An Hour Later
“I’m in danger here!” Cinthia’s voice rang out from her agent, loud enough to make Raven glance up.
Cinthia had been glued to her agent for what felt like forever, juggling call after call. Since Thiago had arrived, Raven couldn’t remember a moment when Cinthia’s eyes didn’t glow with that bright yellow hue of the agent. It wasn’t just her—Raven had been fielding her own calls too. One particularly persistent one had been from the gig organizer, demanding confirmation of their appearance. They’d gone so far as to threaten the band’s reputation, claiming no one would ever hire them again if they didn’t show up. So dramatic.
But what could Raven do? They were all running ragged, bouncing from one crisis to the next, chased by lunatics dredging up buried traumas. She glanced at Katie, still curled up in Thiago’s arms, her small body rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep.
“So peaceful,” Raven muttered, exhaustion weighing down her words. It felt like she’d been running for a lifetime.
“Well, fuck you, then!” Cinthia suddenly shouted into her agent, her eyes shifting back to their usual green as she ended the call.
“What happened?” Raven asked.
“My agent,” Cinthia grumbled, then noticed Raven’s confused expression. “I mean, the guy who handles all my sponsorships and the bureaucratic crap.”
“Oh,” Raven said, leaning back in her chair.
“Yeah, he’s losing his shit over everything that’s been going on,” Cinthia continued, flopping down beside Raven. “You guys showing up at my place, the cops getting involved, and now me sitting here instead of rehearsing for our next concert. He’s acting like I don’t have enough on my plate.”
Raven gave a tired nod, letting the silence between them settle for a moment. Around them, the station was still alive with the buzz of officers working the late shift, though most ignored the small group. Nieme had fallen asleep earlier, and Frank had brought them some snacks before returning to his desk.
Whatever had passed between Frank and Nieme seemed to have smoothed things over—at least a little. Nieme was noticeably less standoffish now, a change Raven couldn’t miss. It was subtle, but even the smallest peace felt monumental. Nieme, the goofball who used to procrastinate rehearsals for... less-than-productive reasons, was finally stepping up and acting like an adult. And, oddly enough, he wasn’t half bad at it.
The whole dynamic of the band had Raven lost in thought. She found herself stealing a glance at Cinthia, her sister’s neon-green makeup practically glowing even under the harsh lights of the station. Her outfit was obnoxiously bright, as usual, like she was defying the sunrise itself. Raven bit her nails absentmindedly. Part of it was nerves—this situation was a disaster—but part of it was the tangle of feelings her sister always brought up. Their past, their differences, and the sheer complexity of it all.
Why did everything have to be so damn complicated? Greed, ego, expectations… It all added layers of chaos to things that could’ve been simple. And yet, there was Cinthia, effortlessly fitting into whatever mold people expected of her. How does she do it? Is she even happy? Raven wondered. Or is she just pretending?
“Y’know,” Cinthia finally spoke, her earlier frustration simmering down, “your band… and this whole situation… it just screams Raven to me.”
“Huh?” Raven frowned, raising a skeptical brow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Cinthia grinned, shrugging. “I don’t know much about your chooms, but they’re way outside the spectrum of normalcy.” She giggled before ticking off fingers. “A former veteran, an anarchist-in-the-making, a dad, a ‘simple guy’ who somehow also fixes tech…”
“And Vomi,” Raven added pointedly.
“Yeah… her,” Cinthia replied, shivering slightly. “And then there’s Carmine. But he’s not part of the band, right?”
“No, he’s not,” Raven confirmed with a slow shake of her head. “But what’s your point? How is any of this my ‘brand’ or whatever?”
Cinthia put a finger to her chin, pretending to think hard with a playful hum. “I guess the word I’m looking for is… honest? Yeah, you’re honest.”
“Honest?” Raven repeated, thoroughly unconvinced.
“You don’t hide who you are,” Cinthia explained. “Well, maybe a few details here and there. But you’ve always stood firm in your choices, even when they pissed people off. You never apologized for leaving Green Rhythm. You did what you thought was right, and that’s… that’s preem, y’know?”
Raven blinked, stunned by the sudden sincerity. “Okay, what’s with this talk all of a sudden? You’ve never said anything like this before. And I begged you to stay with them when I left. I don’t get why you’re saying all this now.”
Cinthia gave a small, wry smile. “I never wanted to stay,” she admitted, resting her head lightly on Raven’s shoulder. “Not without you there. You had this energy, this drive… and it’s still here with The Refused. Green Rhythm was never going to be the same without you.”
