The gym was silent except for the rhythmic slap of feet against padded flooring and the low hum of air filtration. The space was wide, open, clean—Zedd liked clean. He didn't like clutter.

  At least, not in any space that wasn't his lab.

  Too much clutter meant too much thinking.

  The floor-to-ceiling window stretched across one wall, a panoramic view of New Abraham's skyline, but neither of them were looking at it. Their focus was here, in the ring. The mirrored walls reflected two figures circling each other, the dim lighting casting long shadows that slid across the wood and weight racks lining the walls.

  Zedd exhaled through his nose, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He wasn't classically trained. No crisp footwork, no picture-perfect stance. His movements were sharp, unpredictable, tight in some places, too loose in others. Street brawler's instinct. Not built for drawn-out fights, but for fast, vicious endings.

  Dev was taller, broader, stronger—a textbook fighter. Clean stance, measured movements, fists up like a proper boxer. He fought like a guy who had been trained by professionals. Zedd fought like a guy who had gotten his ass kicked a few times and learned to stop letting it happen.

  They circled. Neither spoke.

  Then Dev struck.

  A tight jab, followed by a heavier right hook—standard, controlled, the kind of thing you drilled until it became second nature. Zedd was already moving, weaving under the first, sidestepping the second. Dev adjusted fast, pivoted, threw a cross. Zedd caught it with his forearm, rolled with the impact, came back in sharp.

  His retaliation was messy but effective—a tight, looping hook aimed at Dev's ribs, then an immediate follow-up jab toward his face. Dev barely blocked the first, took the second against his shoulder instead of his jaw.

  "You're quick," Dev muttered, shaking out the impact.

  Zedd grinned, sharp and lopsided. "You're slow."

  Dev huffed, then launched another series of attacks. This time he was pushing harder, faster, forcing Zedd back. But Zedd was slippery—his defense wasn't clean, but it was unpredictable. A twitch of movement, a sudden drop of weight—he was always slightly off where Dev expected him to be.

  Still, Dev was big. He had reach, power. If he got a hit in, it would hurt.

  Zedd was fine with that.

  They exchanged blows, the rhythm tightening, the impacts sharper. Dev managed to clip his ribs, Zedd got a fast shot into his kidney, a sharp cross that nearly took Dev's balance.

  "Where the hell did you learn to fight like this?" Dev asked, breath coming harder now.

  Zedd, shifting his weight, shrugged. "Earth. Not exactly in a gym, though."

  Dev narrowed his eyes, readjusting his stance. "What, back alley brawls?"

  Zedd's smirk didn't fade, but something about it flattened, just a bit. "Something like that."

  Dev didn't miss it.

  He pressed forward, pushing harder now. The shift in aggression was obvious—not reckless, but more intentional. He was testing Zedd now, pressing for an opening, for a reaction.

  And for a second, Zedd let himself slip.

  He saw a gap, an obvious feint, and instead of backing off, he moved into it—not realizing, too late, that Dev had baited him.

  A sharp fist drove into his gut.

  Air left his lungs in a sharp, violent exhale.

  The force of it folded him around Dev's fist, boots barely catching against the mat before he hit the floor.

  His brain stuttered. Not used to being hit like that. Not used to slowing down.

  His body knew what to do before his head caught up—he dropped, planted a hand, used the downward momentum to twist out of range before Dev could land another.

  His stomach burned as he sucked in a breath.

  Dev straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders. "Gotcha."

  Zedd lifted his head, something flickering in his expression. Then he grinned.

  He moved.

  Fast.

  Dev barely had time to register it before Zedd was on him. A sharp feint—right—no, left—then a vicious gut shot. Dev went to guard just a second too late. Zedd followed through with a brutal hook that clipped Dev's jaw.

  Dev staggered.

  Zedd didn't stop.

  A sharp, clean cross sent Dev off his feet, the bigger guy hitting the mat with a grunt.

  Zedd stood over him, breathing hard, eyes sharp, grin still there.

  Dev let out a breath, pressing a hand against his ribs. "Dick."

  "That's what you get for dropping your guard." Zedd exhaled, stepping back, shaking out his arms. "Gotta stay sharp, Dev."

  Dev just stared at him, still half-winded.

  Zedd didn't say anything else.

  Instead, he stepped out of the ring, rolling his shoulders loose as AY-E floated over to meet him, a towel extending from the drone's mechanical arm.

  He took it, wiping the sweat from his face. "Thank you, girl," he muttered quietly.

