Blaze had wielded Cerberus a few times today—the custom-made automatic shotgun with enough recoil to jolt even the most seasoned user—but tonight was different. After clearing out the last of the Black Daggers from the hideout, the team finally paused to catch their breath. Heitor leaned against the wall, sweat dripping down his face as he tried to calm his racing heart.
“These irons Vomi made… they’re terrifying,” Heitor muttered, his eyes fixed on Chimera, the “slaughter rifle” he’d just nicknamed.
“I’ve got chrome arms, and even I can feel them sore,” Blaze said, rubbing the flesh part of his shoulder. “And I only fired it, what, four times?”
“I’ve had proper training to handle high-power weapons, and even I’m feeling it,” Heitor admitted, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the ache. “Did Vomi really use these during the heist?”
“Beats me,” Thiago spoke up from the back, his sniper rifle slung over his bandolier. “If you’re worried about that, just imagine what this thing can do.” He patted the rifle with a nervous grin.
“We can find out later,” Heitor said, refocusing the group. “Right now, we need to check their cyberspace.” He gestured toward the NetChair, a crucial tool for their plan. “Did any of you grab the laptop from Vomi’s place?”
“Here,” Blaze replied, pulling the device out of his backpack and handing it over.
Before this, they’d crossed paths at another Black Daggers hideout, where Heitor had managed to prevent Blaze from making a reckless move—dragging a barely-recovered Thiago to the front lines. Thankfully, that location had been lightly guarded, but it provided vital clues: cargo shipments were being shuffled between hideouts and storage facilities across San Francisco. Cross-referencing that data with the intel Vomi had collected at her apartment, they’d pieced together enough to make their move.
And of course after an abridged version of Raven's idea and plans to save Vomi.
“There’s no pattern to the attacks,” Thiago said, staring at the laptop’s screen as it displayed recent hits. None of them followed any discernible order. Some were minor disruptions; others, devastating blows.
“She’s just hunting,” Blaze said, his voice grim. “It doesn’t matter if it’s higher-ups or small-time grunts. At this rate, she’s going to take down someone who isn’t even connected to the Daggers.”
“I’m trying to pinpoint any locations nearby that might catch her attention,” Heitor said, scrolling through the map on the laptop. “If I were her, I’d be driven by impulse more than the importance of the targets.”
“So, the plan is to tag her with this,” Thiago said, holding up a syringe that looked almost identical to a standard Bounce Back. Its cylindrical form gleamed ominously under the flickering warehouse lights. “Get it to M-Tech, and then use the serum.”
“So how exactly are we going to pull this off? That’s the damn pickle,” Blaze muttered, the memory of their heated conversation with Graves still stinging.
“We’ve got three potential spots,” Heitor said, pointing to the screen. “A CHOOH2 station, a gym, and a repair shop. The shop’s probably a front for Netrunning ops.”
“Why these places? What’s the connection?” Thiago asked, studying the map. The locations were just a couple of blocks apart, close enough to worry but not enough to make it obvious.
“All three are run by the same person,” Heitor explained, eyes narrowing as he analyzed the data. “If Vomi’s squeezing info out of the Daggers, and I’d bet a month’s pay she is, they’d tell her exactly what we’re seeing.”
“You suck at betting,” Blaze said, raising an eyebrow.
“This time, I doubt I'd be losing,” Heitor replied with a slight smirk.
Thiago’s expression darkened as realization dawned. “So, we’re splitting up, aren’t we?”
“I don’t like it either,” Heitor admitted, “but I don’t think Vomi will attack us.”
“You think? Or are you sure?” Thiago pressed, skepticism clear in his voice.
“One or the other,” Heitor said with a resigned shrug.
“How comforting,” Thiago muttered.
Blaze snapped the laptop shut and shoved it into his backpack. “We need to move before she hits these places. Debating every single minuteness is pointless now.”
“The irony coming from you… wait, when did you start talking like that?” Thiago started, but Heitor cut him off.
“Blaze is right,” Heitor said, urgency sharpening his tone. “If we’re going to save Vomi, we need to act and accept the risk.” He turned to Thiago, eyes serious. “But you—you need to stay out of this.”
