The helmet display flickered as it shifted into infrared, the world draining of color and snapping into gradients of heat. For a heartbeat it stuttered, image warping, then stabilized.

  I angled my head down and let the scan roll through the floors beneath me till I discovered movement.

  Low and deliberate. A heat signature sliding through the stairwell, hugging the inner wall, barely bleeding warmth into the surrounding area.

  An intruder.

  They were moving fast. Each step placed with precision as they headed straight for the top floor, not even pausing to check the other apartments. I cursed silently. That confirmed it.

  Those bastards could track us.

  It had been just under fifteen minutes since I'd entered the apartment. Fifteen minutes of preparation — inventory checked, entries sealed, windows tested, escape routes secured. I'd walked the space twice, made confirmations, then settled into the couch like I owned the place.

  So far so good. I wasn't in any immediate danger and could pause and think then decide my next course of action. However, something had been bugging me for a while now. A single thought I had pushed to the back of my mind.

  The city was big. Too big.

  A sprawl of buildings and streets wide enough to lose a small army in. Even with trained hunters, even with coordination, there was no efficient way to sweep a space like this in good time. As far as I knew the exercise had no time limit but I had the feeling it wasn't designed to take all day. Even with all the time in the world, their odds of finding any of us in such conditions were laughably low.

  But they had found one of us. Not long after we started no less. That shouldn't have been possible, unless….

  A sudden change in the air interrupted my thought. It was so subtle that I almost missed it. The sterile tang I'd noticed earlier sharpened, laced with something metallic. There was no mistaking it.

  Someone else was in the building.

  My thoughts scattered, branching into my contingency plans and different escape routes. The obvious best option was to escape and get as far away as I could. Then keep moving and survive for as long as possible. Anyone with half a brain would know that was the sensible choice.

  I wasn't squad captain because I made sensible choices.

  I let the panic burn itself out and forced my breathing to slow. Any sudden movement would spike my heat signature and anyone coming up those stairs would be watching their display as closely as I was watching mine.

  So I stayed where I was.

  Settled deeper into the couch. Hand piece resting across my lap, angled casually. I adjusted my posture by millimeters, redistributing weight without sudden shifts. Slow enough to keep my thermal profile flat.

  My eyes drifted to the door.

  Standard inward swing. Reinforced frame. Narrow hallway beyond. If they breached aggressively, their center mass would cross the threshold before their weapon cleared the jamb.

  They wouldn't be expecting a shot from the hinge side.

  An announcement echoed through the apartment, disembodied and cold.

  "Marshal Wilson has been eliminated. Two down, Five more to go."

  I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply.

  They got Jen.

  Things weren't looking so good but there was no time to dwell. I had to remain focused.

  The scent grew stronger.

  Every nerve tightened, body coiling without conscious command. My pulse hammered in my ears, loud and insistent, and I hated that part — the waiting. The suspended second before hell broke loose.

  There was fear there, buried deep.

  And beneath it, something sharper. A dangerous kind of anticipation. Like standing on the edge of a drop and leaning forward just to feel gravity notice you.

  The door shifted inward.

  This was it.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  I exploded sideways and fired.

  The recoil punched my shoulder. The round struck dead center, exactly where I aimed — but this wasn't over.

  The vest absorbed the worst of it, but the force twisted him off balance, tearing something loose. He made a raw, animal sound and staggered sideways, boots scraping as he fought to stay upright. His rifle came up frighteningly fast.

  I dropped instinctively, heart slamming so hard my vision tunneled.

  He fired as he stumbled back, rounds tearing through the space where my head had been a moment ago.

  That was too damn close.

  I rolled, came up breathing hard, visor already tracking him as he retreated. He was bleeding heat, ragged edges flickering across his shoulder and side. Bad hit — but not bad enough.

  He retreated into the hallway, firing controlled bursts to keep me pinned.

  Smart.

  A grin pulled at my mouth before I could stop it, adrenaline flooding my system, lighting every nerve on fire.

  Time to earn some points.

  I surged forward.

  The hallway felt too tight, too loud. My boots slapping the ground as I hit the stairwell, taking the steps hard. Pain flared in my ribs, my body punishing me for my actions, but it barely registered. Everything narrowed down to the glowing shape moving below me.

  He was quick.

  Too quick for someone who damn near had their chest blown off.

  That stuck in my head even as I chased — the way he didn't favor the injury as much as I expected, the way his movement stayed coordinated. Higher ranked marshals were something else.

  Two floors down, he cut the corner hard, boots hammering against the stairs as he descended.

  An idea formed in my head as I chased after him— sudden, bright, and catastrophically stupid.