  AY-E let out a soft whirr before humming away, the drone clearly enjoying the kinesis module upgrade he had given it. As much as a drone could enjoy anything…

  Dev sat up, watching him. "Where you going?"

  Zedd tossed the towel over his shoulder, smirk sliding back into place. "I got a date with my ridiculously hot girlfriend."

  He left without another word.

  The gym was silent except for the low hum of cooling fans and the sound of Dev's slow, steady breathing.

  He let himself fall back against the mat, staring at the ceiling.

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –?

  New Abraham had changed.

  Zedd felt it before he even clocked the specifics—before he caught the heat pressing up from the pavement, the close-packed streets, the shift in air pressure that came with too many bodies moving at once. The city had always been dense, built tight, industrial-grade, but this was something else. Bigger. Busier.

  The skyline stretched wider, a few new megastructures cutting against the low clouds, construction drones still working overtime. Arkadia IV's capital wasn't just recovering—it was growing. Fast. Too fast.

  And it wasn't just the size.

  He felt the weight of it in the crowd. The way movement slowed when they passed, the way heads turned just a little too fast, the way voices dipped or cut off entirely. The way kids darted past on V-Glides, for one.

  It wasn't overt. No one was running up to him, no one was pulling out a gun, no one was acting like they gave a shit about one guy in the middle of a thousand others. But it was there.

  The awareness.

  Hands in his jacket pockets, he kept his head down, aviator's blue lenses shielding his eyes, but it didn't matter. People still saw.

  Whispers moved through the crowd, threading under the hum of traffic, the shout of vendors pushing foodstuffs, the constant electronic buzz of holo-ads shifting mid-cycle.

  "That's him—"

  "Bullshit—"

  "Swear to God, I saw it, took out a whole squad alone—"

  "—covered in blood—"

  He forced his shoulders to stay loose. It wasn't a problem. Not yet. Just noise, just background interference, just another part of the city breathing around him.

  But the shopkeeper at the nearest stall hesitated when she saw him. Just for a second. Like she wasn't sure if she should thank him or move the fuck out of the way. And that—that was new.

  A kid in a battered windbreaker, maybe sixteen, made a move toward him, half a step forward before his friend grabbed his arm, muttered something low. The kid hesitated. Thought about it.

  Then backed off.

  Most of them didn't approach. The ones who did—bolder, maybe, or just dumber—never got close enough to actually say anything. Just stopped short, eyes flicking between him and the weapon on his hip, like they weren't sure if they should ask for a handshake or a fucking warning.

  "Could at least pretend to have fun," Nina said, voice light, hip bumping his just enough to make him notice.

  Zedd exhaled slow through his nose, taking another bag from her arms and trying not to roll his eyes at her antics. "I'm here, aren't I?"

  "Physically," she said, adjusting the weight of the one remaining bag in her arms. "Mentally? You're about five seconds from bolting."

  She wasn't wrong.

  A man moved too close—just a brief brush of fabric, a muttered word under his breath. Zedd didn't catch it, but he caught the tone. Not friendly. His fingers curled against the inside of his pocket.

  She must've noticed the way his steps shortened, the way his jaw went tight.

  Nina nudged him again, shoulder pressing against his. "Relax," she murmured, voice lower now as she spoke only to him. "You're just a guy shopping with his ridiculously hot girlfriend. Nothing suspicious about that."

  Zedd let out a short, sharp exhale. Almost a laugh. Almost.

  His fingers twitched against his palm, nails biting into skin as the air shifted—not a breeze, not a temperature drop, just a difference, a wrongness in the rhythm of the street. The noise twisted, tangled, conversation bleeding into something else, something not quite aimed at him but aware of him.

  Then he saw the first poster.

  And then the second.

  And then the whole fucking wall.

  He stopped walking. Not because he meant to, but because his body did it for him.

  His own face, staring back at him, larger than life, inked across a storefront like some goddamn vidcomic hero. The artist had taken liberties. He stood atop a hill of corpses, Batarian bodies stacked high, a towering silhouette against a battlefield burned to hell. Armor he didn't recognize. A gatling gun strapped to his back, the barrels gleaming like something ripped straight out of a bad action vid. The fuck? When did I make a gatling?

  He barely registered Nina stepping up beside him until she whistled low, tilting her head. "Damn. They really got your good side."

  He didn't answer. His jaw had locked up somewhere between what the fuck and I hate everything. His gaze dragged across the rest of the designs, and—oh. Oh, it got worse.