“What? Why?” Thiago’s brows knitted in confusion.
“Do you really need reminding?” Heitor’s voice softened, but the meaning cut through like a blade. “Think of your daughter.”
He bit his lip, frustration and worry tangled in his chest. Katie was everything to him—his anchor, his reason to keep pushing forward. Especially now, with just the two of them left as each other's only family. The Refused had shown nothing but warmth, always ready to take her under their wing. But that didn’t mean Thiago could throw himself headfirst into danger without considering her feelings. To Katie, Vomi might very well be the reason behind all their current chaos. And yet, it was Thiago who brought Vomi into their lives. If he hadn’t met her in that bar, if he hadn’t been drawn to her, hadn’t shared that bond over music that connected them all…
A heavy sigh escaped him. “I know. But… it’s more than just saving a friend.”
Heitor’s eyes narrowed, catching the deliberate choice of words. Not “choom,” but “friend.” How close had Vomi really become to him? The ride with the Barkers hinted at a deeper connection, but how deep could it be?
“Thiago, are you and Vomi…?” Blaze ventured.
“In love? No.” Thiago shook his head, a mix of conflict and longing on his face. “It’s… she means more to me than I can put into words.”
Heitor and Blaze exchanged a glance. This side of Thiago—open, vulnerable—was one they’d rarely, if ever, seen. He was the joker, the quiet guy who would throw out a lame pun now and then, the one with a modest job and a daughter who lit up every room she entered. He was also the man who had lost his wife not long ago, a wound that had never truly healed. They knew that grief had changed him, subtly but unmistakably. He still cracked jokes and had honed his skills with their music edits, but there was something missing—an intangible shift that everyone felt but couldn’t quite describe.
They had seen him drift off mid-conversation, eyes fixed on a distance only he could see. The moments he stopped listening, or worse, called out for someone who wasn’t there. It was as if he had never moved past the first stage of grief, refusing even to acknowledge his loss fully. But when Vomi entered their lives, something had started to change. There was a spark in him, subtle but unmistakable. He seemed more alive, more present. When Vomi wrote “Devil Trigger,” he’d been ecstatic, playing it on loop until Katie joined in, the two of them sharing that rare burst of joy.
“Even so, I can’t let it happen. I won’t stand by and respect whatever fate befalls you from sheer recklessness,” Heitor said firmly, his voice calm but unyielding. “I couldn’t face Katie if I knew I led her father to his death.”
“And like I said,” Blaze cocked the shotgun, momentarily ignoring its raw power, “I’ll knock you out cold if I have to.”
“No arguing with that, huh?” Thiago asked, a sad chuckle escaping him.
“Not a chance.”
“One thing you can do is stay with your daughter. She’s worried sick already, so be there for her,” Heitor said, taking the sniper rifle from Thiago’s hands. “If you’re so torn, send Carmine to the third location. You need rest, some common sense, and a stiff drink.”
“I’ve never heard something I agree with that insults me so deeply,” Thiago deadpanned, though a small smile touched his lips. “Thanks. Really. Where are the others?”
“Probably at the PD,” Blaze said, eyeing the parked Black Daggers van in the garage. “We’ll handle our end. You make sure to handle yours.”
Blaze offered his chrome arm for a handshake.
Thiago took it firmly. “You better bring Vomi back.”
“We will.” Blaze nodded. “We’ll take the van. You take the car. Make sure to send Carmine the details once you’re in position. Take this,” Heitor said, handing Thiago a device.
“A smartphone?” Thiago raised an eyebrow as he accepted the outdated gadget.
“Harder to trace. Safe for calls,” Heitor explained, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Don’t do anything stupid, you hear?”
“Promise.”
The van roared to life, tires screeching as it sped out of the garage with Blaze barely in before it took off. Thiago glanced down at the phone, its physical buttons foreign in an era dominated by agents. The contact list was sparse: members of The Refused, a few key allies, and one ominously labeled “In case everything goes to shit.” He bypassed that one quickly, knowing it held decisions best left untouched. Vomi’s name was there too, but the last call indicated she wouldn’t answer.