“What?” Raven blinked in surprise. “Then why’d you stay?”
“Because I hoped you’d come back,” Cinthia whispered. “And… I’m not exactly great at making big decisions.”
Raven snorted, shaking her head. “Yeah, no kidding. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
Cinthia hesitated, biting her lip as she sat up straighter. “Yeah… there’s more,” she admitted, her playful demeanor faltering. “I stayed because I was scared. Scared of failing, of leaving the one place where I knew people would at least tolerate me. And honestly? I was scared of being like you.”
Raven tilted her head, brow furrowing. “Like me?”
“You were so sure of yourself,” Cinthia said, her voice quieter now. “You didn’t care what anyone thought. You just… left, Raven. You walked out on everything we built and never looked back. I couldn’t do that. I thought if I tried, I’d just—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not brave like you.”
“That’s rich coming from someone who wears neon green in a city full of people who hate standing out,” Raven shot back, smirking despite herself. “You think I didn’t feel scared when I left? I was terrified, Cinthia. But staying there—living a lie—was worse.”
Cinthia blinked, taken aback by her sister’s bluntness. “You never showed it. You always seemed so… invincible.”
“I’m not,” Raven admitted, her voice softer now. “I’ve just gotten good at faking it. And honestly? You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’ve got guts, sis. You’ve just been putting them into the wrong things.”
Cinthia gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, like answering a million calls from sponsors and dealing with bureaucratic BS? Real gutsy of me.”
“More like dealing with people who treat you like a tool and still managing to keep your head up,” Raven countered. “That takes strength, even if you don’t see it.”
Cinthia’s face softened, her neon makeup catching the light as she glanced at her sister. “You mean that?”
“Yeah,” Raven said simply. “And if you ever decide to stop playing their game, you know where to find me.”
The two sisters sat in silence for a moment, the chaos of the police station fading into the background. Raven glanced toward Thiago and Katie, still curled up on the couch, and then back at Cinthia.
“So, what now?” Cinthia finally asked, breaking the silence.
“Now?” Raven said, leaning back with a tired smirk. “I don’t know.”
“Sheesh, so much for confidence.”
“Fake confidence,” Raven admitted with a shrug.
Cinthia giggled. “Ha! I’ll need to try that sometime.”
“Who knows,” Raven added, smirk growing sly, “maybe we finally write that sisterly duet you always wanted.”
Cinthia laughed, a genuine, lighthearted sound that cut through the tension like a warm breeze. “Don’t tease me with hope, Raven.”
“Not a tease,” Raven replied, her smirk softening into something more genuine. “Just… a maybe.”
Before Cinthia could respond, Frank’s voice broke the moment. “I see you two are getting along pretty well.”
He was passing by with some files, probably work related.
“…”
“…”
Both sisters turned to stare at him, blank and wordless.
“…”
“…”
“Hmm… point taken,” Frank muttered awkwardly, raising his hands in surrender before slipping away.
Raven glanced back at Cinthia, already dismissing Frank’s interruption. “So, do you still want to stay with them?”
“With the band?”
“Yeah.”
Cinthia didn’t hesitate. “As it is right now? No fucking way.”
Raven raised an eyebrow, surprised at the curse.
“We were supposed to do a collab with some other minor bands in Night City,” Cinthia continued with an exasperated sigh. “I hate that town. Everyone there’s so self-centered and fake.”
“The problem is,” Raven said knowingly, “you’re the singer. And I’m guessing they’re not loosening their grip on you.”
“Exactly that,” Cinthia grumbled. “Feels like I’m chained to the stage, whether I like it or not.”
“Well… we’re kind of full, but have you thought about switching bands?” Raven asked casually.
“Oh, now you want me in the band, huh?”
“That was before I found out you didn't like being there.”
Cinthia raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “That has to be the most Raven invitation I’ve ever heard you Raven out of your Raven mouth.”
“There are way too many Ravens in that sentence.”
The two broke into laughter, the kind that came naturally, filled with nostalgia and the warmth of simpler times when they were just kids dreaming big.
“But to answer your question,” Cinthia said, still smiling, “I’d love to. If I could.”
“Your contract doesn’t allow it?” Raven asked, her brain already piecing together a plan. “I think I might have a way to help with that, and it’s—”
Before she could finish, her eyes flickered yellow. An incoming call.