  Dozens of them.

  Some were stylized, thick ink lines, glowing blue eyes he absolutely did not have, dramatic blood splatter like he'd walked straight out of a warzone. Others were propaganda, heavy shadows and stoic military framing, recruitment-ad bullshit.

  And then there was the name.

  Victory.

  Not even his name. Just Victory. Like he was a goddamn brand.

  A kid ran past, barely ten, waving a toy gun in the air. "Take that, Batarian scum!"

  Zedd's stomach twisted. The kid jerked his arm back, mouth making pew pew noises, while his friend doubled over laughing. They sprinted toward a nearby stall.

  Zedd turned his head. You're joking, right?

  And stared. Unfortunately, this was not in the slightest a joke. Despite it all though, he still felt like laughing as he continued to stare.

  The Victory Series Superhero Zedd figures stared back.

  His name. His logo. Superhero?

  The packaging looked official, the clean-cut branding, the sharp metallic font.

  But the figures? Fucking awful.

  Cheap, rushed omni-forging, bad paint jobs, classic mass-production garbage. Some had him holding a shotgun, some a rifle, some a fucking sword. Some wore actual clothes he owned—his jacket, his boots—others were full-on war gear, tactical shit that looked pulled straight out of a military wet dream.

  One of them had him in sleek black armor with glowing red eyes.

  He had to blink at that one.

  For too long.

  The shopkeeper, a thin, exhausted-looking guy pushing forty, had been watching them since they stopped. His expression flickered between guilty and vaguely terrified.

  Zedd exhaled slow, fingers drumming once against his thigh before he turned fully to face the guy. "Huh."

  The shopkeeper tensed.

  "How much you make a day from this, man?"

  The question hit like a hammer. The guy flinched. Mouth opened, then closed. His hands twitched. Sweat slicked his forehead. "I—I…"

  Zedd tilted his head slightly. Just watching.

  The silence stretched.

  The guy swallowed hard.

  Zedd shook his head. "Let's make a deal." He tapped one of the boxes lightly. "Send me your extranet address. Fifty percent of what you make off these goes directly to me, and I don't sue your ass."

  The guy went pale.

  Zedd didn't blink.

  Nina's hand curled around his arm, tugging him back before he escalated. "C'mon, Zee. Not worth it."

  For a second, he thought about it. About pressing harder, pushing the tension just to see where it cracked.

  But he didn't.

  He let her pull him, though she felt the way his muscles were drawn tight beneath her grip. His pulse hammering through his skin.

  They made it a few steps before Zedd, without looking back, muttered, "ADAM, find his extranet address. Send him a reminder."

  ADAM's voice came smooth as ever: "Understood, boss."

  Nina rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

  Zedd adjusted his aviators, voice flat. "Yeah, well. I get it from the action figures."

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –?

  The market noise blurred into static.

  Zedd barely felt it when Nina pulled him forward, away from another stand filled with shitty knockoff action figures even as he kept on mean-mugging every single shopkeep he saw selling them.

  Away from the posters, away from the coiling tension still wound tight in his ribs. His body moved, but his brain wasn't keeping up. His face on mass-produced plastic. His name slapped onto a legend he never agreed to. A story written around him like he was some kind of larger-than-life war hero instead of a guy who just didn't die when he was supposed to.

  The press of bodies thickened. Conversations overlapped. Too many people, too many eyes, too many mouths whispering half-truths about him as he walked past.

  Then a voice cut through it.

  "Victory?"

  Zedd stopped and blinked.

  He didn't register the kid at first. He had to look down, before he even noticed him.

  Too small, too quiet, barely moving in the current of foot traffic. People streamed past him, almost stepping on him, but the boy didn't budge—feet planted, arms stiff, dark eyes locked on Zedd like he'd just seen a ghost.

  Zedd blinked.

  The kid was… tiny. Six, maybe seven. All sharp edges, scrawny frame, the way kids got when they were still growing into their limbs. He wasn't grinning. Wasn't holding a figure or a poster or whatever other bullshit they'd printed Zedd's face on. Just stood there, watching. Silent.

  Nina slowed next to him. "Zee?"

  Zedd barely heard her.

  The kid's fingers curled tighter around something, knuckles going white. He lifted it.

  A cheap toy gun.

  Not like he was aiming it. Not like he was playing. Just holding it. Offering it.

  Zedd stared down.