Spotting Raven’s number, he dialed as he started the car.
“Heitor? Using the phone, huh? Never thought we’d need this secure line,” Raven’s voice came through, tinged with bitter anger—her usual tone lately.
Can’t blame her.
“It’s Thiago,” he said, taking a sharp turn. “Which PD are you at?”
“Thiago? Heitor gave you the phone, didn’t he?” she said, a hint of realization creeping in. “We’re at the downtown station. Is everything alright?”
“If only,” Thiago muttered before turning serious. “They told me to stay out, to be with Katie. So I’m sending Carmine in my place.”
“Why didn’t you think of that sooner?” Raven snapped.
Thiago winced, though she couldn’t see it. “It’s complicated. More than I’m willing to explain. But they’re right. I can’t leave my daughter alone. But Vomi needs every bit of help we can muster.”
“Yeah, Thiago, I know,” Raven said, irritation giving way to exhaustion. “Stop reminding me what she is. I saw the monster.”
“Is Carmine there?” he asked, shifting the topic.
Raven’s sigh was audible. “Yeah. Send the details. I’ll get him moving. Just forward whatever you found at the Daggers’ hideout.”
“On it. One sec.”
Slowing the car, Thiago texted the data to Raven’s agent. It would have to be enough to get Carmine moving before Vomi showed up.
“Huh, one of these spots is near us,” Raven said, scanning the files. “Damn it, Vomi’s already taken what, ten places in a few hours?”
“More than twenty,” Thiago said grimly. “And the count’s climbing.”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Wish the same for my bank account,” Raven muttered. “Alright. I’ll let Carmine know.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
“Yeah. C-YA.”
----------------------------------------
San Francisco Police Department
Katie Keithwork
“These rampages are getting out of hand,” a cop muttered, dropping another file about a “violent shootout” onto his cluttered desk.
“We already had our hands full with understaffing, and now this shows up to make things worse,” grumbled the supervisor as he scanned a report. He shot a disdainful look at the group waiting nearby. “And now we have to babysit these deadweights.”
Katie bristled at the insult, but she knew better than to complain—adults had a habit of yelling when she spoke up. Almost every adult was an asshole, especially toward her and her dad’s chooms. She didn’t understand why they acted so bitter, so cruel. Did becoming an adult automatically make you like that? If so, she wanted no part of it.
She shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, trying not to fidget as the others waited around her. At some point, Raven had said Thiago was on his way, and Carmine had left to help Blaze and Heitor with something. Katie couldn’t help but wonder: Why did they have to put themselves in danger? Couldn’t the cops just handle it? It was a corpo problem—shouldn’t the corporations deal with their own mess?
But the thought of her dad coming soon gave her a tiny sense of comfort. Just the idea of seeing him again eased her breathing a little, though not enough to calm the storm in her chest.
The questions kept swirling in her head, relentless and confusing. Everyone around her was scared, even if they tried to hide it. They avoided explaining what had really happened, but Katie knew. She had seen it. A woman transforming into a monster. No one could convince her otherwise. That horrifying image had etched itself so deeply in her mind that she hadn’t been able to shake the anxiety since leaving the rehearsal warehouse.
And now Carmine had been attacked on the way to Cinthia’s house. Couldn’t the same happen to Dad? What if he’s being attacked right now? What if he doesn’t make it here safely? What if—
“Katie?”
Nieme’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, but it didn’t register at first.
“Katie!” Nieme was up now, panic in his voice. “Hey, she’s having a panic attack!”
“What?!” Raven exclaimed, turning toward Katie. She noticed the child’s shallow, silent hyperventilation and immediately crouched down in front of her. “Hey, calm down. We’re here,” she said, trying to sound gentle.
But her tone, more rushed than soothing, felt almost like scolding. It only made things worse. Katie’s breathing quickened as her chest tightened further, the fear clawing its way back in with even greater force.
