Laughter. Somewhere behind me.

  Light. Easy.

  Mocking.

  “Damn, girl.”

  A voice drawled, thick with amusement, each word slick and lazy like she had all the time in the world.

  “That was brutal. Like, I felt that shit. Right here.”

  She tapped her chest with two fingers, lips curled into a smile that felt more like a challenge than praise. “All kinds of vicious. Respect”

  I turned my head.

  She stood there like she’d always been part of the scene, stitched right into the neon and grime.

  Mid-twenties, maybe, but there was a wildness about her that made her feel both older and younger at the same time.

  Neon tattoos crawled across her arms, neck, and face in cyan and magenta spirals, the ink pulsing faintly under the moonlight like circuitry gone feral. A torn leather vest hung off her shoulders, patches stitched haphazardly into the fabric like little battle scars. Striped pants hugged her legs, the fabric shredded and patched with mismatched cloth, and heavy boots scuffed from a hundred fights.

  One side of her head was shaved down to the scalp, the other swept into a chaotic pink mohawk that looked like it would bite if you got too close.

  She chewed gum, blowing a bubble until it swelled big as her cheek.

  Popped it. Lips twitching in amusement.

  “You’re the Empress, right?” she continued, casual as anything. Like we were meeting at some dive bar instead of on a rooftop still wet with blood and humiliation.

  “The motherfucker who strung up Kore? Torched her bastards? All fire and rage and—”

  She gestured to the ruined rooftop with a flick of her wrist, “—drama?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She chuckled, the sound low and raspy, threaded with genuine delight.

  “Man. That guy treated you like the shit water in the streets. Just stomped all over your big, bad moment. All that effort just to get curb-stomped in front of your own audience. Painful.”

  I sat up slowly, wiping blood from my chin. Fingers trembling, jaw tight. I still didn’t speak. Still shaking, fury threading itself into my bones, knotting tight.

  She didn’t care.

  Or maybe she cared a lot—just not about the same things everyone else did.

  With a reckless sort of ease, she plopped down on the ledge beside me, legs dangling over the edge like we were just hanging out, watching the city rot beneath us. Her boots thumped softly against the metal, rhythmically, like some song only she could hear.

  “Name’s Nova.” She said it like it should’ve meant something. Like it already did. “I got eyes everywhere. Hacked three city cams just to catch you booting that bitch off the roof. Real statement piece, by the way. Most circuit brains these days just pop a bullet through the skull—boring, basic.”

  She leaned forward, sharp-eyed and eager, like she was savoring the memory.

  “But hanging?” Her eyebrows arched, eyes glinting with approval. “That’s old-school. Sends a message. Cuts deeper. Shows you’ve got style. Class. Hell, maybe even culture.”

  She flashed her teeth, something almost feral in the smile.

  “But then Daddy Sky-God came along and slam dunked your ass into the concrete. Damn. Kinda wrecked your whole vibe, huh?”

  My jaw clenched. Muscles coiling tight. I looked away, trying to drag my breathing into something steady, something controlled.

  Nova shrugged like my silence meant nothing. Like it was exactly what she’d expected.

  “Anyway, I figure you need help. And lucky for you, I love lost causes.”

  She leaned back, hands braced against the ledge, her body loose and relaxed, like the city below was hers to command and ruin. Like this was her kingdom of rust and neon.

  “Here’s the thing, Empress,” she said, her voice dropping to something almost gentle, almost coaxing.

  “I saw what you did to Kore. Saw how you tore through her guards like they were nothing. I saw you break her with your own hands and dangle her corpse like a message. And I gotta say...”

  Her eyes glinted, fierce and hungry.

  “I fucking loved it.”

  That made me turn.

  Her smile widened, a little too eager, eyes glinting bright and weirdly sincere. Not the kind of sincerity that came from kindness, but from interest. Curiosity. Amusement.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, words spilling out quick and easy.

  “You looked awesome earlier. All monster limbs and knife-dancing. Real nightmare shit. Big fan. Very aesthetic.”

  She wiggled her fingers in the air, the motion playful and mocking. “But let’s be real—Adam curb-stomped you. Just—bam. Face-first into humility. Brutal.”

  Her tone was light, flippant. Like she was talking about a street fight she’d just watched on a busted holo-screen. Like my failure was just another spectacle.

  I rose to my feet slowly. Muscles stiff. Joints creaking. Every bruise and broken part of me screaming in protest.