“Who is it?” Cinthia asked, noticing the shift in Raven’s expression.
“Heitor,” Raven replied, her voice suddenly serious. “Give me a second.”
“Mmhm.”
----------------------------------------
Heitor Armstrong
“What happened, Heitor?” Raven asked the moment she answered, her tone sharp and focused.
“I’m at one of the locations we pinged earlier. I think Vomi is going to hit this place first,” Heitor said, his gaze fixed on the building ahead.
It was an unassuming gym, blending in with the surrounding businesses. If not for the logo—a black knife with a medieval flair—nothing about it would draw suspicion. The location was strategic: a public, densely populated area near a major highway that connected to various critical routes, perfect for trafficking goods or people.
The gym wasn’t just a front; it was a recruitment hub for the Black Daggers. The perfect cover. No one would think twice about netrunners operating inside a gym. They hid in plain sight, their operations shielded by the mundanity of their surroundings.
Heitor had to admit, it was a clever setup.
“Well, the sun’s already rising,” Raven said, her confusion evident. “Wouldn’t attacking now just put the entire media on her ass?”
“In most cases, yeah,” Heitor replied, pulling into a parking spot and cutting the engine. “Even borgs would have a hard time hitting a place like this solo.”
“But...?” Raven pressed, sensing there was more.
Heitor took a deep breath, his sharp eyes analyzing every detail of the building and its surroundings. His military instincts were firing on all cylinders, piecing together vulnerabilities others wouldn’t even consider.
“But,” he continued, his voice calm and precise, “Vomi isn’t just anyone. She’s calculated, knows how to weaponize chaos, maybe thanks to her corpo job or whatever. This place might look secure at first glance, but it’s built for show, not for defense.”
“What do you mean?” Raven asked, her tone matching his seriousness.
“It’s a soft target dressed up to look tough. High traffic, high visibility—that’s supposed to deter attacks, not stop them. She’ll know how to use that. Look here.” Heitor activated the image-sharing function on his smartphone, highlighting a narrow alley tucked behind the gym. “That’s a blind spot. No cameras, minimal patrols. If she comes in through there, she can create a bottleneck and control the fight before anyone even realizes what’s happening.”
Raven’s frown deepened. “You’re saying it’s going to be a massacre.”
“She doesn’t need to make it one,” Heitor replied firmly. “The chaos will do that for her. People will panic and scatter, drawing attention away from the real target. By the time anyone figures out what’s happening, she’ll have dismantled whatever operation they’ve got running here.”
“Fantastic,” Raven muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “So what’s the move? Warn the cops? Leak it to the media?”
Heitor shook his head. “Neither. The cops won’t move fast enough, and the media will only turn this into a circus. If we want to stop her, we need to be in position before she makes her move.”
Raven hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. “Do you really think we can stay ahead of her? She’s… not exactly in her right mind right now.”
Heitor smirked grimly. “She’s unpredictable, sure. But when you’ve seen enough combat, you learn to recognize patterns, even in chaos. People like her—they hit fast, hard, and surgical. If I’m right, she’ll make her move within the hour, just shy of a full-blown Cyberpsycho episode.”
“Then you better get moving,” Raven said, already firing off texts to Carmine and Blaze.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
“I’ve got the place scoped out,” Heitor replied, stepping out of his car. “Get the others here ASAP. I’ll do a closer sweep in the meantime.”
“On it,” Raven said before ending the call.
Cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders, Heitor sized up the gym one last time. “Alright, Heitor. Time to save your choom from whatever the hell she’s turned into.”
The alley Heitor had pinpointed earlier stood out as the most viable entry point for an attack. It wasn't without risks, but if the "Monster Vomi" persona was still in control, Heitor doubted it would matter much. Back in the military, he’d seen soldiers rely too much on their armor and get flatlined because of it. But then there were those who truly understood their gear, exploiting every advantage it gave them.
Vomi, though? She was already dangerously sharp. A skilled Netrunner, even without a Cyberdeck or full dives into the Net. If she was capable of pulling off corporate heists and infiltrations with nothing but her wit, then her new abilities—whatever they were—would only amplify her lethality. She’d use them tactically, leveraging every ounce of her intellect.
And no one had managed to stop her yet.
Heitor scanned the surrounding area, considering other possible entry points. The windows on the upper floors caught his eye. They were in more populated areas and had stronger security measures. Would someone with Vomi’s newfound power and confidence take that route? Tactically, it wouldn’t make sense—it’d leave her exposed, relying entirely on her monstrous strength and resilience to endure any counterattack.