Raven froze, unsure what to do as Katie’s breathing grew more erratic. “Nieme, what do we—”
“I’ve got it,” Cinthia interrupted, her voice steady despite the rising tension. She knelt beside Katie, her hands hovering for a moment before gently resting on the girl’s shoulders. “Katie, look at me,” she said softly but firmly. “You’re safe. Thiago’s coming, okay? You’re not alone.”
Katie’s eyes darted toward Cinthia, wide and glossy with tears. She was trembling, her small body overwhelmed by the storm of fear inside her.
“Breathe with me, alright?” Cinthia continued, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. “In... and out. Like this.” She exaggerated the breaths, making them steady and loud enough for Katie to hear.
For a moment, it felt like nothing would work. But then Katie’s breaths began to sync with Cinthia's, faltering at first but slowly finding rhythm.
“Good,” Cinthia encouraged, her voice calm. “Keep going, just like that.”
Raven, still crouched nearby, watched anxiously. She felt utterly helpless. “I didn’t mean to scare her...”
“You didn’t,” Nieme assured her, arms crossed. “She’s just overwhelmed.”
Katie’s breathing finally began to stabilize. The tension in her chest eased, though her hands still trembled as she gripped the edge of her chair. She sniffled, wiping her face with her sleeve.
“Better?” Cinthia asked gently.
Katie nodded hesitantly. “Y-Yeah... I think so.”
“Good. That's my ginger girl.” Cinthia smiled softly and gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before sitting back.
Raven let out a shaky breath, running a hand through her hair. “Kid, you scared the shit out of me.”
Katie didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the floor. “...Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No, no,” Raven said quickly, leaning closer. “I didn’t mean it like that. You don’t have to be sorry. We’ve just... been through a lot, and I know it’s scary. But you’re tough, kid. Tougher than I’d be at your age.”
Katie looked up, her eyes still glassy. “You think so?”
“Oh, definitely,” Raven said, offering a small grin, “Like, I cried because someone took my crayons. I was helpless like that.”
“But crayons are… preem.”, Katie said through a hiccup.
“I know.”, Raven said, petting her head, “I know.”
The moment was interrupted by the sound of the precinct doors creaking open. Katie’s head snapped toward the noise, her heart skipping a beat as she saw Thiago walking in. Relief washed over her like a wave, and before she knew it, she was on her feet, running to him.
“Dad!”
Thiago crouched just in time to catch her as she threw herself into his arms. “Hey there,” he said softly, holding her tightly. “I’m here. It’s alright.”
For the first time that day, Katie let herself cry. The quiet sobs were enough to twist Thiago’s heart in ways he hadn’t thought possible. For a fleeting moment, guilt consumed him—a dark thought flashed through his mind, blaming himself for leaving her alone, even briefly. The idea of her ever having to fend for herself was unbearable.
Frank appeared in the doorway, his hands resting on his hips. “How touching.”
“Don’t start, Frank,” Nieme growled immediately, his tone sharp. “Not now.”
“I wasn’t starting anything,” Frank replied with a sigh. He looked toward Thiago and Katie, the slightest hint of softness in his usually stoic expression. “It’s just… I’ve seen so many people bottle up their emotions until they break. Seeing someone let go like that—it’s not pretty, but it’s real. We go through so much that I forget we all started out the same way: fragile, curious, and innocent.” He paused, his voice softer than usual. “It is touching.”
Nieme let out a bitter laugh. “Sure, Frank. Like your job leaves room for feelings.”
Frank didn’t respond. Instead, they both turned their attention to Thiago and Katie, still locked in a tight embrace. It was as if the rest of the room had faded away. Neither of them seemed in a hurry to let go, as though holding on could shield them from the world outside.
Nearby, Raven and Cinthia talked quietly, their words too soft to catch. Raven gave a grateful nod to Cinthia, clearly thanking her for helping calm Katie earlier.
Nieme and Frank stood in silence, the moment stretching out. For once, there wasn’t tension in their quiet, just a mutual understanding neither would admit.
Finally, Frank broke the silence, resting a hand on Nieme’s shoulder. “Can we talk?”
Nieme glanced at him, his expression flat. “About what?”
Frank gestured vaguely at his uniform, then around the police station. “About this. About why I did it. You never gave me a chance to explain.”