  His first instinct was that the kid wanted him to sign it. That was a thing, right? Kids got action figures, wanted autographs. But this didn't feel like that.

  "What's this for?" Zedd asked, voice low. "For me?"

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

  The kid hesitated, glancing toward the crowd.

  Zedd followed his gaze.

  A woman stood a few steps back. Not watching like a bystander. Not pushing the kid forward either. Just… waiting. Her face unreadable. Something cautious. Something fragile.

  Something familiar.

  Zedd felt something spark in his brain.

  The boy turned back to him. His voice barely more than a whisper.

  "You saved my mama."

  Zedd's brain shorted out. The words didn't make sense at first. Like he'd misheard them. Like his head refused to process them.

  Then the memory hit like a rifle butt to the ribs.

  Gunfire. Smoke. Screams. Blood, burnt metal, bodies hitting the ground. A woman falling to the floor seconds after he split an armored raider in half as he laughed at the top of his lungs.

  He hadn't been thinking about saving people that night. He'd just been moving. Cutting through the chaos, shoving back the tide, making space, screaming at civilians to get the fuck out of the way. He barely remembered faces. He barely remembered anything but the fight.

  Huh.

  The kid raised the toy again, small hands steady.

  Zedd exhaled sharply, suddenly aware that he hadn't spoken in a full minute. Maybe longer.

  He reached forward, slowly and carefully.

  After what felt like an hour, his fingers closed around the plastic, the cheap thing too light in his palm, badly-made and hollow in a way that felt wrong.

  For a second, he just held it.

  Then he forced a smirk, like the whole situation wasn't digging into his ribs like a knife. "That's just what superheroes do, little man."

  The kid's mother stepped forward, resting a light hand on his shoulder. She didn't meet Zedd's eyes at first. Just held her son steady, like anchoring him, like making sure this was real before she acknowledged it. And then, finally, her gaze lifted. Not reverent. Not fearful.

  Just... tired.

  "Thank you," she said, voice steady.

  Zedd swallowed. His throat felt like it was locking up, like something had wedged itself in there sideways and refused to move. He looked down at the gun still in his hand, plastic and weightless, catching the market lights in a dull reflection. Too clean. Too smooth. A cheap toy meant to be played with, held like a game.

  His fingers twitched, tightening slightly before he forced them to ease. Slowly, he lowered it back down toward the kid. The boy took it carefully, like it was something delicate, something that had to be handled the right way. Not the way he'd been playing with it before.

  The mother squeezed his shoulder, turned him gently back toward the shifting crowd, and together, they disappeared into it.

  Zedd stayed frozen.

  His breath sat too high in his chest, his ribs too tight around it. His jaw locked. He was still looking at the space where they'd been, at nothing, at everything, at some part of the past that had just kicked its way back into the present and refused to let go.

  Nina had been quiet. Watching. Letting the whole thing settle without pushing it. But now she stepped in closer, shoulder brushing his. "Zee?"

  He didn't respond, unsure how to without sounding like a jackass with a forced deflecting joke on his lips.

  She exhaled through her nose, tilting her head, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly, like something short-circuiting just under the skin. "Yeah. Okay. Thought so."

  She hooked her fingers into the sleeve of his jacket and tugged, just enough to break whatever locked muscles were keeping him in place. "Let's go," she murmured. "C'mon, Zee."

  His feet moved before his brain did.

  The crowd swallowed the kid and his mother.

  Zedd kept walking.

  The streets of New Abraham stretched out in front of them, a blur of artificial glow and shifting bodies, but none of it fully registered. His brain was still snagged, like a wire catching on a sharp edge, refusing to let the last five minutes fade into noise. The toy gun. The way the kid's voice sounded when he said those words. You saved my mama.

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –?

  They were nearly out of the busiest part of the market when someone stepped directly into their path. Zedd's body reacted before his brain even processed the obstacle, shifting, moving to go around without breaking pace.

  "Mr. Victors, a moment of your time?"

  The voice landed like a brick against his skull, sharp and intrusive. The kind of tone that belonged to someone who wasn't used to being ignored. Someone who didn't expect to be walked past.

  Zedd's steps hitched. Just slightly.

  Then he looked back.

  Corporate suit.

  Figures.

  "Not interested," Zedd said, already walking.

  Didn't look. Didn't break pace. Didn't need to.

  The guy stuck to his side, smooth as anything. A step behind, not in front—non-confrontational. Practiced. Knew better than to try blocking his path, at least. That was something.