  But my breathing was steady now. Controlled.

  The Whisper stirred faintly, licking at the edges of my rage like a hungry thing.

  I turned to her fully, eyes cold. My gaze locked onto hers, daring her to keep that grin on her face.

  She kept smiling.

  I stalked forward, steps measured, precise.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

  I grabbed her by the collar, yanking her up to eye level. Hard. Rough. My fingers clenched tight around the fabric of her vest, knuckles white.

  Her breath caught—just for a fraction of a second—but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t struggle.

  Didn’t fight.

  She just stared back at me, her gaze flicking over my face with unnerving calm. Studying me. Measuring me. Like I was the interesting one. Like I was the spectacle.

  “You think you can help me?” I hissed, my voice low and sharp, each word edged with the fury still thrumming beneath my skin. “You think someone like you knows anything about what I need?”

  Nova’s eyes narrowed, but not in fear. Something closer to fascination. Her gaze slid over my face, lingering on the bruises, the blood, the anger bleeding out of every pore.

  Then she laughed. Soft and sudden, like she couldn’t help herself.

  “Chill. Chill, Empress.”

  She raised her hands, palms out, a gesture of mock surrender. But her grin didn’t waver. If anything, it grew sharper.

  “I’m not your enemy. Yet.” Her voice lilted with amusement, threaded with something almost taunting. “I just think maybe—just maybe—you need something other than a bloodbath and a bad attitude.”

  She spoke like I was some wild animal she was trying to coax into a cage. Calm, patient, teasing. Like she was enjoying herself. Like I was entertainment.

  It pissed me off.

  I tightened my grip, fingers digging into her vest until I felt the fabric strain. But she only arched an eyebrow, the smirk still painted across her face like she owned it.

  “And what exactly do you think I need?” I growled, my voice dripping with venom.

  “More than brute force.” Nova’s gaze stayed locked on mine, steady and unafraid.

  “More than just clawing your way through anything in your path until there’s nothing left but broken pieces and bad blood.”

  I could hear the heartbeat in her chest, steady and unfazed. Her smile never faltered. She liked this. The chaos. The violence. The fury I barely kept on a leash.

  “But hey,” she added, her voice lowering to something almost conspiratorial.

  “If you’d rather tear my throat out, be my guest. I’ll make a hell of a corpse. But if you want more than that…” Her smile widened, bright and electric. “Then we should talk.”

  I stared at her. Her expression flickered, something raw slipping through before the smirk snapped back in place.

  “Come back to my base.” Her voice softened, the swagger dialed back.

  Almost—almost—sincere. “Let’s talk.”

  I hesitated. Fingers still clenched around her collar, knuckles aching. The urge to lash out still coiled in my muscles, tense and waiting.

  But her gaze stayed steady. Unflinching.

  My grip loosened.

  Nova adjusted her collar with a dramatic little cough, rubbing at her neck like she was mocking me for caring.

  “Damn. Strong grip. Noted.” Nova rubbed her neck, amusement threading through her voice. The kind of smile that said she enjoyed this. The violence. The threat. The thrill.

  I exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out of me like poison. Not gone. Just pushed down. Coiled beneath my skin.

  “Lead the way,” I muttered. The words tasted like surrender, but also something else. A test.

  “That’s more like it.” Nova winked, eyes sparking with something too alive, too sharp.

  She turned and hopped down to the next rooftop, landing with the easy grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times. She started humming something off-key, a jagged melody stitched together by sheer confidence.

  I followed.

  Behind me, the rooftop bled shame and failure. Ahead, neon and smoke tangled in the air, the city breathing hot and rancid.

  Nova walked like she owned it, confident and careless. Never looked back to check if I followed. She didn’t need to.

  I trailed her through alleys slick with oil and heat, the city’s pulse quickening with every step. The Whisper stirred, curious. Waiting.

  I kept pace, boots echoing softly against wet pavement, steps steady. Rage simmered beneath my skin like static, tangled and electric.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  The streets were alive—but not with the polished, artificial gleam of the upper tiers. This was something rawer. Something that bled and ached and thrived in its own filth.

  The underbelly.

  The gutter.

  The forgotten heartbeat of Ventura.

  Neon signs buzzed and flickered, casting everything in pink, green, and electric blue. Holograms danced above storefronts in glitching loops—seductive, half-decayed, desperate for attention.