Nieme’s eyes narrowed, a sharp edge returning to his voice. “Oh, you mean how you joined the people who killed Mom?” She gave a mock gasp, dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, Frank, I’m all ears for that.”
“Please, Nieme,” he said quietly, the hand tightening slightly on his shoulder. “Just listen.”
He shrugged off his hand, crossing his arms. “Not like I have anywhere else to go,” he muttered, his voice bitter. “Thanks to the Black Daggers hunting us down.”
With a resigned sigh, Nieme dropped into a nearby chair, the office chair’s wheels rolling slightly with the force. He leaned back, his expression guarded but resigned.
Frank exhaled slowly, suppressing the frown threatening to form on his face. He had no idea if he'd actually listen this time, but it was the only chance he had.
“This place isn’t exactly known for its decency or competence. Never has been,” Frank began, his tone flat as he laid out the grim reality. “And with the government slashing funds, things have only gotten worse. The old motto, ‘Serve and Protect,’ died long before I thought of joining the force. The people here? They’re in it for all kinds of reasons—punishment, bitterness, or just a way to bend the law to their advantage. None of their motivations are noble. But they’re not purely evil, either.”
Nieme’s response was as hollow as his expression. “I noticed.”
Frank frowned but pushed forward. “Even with all of that, these people still do their jobs. Badly, maybe, but they do them. They still protect those who need protecting.” His voice was unflinching, devoid of sugarcoating. “It doesn’t matter who’s funding the department. People need help, and we’re the ones who show up.”
“Cut the ‘we’ shit.” Nieme’s voice sharpened, his patience already threadbare. “I hate the corpos for what they’ve done. For what you did. So why, Frank? Why’d you make that choice?”
Frank’s jaw tightened, and his reply came cold and clipped. “It was that, or let our lives become hell.” He wasn’t speaking to her anymore. His words were aimed at the phantom of his own guilt. “Do you think I’ll ever forget the sight of you, holding her lifeless body in your little arms? Do you know what went through my head in that moment?”
Nieme’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“I felt worthless. Angry. Powerless.” His voice cracked slightly, though the bitterness remained raw. “All I could do was stand there, nodding like a gonk to the cop who’d sworn an oath to protect us—and failed. Failed her.”
Each word dripped with unfiltered venom, the kind of bitterness that made even Nieme hesitate. For the first time, she saw something in Frank she hadn’t expected: vulnerability.
He took a long, shaky breath before continuing. “No kid should have to see their parent die, let alone because of someone else’s incompetence. So I did what I thought I had to do. I grabbed a piece of iron, went to the nearest Netrunner, and made sure the bastards responsible paid.” He glanced at his desk, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a bottle of unmarked pills. “That day, I did something reckless—something that could’ve put a target on all our backs. And afterward, I was given a choice. A deal to make it all disappear.”
“You were coerced?” Nieme asked, her voice quieter now, almost cautious.
“Blackmailed,” he corrected, swallowing the pills dry. “If I refused, they’d take you. Ship you off to an orphanage—or worse, foster care. And we both know how much corpos love recruiting from foster care.”
Nieme’s breath hitched, though she quickly masked it with a scoff. “So you sold out. That’s your excuse?”
Frank didn’t respond right away. He closed the drawer with a deliberate motion, then leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on a distant point. “I’m not offering this as an excuse,” he said finally, his voice heavy. “It was my mistake. My choice. And I’ll carry it with me for the rest of my life. But if I could go back to that same day, if I had the chance to do it all over again...” He exhaled sharply, his tone resolute. “I’d make the same choice.”
Nieme’s eyes widened briefly, disbelief flickering across her face. “Everything?”
“Better the devil you know than the one you don’t,” Frank replied, his voice weary. “Listen, I hate the corpos as much as you do. Maybe more. I’m not asking for your forgiveness—I never have. I just want you to understand what really happened.”
Nieme hesitated, his voice softer this time. “And the files I found? Do they have anything to do with you?”