  Zedd sighed through his nose, barely audible under the noise of the market.

  "I think you will be," the man said, voice calm, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

  Zedd didn't answer.

  Elanus. Had to be. Or some other corpo trying to sink its claws into Victory Innovations before it got too big to strong-arm. Human, so probably not a Citadel rep. Corporate suit, too polished for any of the scrappy local investors.

  He'd seen their type before.

  Seen how they swarmed once something got too useful to ignore.

  Zedd adjusted his aviators. "I don't do leash work."

  The man didn't blink. "Everyone's got a price, Victors."

  And there it was. The switch. The shift from persuasion to pressure, like it was all the same script and they were just flipping to the next page. The confidence in it. The certainty.

  Zedd stopped.

  Turned his head, slow, measured. Looked at the guy over his shades this time.

  "Everyone except me, apparently."

  A flicker. Just a small one. A misstep in the rhythm.

  Zedd felt the guy recalibrating, picking his next move. Thinking about whether to push harder.

  Then the suit exhaled, smoothed his cuffs, and stepped back, disappearing into the crowd like a bad idea someone almost followed through on.

  Zedd barely had a second to process before Nina's fingers curled around his wrist, tugging him forward again.

  "You handled that well," she muttered, dry.

  "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm a social genius."

  Nina snorted.

  They ducked into a boutique—one of those upscale places Nina claimed she was just browsing at, before inevitably leaving with half the store. Zedd followed her in but stopped near the entrance, dropping into one of the waiting seats.

  One second. Just one second. Let his brain catch up to the last five minutes. The toy gun. The kid. The corporate shark.

  And then—

  Someone else sat down across from him.

  Zedd turned his head.

  Different guy. Older. Suit, but not corporate. Military.

  Earth Alliance.

  He clocked the badge, the official posture, the quiet way the guy took up space. Not selling something. Not asking. Here to tell him something.

  Zedd's jaw tightened.

  The rep smiled, easy. "Relax. I'm not here to sell you anything."

  Zedd arched a brow. "Yeah, you are," he muttered. "It's just not as obvious."

  The rep didn't blink. "We've been watching you."

  "That supposed to scare me?"

  The man leaned back slightly, like they were just talking. Like there wasn't already an angle being worked. "Not at all. I just mean—we've been watching your growth. Your company. Your… talents."

  Zedd exhaled slowly through his nose.

  Smiled.

  Small, sharp, not even remotely real.

  "Shouldn't you be under a Turian's desk right now with your mouth full?"

  The rep's jaw twitched.

  Not a full flinch. But close.

  Then—he chuckled. Like it was funny. Like it was beneath him to react. "That's a bold thing to say, Victors."

  "Yeah, well. I'm a bold guy."

  The rep hesitated. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make Zedd's teeth press together, tension winding up his spine like a coil being pulled too tight.

  "You keep saying no to the wrong people, Victors."

  His fingers twitched, just a fraction, but he caught himself before it became anything noticeable. Kept his hands in his pockets, kept his face neutral, but his pulse had already picked up—too fast for the easy smirk he wore.

  "Funny how I'm still breathing."

  The rep held his gaze, that slick corporate smile still in place, the kind that was practiced, perfected—made to look natural even when it wasn't.

  "At least, for now."

  Zedd's fingers curled tighter in his pockets.

  "Excuse me?"

  The rep tilted his head slightly, like he was studying something, like he was already two steps ahead of where this conversation was about to go.

  "You've come a long way from back alley brawls, Victors."

  Something cold slid through Zedd's chest.

  That was deliberate. That was a hit to the ribs, just subtle enough to not be an outright strike. The kind of thing you said when you knew more than you should, when you were testing the waters, waiting to see just how deep you could go before something snapped.

  His brain locked up for a second. And then—like a wave crashing over a seawall, memories poured in, memories that weren't his, combat sequences and raw instincts that had no business being inside his head, muscle memory that shouldn't exist in a body that never trained for it. A ripple of knowledge that he'd never learned, that he'd never lived.

  Fucking hell.

  He kept his face neutral. Locked it down.

  "Gotta start somewhere," he said, slow and easy, like he wasn't already mapping out the fastest way to shove his thumbs into his sockets and pop out his eyeballs.

  The rep's smile didn't move.

  "Some people don't get to start over."

  That one landed.

  Zedd's jaw locked, breath coming a little sharper through his nose. His fingers flexed, and he had to force his shoulders to stay loose, force himself not to show anything. But the words sat wrong—sat heavy.