But that same boldness could serve a purpose. A dramatic assault through a secure entry point could spread fear and chaos faster than anything else, leaving a psychological scar on her enemies.
Still, as he weighed the options, Heitor kept returning to the alleyway. It was stealthier, allowed for a controlled bottleneck, and was just as capable of inciting panic. For someone who knew how to weaponize fear and efficiency, the alley was the smarter choice. And Vomi, whatever she’d become, was nothing if not efficient.
"She'll take the alley," Heitor muttered to himself, his gaze narrowing. "Fast, surgical, and messy enough to make a statement."
Heitor moved from his vantage point, boots crunching against the cracked pavement as he circled the perimeter. The gym was flanked by a convenience store on one side and a small, outdated net café on the other. Both could serve as potential staging grounds—or collateral damage.
The convenience store, open 24/7, had a steady trickle of customers. Civilians. Innocents who wouldn’t stand a chance if Vomi’s attack spiraled out of control. That alone could complicate things. Vomi wouldn’t hesitate, but her chaos could draw unwanted attention from the city’s elite response teams—MaxTac or even the local corporation operatives if someone high up wanted to flex their muscle. Or money.
The net cafe, however, gave him pause. It looked inconspicuous at first glance, with flickering neon signs and a handful of patrons hunched over terminals inside. But Heitor knew places like this were often fronts. They catered to Netrunners looking for anonymous dives, away from prying eyes.
“Could be a fallback point,” he muttered, adjusting the strap on his rifle bag. If the gym was the primary target, the café might serve as an escape route—or even a secondary objective. He couldn’t rule it out.
Further down the street, an auto-repair shop caught his eye. Its wide garage doors were half-open, revealing a few rusted-out cars and a bored-looking mechanic. It wasn’t part of the gym’s operation, but it was dangerously close. If things went south, Vomi could use it as a shield—or worse, as a trap for anyone pursuing her. Vehicles were excellent makeshift explosives in tight situations.
Finally, Heitor turned his attention to the gym itself. The front entrance was predictably unremarkable—a pair of glass doors leading into a reception area. A handful of wannabe mercs milled about inside, their bulked-up frames and overcompensating cyberware practically screaming "recruitment fodder."
“Standard muscle,” Heitor noted. “Disposable. Not the real threat.”
What stood out was the side entrance—staff only. A discreet door, marked with faded lettering and guarded by a single, bored-looking sentry. To the untrained eye, it was insignificant. But to Heitor, it was a glaring weak point.
“If I were her…” Heitor trailed off, imagining the approach. The alley for entry. The staff door as an internal breach point. From there, she’d have direct access to the gym’s core—the locker rooms, storage areas, and likely the servers if they were keeping data on-site.
He adjusted his posture, hands resting on his hips as he mapped it out mentally.
Points of Interest:
1. The Alleyway: Stealth entry, ideal for creating chaos and bottlenecking.
2. The Convenience Store: Collateral damage risk. Civilians inside could escalate media and response-team attention.
3. The Net Café: Potential fallback or secondary target. Could house hidden runners or serve as an escape point.
4. The Auto-Repair Shop: A nearby hazard. Vehicles could be turned into weapons or shields in the crossfire.
5. The Staff Entrance: A quiet, tactical breach point to access the gym’s internals directly.
As he finished up, a car pulled into the lot near his own. The doors opened, and Carmine stepped out first, trying to look casual despite the sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. Blaze followed, his faux leather jacket hiding the bulk of Cerberus, his shotgun, strapped securely underneath.
“Alright, choom, what are we dealing with?” Carmine asked, nodding toward the gym.
Heitor gestured toward the building. “Here’s the sit-rep.”
----------------------------------------
After Heitor’s rundown, Blaze rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Sounds like as good a plan as we’re gonna get.”
“We’re a three-man team. Anything we do comes with risk,” Carmine pointed out, his tone matter-of-fact.
Heitor nodded, his military demeanor kicking in. “Our objective isn’t to fight. We’re here to collect Vomi’s DNA and send it to M-Tech. That’s it. No unnecessary engagements.”
Blaze raised an eyebrow. “And you think we can pull that off? She’s not exactly playing by the same rules anymore.”