  I didn't slow.

  Before my mind could attempt to reason with me I hit the railing, then instinct took over.

  Here goes nothing.

  I vaulted.

  The railing vanished under my boots and the stairwell dropped away.

  Sound drained out. The fall stretched long and thin, like time itself had been pulled taut. My heartbeat collapsed into a single, heavy pulse.

  Below me, he turned.

  His heat signature flared bright as a beacon, clean and unmistakable against the dull wall. The seam between helmet and vest burned white-hot, exposed for the briefest fraction of a second.

  Rotating in the air, my piece came up smooth and level. The motion was too clean to be conscious — muscle memory taking over, the kind burned into bone and nerve. The sight settled without a tremor.

  I squeezed.

  The shot punched straight through the glowing line at his neck. The heat there exploded outward, then vanished all at once. His body went slack mid-step, momentum carrying him forward before gravity reclaimed him.

  He tumbled down the remaining stairs in a boneless heap, limbs catching and twisting as he fell.

  I slammed into the railing.

  My fingers screamed as they clamped down, skin grinding against metal. Pain detonated in my shoulder — sharp and blinding — but I held on through it, teeth clenched hard enough to ache.

  Then I hauled myself back up.

  I stood over him, chest heaving and vision swimming as I switched off infrared.

  The world snapped back into color.

  My hands were shaking now, the adrenaline bleeding off in ugly, uneven waves. The stairwell stank — coppery and thick. The smell of blood.

  Too real.

  For a moment, I almost forgot I was still inside a simulation.

  He wasn't moving.

  I stepped closer and fired again.

  Once. Twice. Four times — each round placed deliberately into limbs that no longer responded. It was unnecessary. His heat signature had already been fading, leaking slowly into the floor like spilled water.

  But unnecessary didn't mean wrong.

  Only after the last shot did the tremor fully hit me. My hands shook hard enough that I had to lower the weapon and breathe through it.

  A short laugh slipped out — breathless, sharp-edged, a little unhinged.

  My ribs throbbed in protest, my shoulder burned, and every muscle in my body reminded me that I was already injured before I'd decided to throw myself off a stairwell.

  The first shot should've ended it. I should've been more patient.

  And why in heaven's name did I even make that jump?!

  A grin crept across my face anyway.

  It was insane. Completely reckless. But it would also be, without question, the greatest clip of my life.

  I was never going to let Jen hear the end of this.

  Almost immediately, there was another announcement.

  "Marshal Stewart has been eliminated by Marshal Aldrich. 10 points are awarded."

  Excellent. I had no idea what 10 points were worth in the grand scheme of things, but it was a start — and more importantly, it sent a message.

  I knelt and searched his gear quickly. A HEP grenade. Two handpieces. A rifle. And a datapad locked around his wrist.

  The grenade went straight onto my belt.

  The rest were useless. I had no need for extra firearms, and the datapad was biometrically locked. A shame. If I'd been able to tap into their tracking, this entire exercise could've flipped on its head.

  I rose and moved.

  Staying still after a kill was an invitation.

  I exited the building at a jog, keeping my pace controlled, favoring nothing even as my body complained. From here on out, movement was survival. I stayed close to the boundary line, limiting approach angles and forcing any pursuit to come from predictable directions.

  They would know now.

  They'd lost one of their own and it would not go unanswered.

  The next announcement came about ten minutes later.

  "Marshal Johtl has been eliminated. Three down. Four more to go."

  I didn't break stride.

  Honestly, I was surprised the announcement hadn't been made sooner. Cuiran had always been the weakest of us in raw combat — a CR of two, average by initiate standards. The rest of us hovered around tier three, Bran and I were very close to four. Mous could've been a solid three herself if she ever bothered to take anything seriously.

  But no one ever held that against Cuiran.

  He was the best combat medic I'd ever seen. Brilliant under pressure. Hands steady no matter how terrible the injury was. He could have been an elite doctor if it wasn't, to quote him, 'about as exciting as watching amateur golf'.

  Reaching the end of a street, I was about to branch off into an alley when I was hit with a scent.

  Someone was waiting.

  I switched back to infrared and caught the heat signature tucked behind the building on the left, posture low, position deliberate. An ambush.

  Running wasn't an option. My condition had worsened since the stairwell, and they'd chase me down easily. Trading shots in open space would be suicide against a higher ranked marshal.

  That left one option.

  Close quarters.

  I exhaled slowly and unstrapped my axes. Plasma ignited with a low, hungry hum, light bleeding across the alley walls.

  I rolled my shoulders once, pain flaring and settling.

  What could possibly go wrong.