  The air reeked of sweat, trash, and something sickly sweet, like spoiled candy left to rot in the heat.

  People leaned against crumbling walls, eyes glassy from drugs or exhaustion.

  Lost in laughter or shouting matches or tangled embraces that blurred the line between pleasure and desperation. Half-dressed lovers tangled in doorways, their moans threading through the cracks of thundering basslines.

  Music pounded from every alley and shattered window, layered and distorted, too many songs clashing all at once. A riot of sound that drowned out the city’s pulse.

  It was chaos.

  It was alive.

  It smelled like piss and danger and dreams gone rancid.

  Nova strolled like she belonged to it. Hands shoved into her pockets, head bobbing to some beat only she could hear. Her mohawk burned neon-pink under the haze, light tracing the tattoos crawling down her arms like living circuitry.

  I said nothing.

  I watched everything. My knife still hung at my side, my fingers still twitched. The city felt like a wound that never healed, raw and stinging.

  This wasn’t peace. But it wasn’t Providence, either.

  Nova turned a corner, slipping into a narrow alley between a strip club called Divine Wrath and a noodle shop where the cooks were screaming at each other in a language I didn’t recognize.

  It was darker here. Quieter. The noise from the main street muffled by the narrow walls, the neon glow reduced to a faint, sickly gleam.

  And then—

  Laughter.

  “Everyone shut the fuck up.” Nova’s voice cut through the noise like broken glass. Sharp, commanding.

  She shoved her way through a doorway that looked like a boarded-up maintenance shed—splintered wood, rusted metal, and a padlock that hung open like an afterthought.

  I followed.

  The hallway beyond was tight and claustrophobic, the air thick with something sour and metallic. Graffiti choked the walls—symbols I didn’t recognize, gang tags twisted into obscene poetry, threats scrawled in red and black. Old blood crusted in the corners, dried to flakes that crunched beneath our boots.

  A single flickering bulb buzzed above us, its light thin and sickly. It cast jagged shadows that danced over the grime like dying insects.

  Nova’s shoulders rolled loose, her fingers drumming against her thigh in some erratic rhythm only she could hear. Confident. Careless.

  Then—

  We emerged into a basement-level chamber carved into the bones of the city.

  Dim red lights lined the ceiling, pulsing like dying veins. Heat bled from old machines, mismatched consoles, and weapons piled in crates like discarded bones. Monitors crackled with static, some displaying fractured feeds of the city above—streets I recognized, others swallowed by darkness and chaos.

  And people.

  Five of them. All turning to look at me.

  “Who you got there? You catching strays again, boss?”

  The voice came from a man lounging on a throne cobbled together from the gutted remains of vending machines and scrap metal. Smoke coiled from his mouth, thick and purple, the scent sweet and burning.

  Skinny. Sharp-eyed. One hand drumming restlessly on the armrest while the other clutched a homemade vaporizer. His smile was all teeth and mischief.

  “Stray’s got teeth,” Nova replied with a smirk. “Tore Kore to pieces. Thought I’d introduce her to the family.”

  The man laughed, a raspy sound like crushed glass. “Shit, Nova. You’re not adopting every psycho with a vendetta, are you? We got quotas to keep.”

  Nova rolled her eyes. “Keep complaining, Fuse, and I’ll make you vet her yourself. Or do you just wanna sit there and bitch all night?”

  He scoffed, blowing out another thick cloud of purple smoke. “Sounds like work. I’m good right here.”

  “Fuse never gets off his ass unless someone sets it on fire,” another voice cut in. A girl with wires braided into her hair like veins, arms crossed over her chest, leaning against a pillar. “Seriously, Fuse, you lazy bastard. How are you still breathing when you’re always stoned out of your skull? You’re a walking corpse waiting to drop.

  “Shut up, Skein,” Fuse snapped, his smile faltering for the first time. “Go torment someone else for once.”

  “Or what?” She sneered, split tongue flicking between her teeth. “You gonna wheeze at me until I drop dead, fucking burnout?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Fuse’s smile crept back, equal parts challenge and cruelty.

  Skein shot back, her eyes flicking to me. “Just make sure she’s not dead weight, boss. Or regular dead.”

  “Lots of those lately,” another man added, his voice low and gravelly. His arms were folded across his chest like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. Cracked aviators hid his gaze, and a shotgun rested against his shoulder like it was part of him.