Heitor’s jaw tightened. “We use the chaos she creates as our cover. Get in, get what we need, and get out before anyone notices us. If we’re lucky—and I mean real lucky—we can do this in under sixty seconds.”
Carmine smirked. “Big if, choom. But hey, I’ve seen crazier plans work.”
Blaze snorted. “Damn right you have.”
He glanced at his smartphone—7 AM. Twelve hours ago, they were rehearsing, prepping for their next gig. Everything had been so smooth, so normal. Now, they were running on fumes, the lack of sleep gnawing at the edges of their focus. But priorities had shifted. Someone needed their help, and their own exhaustion didn’t matter in comparison.
Blaze exhaled sharply, his thoughts racing. If none of this had happened—no ambush, no beef with the Black Daggers—would they be okay right now? Sure, a merc’s life was dangerous, even with the odd moments of peace as rockerboys. But this? This was different. Heitor had been through warzones, dealt with the kind of chaos most couldn’t imagine, but not like this. Not chasing down a friend-turned-monster, not with stakes so personal.
They stayed in position, eyes sharp, tension coiled in their bodies, waiting for the inevitable.
Heitor took a moment to check the Chimera, Vomi's custom rifle, making sure everything was in place. His voice cut through the still air, calm but resolute.
“All right,” he said. “Time to move.”
----------------------------------------
The morning sun cast long shadows over the city as the creature stood silently, its gaze locked on the gym ahead. This unassuming building was the latest hideout for the Black Daggers, a hub for recruiting fresh fodder into their ranks. It analyzed the structure with cold detachment. A facade, it thought. No more threatening than a back-alley chop shop where a handshake with the owner granted immunity. No real power here, just another brick in the crumbling wall of their operation.
“Good,” the symbiote spoke, its four voices blending into a discordant harmony, each carrying its unique malice. “We finish this, weaken them. Their leader will come crawling into the open. Then… he is next.”
A flick of its alien senses was all it needed to assess the perimeter. An alley stood out—a clear entry point for silent kills. But the symbiote craved more than efficiency. A message had to be sent. The Daggers needed to understand that their actions carried consequences. Not death—no, that was far too simple. They required a reminder, a living nightmare that would persist in their minds and haunt their every move. Something unstoppable, unavoidable, and brutal.
The creature shifted. The white spider emblazoned on its chest seemed to pulse, radiating menace. Yet this form would not suit the moment. Not yet. For now, a different approach was needed. Something bold, direct. A reckoning delivered in daylight.
With a fluid ripple, the symbiote began to retreat, its black tendrils flowing like liquid over Vomi’s skin. They did not vanish entirely, instead settling into a sleek, skin-tight armor that clung to her frame like a second skin. The armor resembled a military infiltration suit, though devoid of insignias or identifying marks. No helmet adorned her head, but the mask remained, the expressive white eyes narrowing as they locked onto the gym. Yet the tail still remained, refusing to leave.
“This will suffice,” Vomi murmured, her voice alone this time, though still carrying the edge of the symbiote’s presence.
For all anyone cared, she could have been an exotic. That was the beauty of exotics—the sheer absurdity of people willingly grafting animal parts to their bodies made them walking anomalies. And in a world like this, where chrome outweighed common sense, no one even blinked twice at a purple-skinned woman with a weird mask strolling through the morning haze.
Without hesitation, she walked right up to the front doors of the gym. The building itself sat obliviously in the city's sprawl, as though unaware—or perhaps willfully ignorant—that death had come knocking. Or maybe they knew, but hadn't quite pieced together that the elegant predator at their doorstep was there to dismantle them, one terrified scream at a time.
The sliding doors hissed open, welcoming her like a gracious host to its own execution. Vomi, encased in her sleek, symbiotic armor, strolled inside with measured confidence. Her movements were calm, deliberate, each step more poised than the last, as though the universe itself bent to ensure her arrival was perfect.
At the front desk, a girl sat slouched in a chair, the epitome of youthful disdain. Her Black Dagger jacket was draped lazily over her shoulders, mismatched with a bubblegum pink hair tie that clashed violently with the atmosphere. She chewed loudly, snapping her gum with an audible pop, sparing Vomi a single uninterested glance.
"Welcome to the Darkest Gym," she drawled, her tone dripping with the lethargy of someone working a job that paid more in apathy than eddies. "Where we solve your problems not with logic or, y'know, common sense, but with pure, unfiltered muscle mass." She gestured vaguely toward a terminal beside the turnstile. "Subs start at fifty eddies. Premium packages are over there on the screen if you're feelin' fancy."