Frank let out a bitter laugh, his eyes shifting to the ceiling as if looking at the floor would make him sick. “Money laundering and fake identities? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. What I’ve done—what I still have to do—to keep things from spiraling into something worse... that’s going to the grave with me.”
“I don’t know what to make of this,” Nieme admitted, his voice laced with conflict, as if he was teetering between anger and reluctant understanding.
It didn’t mean he loved his father—not by a long shot. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate him, either. What guarantee did Nieme have that he wouldn’t have made the same choices if he’d been in Frank’s position? Hell, he might have already gone down a similar path if not for The Refused.
The band had become his outlet, a way to channel his anger and frustration into music instead of something destructive. But if he hadn’t found them, if he hadn’t been given that outlet... what might have happened? Would he have taken matters into his own hands? Would he have been flatlined in some back alley, forgotten before anyone could figure out why?
Not knowing the full picture would’ve been easier, in a way—cleaner. But now that he did, he couldn’t decide if it was better or worse. At least he had clarity, even if it came with the weight of understanding.
“That’s fine,” Frank said, holding out a can of soda. “I don’t get most of what happens either.”
Nieme hesitated before taking the can, popping it open but not drinking just yet. “I…”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, the words awkward but sincere. “For not listening. For not… caring.”
Frank let out a quiet chuckle, more from surprise than anything, and shrugged. “Son, I kept you in the dark for fifteen years, and I just admitted I’d do it all over again if I had to. You don’t owe me an apology, and you sure as hell don’t owe me forgiveness.”
“Right,” Nieme muttered before taking a sip of the soda.
“Although,” Frank added, his tone softening as he turned to look at his son, “I owe you an apology. You’re a lot more mature than I gave you credit for. To go through all this for your friend, your choom… that takes real courage.”
“I’m not who I used to be, just like you’re not who you used to be,” Nieme replied with a sigh. “I guess I was just too stubborn to see it.”
“Nah, forget it,” Frank said, waving a dismissive hand. “We can complain about the past all we want, but the future? That’s on us to build.”
Nieme smirked faintly, a small but knowing expression, and gave a slow nod. “I’m willing to try.”
“Try what?”
“Rebuild our family,” Nieme said, his gaze drifting to Thiago and Katie. They had both fallen asleep on the couch—Thiago from his injuries, Katie from sheer exhaustion.
Raven quietly draped a blanket over the two, a tender gesture that made the scene feel strangely peaceful.
Frank followed Nieme’s gaze, watching the quiet moment unfold. His son’s silence spoke volumes. “We’ll see,” Frank said softly.
Nieme didn’t respond, but the weight of his determination lingered in the air. He sipped his soda, his eyes fixed on his friends—his family. Thiago’s arm was draped protectively over Katie even in his sleep, as if shielding her from whatever nightmares the world might throw her way. Raven adjusted the blanket again, ensuring neither of them would feel the chill.
Frank leaned back in his chair, watching his son silently. “You know,” he began, breaking the moment of quiet, “rebuilding a family isn’t just about sticking together. It’s about facing what broke it in the first place. You ready for that?”
Nieme glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never be ready. But… I think I owe it to them—and to myself—to try.”
Frank nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s a start.”
Nieme finished the soda, crushing the can lightly in his hand before setting it aside. “You know, for all your talk about courage and rebuilding, you’re still dodging one question.”
“Oh? What’s that?” Frank asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you ready to try?” Nieme’s tone was steady, but there was a challenge in his gaze.
Frank didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for another can of soda from the desk, cracked it open, and took a long sip. Finally, he looked at Nieme. “I’ve been trying since the day I made that deal. Doesn’t mean I’ve been good at it.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Nieme replied, his voice quieter now. “You’ve been trying to survive. I’m talking about trying to be better.”
Frank’s jaw tightened, the words hitting harder than he expected. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the soda can dangling loosely from his fingers. “I’ll think about it,” he said eventually, his voice low.
Nieme gave him a small nod, deciding not to push further. The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft breaths of the sleeping pair on the couch.
Outside, the city buzzed with its usual chaos, but here, for a brief moment, things felt calm.
Fragile, but calm.