost track of time, lost himself in the haze of cheap liquor and Hashira’s voice in his head.

  “Tell me, Jarah—do you find your work fulfilling?”

  Jarah thought deeply, searching for a reason to tell himself otherwise.

  “Rough night?”

  Jarah barely lifted his gaze. A young woman stood beside him, her face partially hidden in the dim glow of the bar lights. Her eyes held something—curiosity, maybe understanding.

  “Something like that,” he muttered.

  She slid into the seat beside him, tilting her head. “Looks like you could use a distraction.”

  Jarah exhaled, a bitter scoff escaping his lips. He knew what she was. He knew what she wanted. He considered the offer for the first time that night—anything to forget.

  At least for a little while—