  He was about to open his mouth. To say something reckless, something stupid, something that might land them in another situation he wasn't in the mood to deal with-

  And then Nina was there.

  Her arm slid through his, smooth, practiced, easy, like she'd already seen this play out a hundred times and knew exactly when to step in. She tugged lightly, her grip warm but firm.

  "Zee," she murmured, low, a warning. "Babe, please, no… This is our day out."

  Zedd exhaled through his teeth, slow, sharp, steadying.

  Didn't look back as he let her pull him forward.

  Didn't let himself turn. Didn't let himself react.

  But his hands stayed in his pockets, curled too tight into fists.

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –?

  The city churned. Noise layered over itself—too many voices, too many footsteps, too much metal and neon and heat pressing into him from all sides. The glow of storefronts stretched out across the pavement, flickering, shifting with movement, everything too sharp and too blurred at the same time.

  Zedd sat on the bench, legs stretched out, weight sunk back, but it didn't do shit. His body was still coiled, still wired, still running like it hadn't gotten the memo that he was supposed to be sitting still. His pulse wasn't fast. Just present. A steady, constant thing in his jaw, his fingers, his ribs. Too much had stacked wrong tonight. Every time he tried to file something away, something else got thrown on top.

  Dev. The posters. The fucking toys. The kid. The suit. The other suit.

  His head wasn't catching up. His thoughts were colliding, folding over each other, trying to process five things at once and failing spectacularly.

  Next to him, Nina was quiet.

  That wasn't normal.

  She wasn't the type to sit in silence and let him think himself into a wall. Usually, she'd be prodding him by now, pushing at his mood, trying to bait him into some kind of reaction. But she was just there, one foot tapping against the ground, fingers curling and uncurling against the hem of her sleeve.

  She bumped his arm. "You good?"

  Zedd let out a slow breath. "I hate people."

  Nina huffed a soft laugh. "Not all of them."

  "Yeah…" he smiled back at her. "Not all of them."

  She leaned over on his shoulder, and clutched his arm like a lifeline, her warmth melding into his.

  "Thank you."

  She blinked up at him, confusion in her hazel eyes. "Huh? For what?"

  Zedd rolled his eyes. He knew he wasn't easy to deal with. He got caught up. Forgot to eat, forgot to sleep, forgot that other people existed outside his own head. He wasn't good at balance. But Nina had never let him disappear completely. Hell, neither did Kira, or Dev, or even Adele, as quiet as she was.

  "Thank you… for getting me out of my lab," he let out a breath and stared back at her, a small smile on his face. "I know I get… fixated on my stuff a lot. And I appreciate… you still sticking with me on it."

  Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. "Yeah, someone has to make you eat, you know." She shook her head. "Sides, you… you told me how everything needs your touch. Even the drones can't build it perfectly half the time."

  He let out a low noise. "Right? Half the fucking time. I don't get it. I program every single movement in and month after month, it's barely gone down from forty-seven perc-" He trailed off as she leveled him with a stare, a look that said I've heard this a million times before. "My bad, I was doing it again, huh?"

  "Yeah," she sighed, leaning into his shoulder again, "But I love you for it."

  Zedd could've said something. Could've argued, could've thrown back some snarky response just to push the conversation somewhere else. But his brain wasn't cooperating, wasn't giving him anything sharp or smooth or easy. I'm gonna take you to the fanciest place in this city, I promise.

  Instead, he tipped his head back, eyes tracking the sky. Too much sky. Clouds stretching thin, bleeding neon from the city lights, dimming the stars. For a second, he just sat there.

  "Boss. We have a problem." ADAM's voice cut through the noise, clean, direct.

  Zedd exhaled sharply, pressing his thumb against his knee before activating his omni-tool. The display flared to life, scrolling lines of data, red pulses flickering at the edges. "Boss," ADAM continued, "another attack."

  Zedd's gaze locked on the breach attempt. Not just a scan. Not just some low-tier idiot poking at the edges, sniffing for a weakness.

  This was aggressive. A full-force dig, trying to carve in deep.

  His jaw shifted. Fingers flexing, restless.

  Nina didn't ask. Didn't need to.

  Zedd leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes tracking the flood of numbers.

  "ADAM. Trace it."

  "Already working on it."

  Zedd exhaled, slow, sharp. His lips curled—not a smile. Just something sharp.

  Someone thought they could crawl into his systems.

  Someone was very fucking wrong.