  “Stop whining, Rook,” said the girl in the corner, her neon-green hair spiked in chaotic directions. “You’d bitch even if we dragged in a war machine. Just admit you’re scared.”

  “Paranoid keeps you alive, Ghost,” Rook shot back, his tone flat and unamused. “Not that you’d understand, treating everything like a game.”

  “Maybe because it is.” Ghost smiled, eyes flashing with something wild. “But sure, go ahead and sulk in your corner. Meanwhile, I’m actually excited about our new plaything.” She jerked her chin at me. “Can’t wait to see the fireworks. Got anything better than knives in your bag of tricks, Empress?”

  “Or do you just wave them around for show?” Skein taunted, eyes glinting with interest. “All flash, no substance?”

  “She took down Kore, didn’t she?” Fuse chuckled, his smirk returning as he eyed me with curiosity. “I dunno, Skein. I saw the footage. Girl’s got a mean streak. Might even give you a run for your money.”

  “Bold words from a man who’s too high to fight half the time,” Ghost muttered.

  “Hey, I get the job done.” Another plume of smoke drifted lazily from Fuse’s mouth. “Just... you know, at my own pace.”

  “Bravado means nothing without action.” Rook stated, his gaze steady and unyielding. “Let’s hope you’re not just another liability.”

  Nova cut off their bickering before it spiraled out of control. “Alright, enough. Can’t you idiots go five minutes without tearing each other apart?” She shot me a grin, easy and sharp. “Alright, losers, meet the Empress. Fresh off a divine curb-stomp and hunting for answers. Empress, meet the losers. Dysfunctional as hell, but you get used to it.”

  “Used to it?” Skein laughed, a jagged sound. “No one’s ever used to us. They just learn not to die.”

  “Like she’d need to,” Fuse chuckled, his cybernetic eye glowing orange as he eyed me. “Girl’s got that murder-glint. I respect it.”

  “Respect’s a strong word, Fuse,” Rook grunted, but his gaze stayed locked on me, calculating. Cold.

  They all watched me. Judged me. Measured me.

  But one stood out.

  Tall. Too tall. A man—if he was a man—loomed in the corner, half-consumed by shadow. His arms were long. Too long. Metal where flesh should be, fingers jointed like spider legs. His posture was crooked, slouched, but his presence swallowed the room whole.

  His face was covered by a smooth, featureless white mask, a single crack running jagged down the center. When I stepped in, he tilted his head—slowly. Like a predator assessing prey. Or a curious animal sniffing at something new.

  The tall man moved. Not suddenly, not violently—just a slow, deliberate step forward.

  His movements were wrong—too fluid, too smooth, too silent. Like a shadow deciding to become solid. He drifted forward until he stopped just in front of me. Close. Uncomfortably close.

  His presence felt like static in the air, something cold and electric prickling beneath my skin. The others carried on, unbothered. No glances thrown his way, no tense shoulders or wary eyes.

  Skein kept her attention on the knife she was cleaning, the blade glinting under dim red lights. “Spite’s curious,” she murmured, the words tossed out like an afterthought. “Guess you made an impression.”

  Rook scratched at the stubble along his jaw, disinterested. “He does this. Sizes up the newcomers, then slips back into the dark.” His gaze flicked toward Spite for a fraction of a second before dismissing him entirely. “You’re fine.”

  Ghost’s gaze skimmed over Spite and settled on me, her expression easy, indifferent. “Just Spite being Spite.” She shrugged, attention already shifting elsewhere.

  Fuse finally glanced up, his eyes hazy behind curls of purple smoke. “Yeah, if he wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.” He took another drag, expression somewhere between amused and bored. “Guess he likes you.”

  His voice was distorted—low, glitchy, processed through some kind of voicebox, but perfectly controlled. Words clipped, mechanical, but laced with something feral.

  “You reek of Khareth’el.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He leaned in slightly, the crack down the center of his mask pulsing with a faint red glow—like a dying heart trying to beat.

  “Demon of fertile soil and butchered wombs,” he hissed. “Mother of harvest. God of knives. Life-giver. Life-ender.”

  The words slid under my skin like needles, barbed and twisting. He spoke them like a fact. Like a truth I hadn’t yet realized.

  Nova clapped once, her smile easy and unbothered. “That’s Spite. Don’t mind the creep factor. He’s our muscle. Used to roll with a cult. Y’know—the devil-worshipping kind.”

  Skein let out a wild, cackling laugh. “Bunch of idiots worshipping some monster just to get their eyeballs scooped out when it finally showed up. Total bloodbath.”

  Spite tilted his head again, slow and deliberate. The crimson glow in his mask deepened, flickering like something alive.

  “You want vengeance,” he said. “Then learn how to make it hurt.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Teach me, then.”

  He didn’t move. But the air shifted. Something heavy pressed into the room—thick and cold. It felt like gravity itself had twisted, pulling everything toward him.

  His voice dropped, deeper than before. Final.

  “Break first.”

  Before I could react, his hand lashed out and clamped around my throat.

  Fingers like steel. Vice-tight, cutting off air and thought and everything but pain.

  He spun me around with brutal efficiency, my body twisted like a ragdoll, back exposed.

  Then—

  The impact.

  His fist drove into my spine like a piston, force slamming into bone and nerve with precision that bordered on surgical. Pain exploded through me, vicious and electric, ripping a scream from my throat.

  “I can feel it. Her energy. Right here.”

  Spite’s voice echoed through my skull, each word a claw scraping against my mind.

  The Whisper screamed.

  Splitting to a thousand voices at once, overlapping, crashing against each other like glass shattering into infinity. Its rage rippled through me, wild and unrestrained.

  Tendrils burst from my spine, black and writhing, snapping through the air like living wires.

  They tangled Spite in an instant, the ink coiling around his arms, his legs, his throat. Lifting him off the ground with effortless, monstrous strength.

  I felt the tendrils tighten, muscles seizing with raw fury. The Whisper howled through me, blood in its voice, hunger in its reach. It wanted to break him. To tear him apart.

  Spite hung in the air, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. His mask tilted, watching me even as the tendrils squeezed. His breath came out in static, fractured and choked.

  But he didn’t struggle.

  He didn’t scream.

  He laughed.

  Low and distorted, glitching through the voicebox like a broken transmission.

  The tendrils tightened, straining to crush him, to break his bones, to rip him into pieces—

  And then he exploded.

  Blood.

  Red and wet and everywhere.

  The tendrils dropped, splattered in crimson, slick with something that smelled like iron and rot. The force of it sent me stumbling backward, breath tearing through my throat in desperate, ragged gasps.

  The others didn’t even react.

  “Fucking mess,” Rook muttered, not even looking up from the gun he was cleaning.

  “Hey, Ghost, grab a mop,” Fuse called out from his makeshift throne, his grin as lazy as ever. “You know Spite loves his dramatics.”

  “Nope.” Ghost popped the p, arms folded over her chest, eyes fixed on me with a kind of delighted curiosity. “This one’s hers to clean. Spite’s little welcome party.”

  “But I—” I looked down at myself. Blood clung to me. Soaked into my clothes, my skin, seeping into the cracks of the floor. My hands shook, fingers trembling with adrenaline and pain. “What the fuck was that?”

  The blood began to move.

  It pulled itself together like liquid metal, tendrils of red crawling across the ground, pooling into a single point.

  And from that point, Spite rose.

  The blood reformed into his shape, solidifying, hardening until his body stood whole once again. The crack in his mask still pulsing with that dull, sickly red light.

  He straightened, dusting himself off like he’d only just finished a long nap.

  “Interesting reaction,” he rasped, his voice just as distorted, just as calm. “But your control is weak.”

  My chest heaved, muscles straining just to keep me upright. Rage and pain tangled together, the Whisper a low snarl in the back of my skull.

  “What the hell are you?” I spat, voice raw.

  “Someone who doesn’t stay dead,” Skein answered before Spite could speak, her voice slick with amusement. “You’re not the first one to try killing him, Empress. It’s a running joke at this point.”

  Spite tilted his head, that unnatural calm coiling around him like a shroud.

  “Someone who has already broken,” he replied. “Reborn from the mother’s blood.”

  “That’s his way of saying, ‘Good luck trying,’” Fuse snorted. “Spite’s a dick, but he’s our dick.”

  “Yeah, he’s weird, but he does his job,” Nova added, her smile returning. “Congrats, Empress. You survived his little test. Sort of.”

  I swallowed hard, the taste of blood sharp in my throat. My voice came out ragged, more shaken than I wanted. “What the hell kind of people are you?”

  The room erupted in laughter, wild and unhinged.

  “Exactly the kind you’re looking for,” Nova said.