For a moment, Vomi indulged the performance. She moved to the terminal with an air of curiosity, the white slits of her symbiotic mask narrowing in a way that mimicked amusement. With the newfound benefit of the Cyberdeck mimicking chrome, she started plugging her personal cord into the jack, letting the symbiote work. A cascade of digital prompts lit up her vision—the familiar Breach Protocol UI she'd seen countless times in her past, exactly as shown in Cyberpunk, even the buffer size showing. It was, ironically, more nostalgic than threatening.
Easier times. Simpler times.
Behind her, the girl continued, blissfully unaware. "We admit exotics, but you gotta register your chrome for safety reasons or whatever," she said, rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out. She then pulled out her phone, opening three social media apps in rapid succession without missing a beat. "Take your time, purple lady. I get paid by the hour, not by how fast you move."
Vomi didn’t look up from the terminal, her fingers deftly tapping commands as the symbiote burrowed deeper into the gym's systems. She almost smiled. "Don’t worry," she replied, her voice measured and smooth. "I’m not in a rush."
"Preem," the girl muttered, eyes glued to her phone. She didn’t even bother to look up again.
Vomi’s eyes lit up, not with the artificial glow of optics but with something far more primal—an organic intelligence that mimicked the efficiency of chrome without any of its vulnerabilities. The symbiote coursing through her veins was more than just a tool; it was an evolution, and right now, it was devouring the data streaming through the terminal with a hunger that bordered on feral.
The gym’s private server unraveled before her like an exposed nerve. It held everything: Black Daggers’ member rosters, ongoing schemes, plans for heists, routes for drug production and distribution. But none of that mattered. She wasn’t here to steal or expose their operations. She was here to send a message—a sharp, brutal one that no amount of corporate spin could dull.
What caught her attention wasn’t their stash of secrets but the very defenses meant to protect them. The security protocols—crafted by one of their best Netrunners—could be turned against them with a few well-placed manipulations. The irony was almost poetic.
The symbiote moved quickly, accessing a dormant hack buried deep within the system.
Contagion.
The name alone carried a sinister weight. This wasn’t a simple program designed to overload circuits or crash hardware; it was something far worse. It targeted not just chrome but the fragile human bodies that relied on it. The virus forced an immune system response so violent that it turned flesh and cyberware into adversaries, tearing each other apart from the inside out.
And the real beauty? Contagion lived up to its name. Once released, it would spread, leaping from one target to the next via every unsecured breach, every hidden backdoor. It wasn’t just a hack—it was a plague, engineered for chaos.
The mask covering Vomi’s face twisted into a sinister approximation of a grin, the anticipation almost palpable. It was all so easy. Just one push of a button, and the Black Daggers would learn what it truly meant to lose control.
"Wait..." The girl squinted, her disinterest giving way to unease as she studied Vomi more closely. "Do I know you?"
The symbiote's tail flicked lazily behind her, a silent expression of amusement -predatory, deliberate, much like a cat toying with its prey. "Perhaps," came the smooth reply, her voice calm yet dripping with menace.
Before the girl could react, Vomi raised the Nue, the sleek pistol's muzzle pressing directly against the bridge of the girl's nose.
BANG!
The shot rang out like a starting gun, snapping the gym out of its complacency. The girl collapsed in a boneless heap, a bloom of crimson staining the floor behind her. The noise had done its job, stirring the nearby Black Daggers into a frantic, confused scramble.
But that wasn't the real game.
In the milliseconds after the shot, Contagion took hold, slipping silently through the gym's digital veins, weaving through every connected implant and system. The effect was immediate. Shouts of confusion twisted into cries of agony as bodies began betraying their chrome. A man clutched his face as his optics shorted out, sparks flying from his skull. Another fell to the floor, his reinforced legs seizing violently, crushing his own flesh in their relentless grip.
The symbiote drank in the chaos, its mask curving into a subtle, sinister smirk. This could be indulgent-a feast of suffering, a slow unraveling of each target until their desperation became art. But indulgence was not the mission. Efficiency was.
Without hesitation, Vomi stepped forward, her movements fluid and methodical. She kept the Nue steady, aiming with precision honed not by practice but by instinct. One by one, she executed the writhing gangsters with single, clinical shots to the head.
The Nue's magazine clicked empty, but Vomi didn't falter. She stooped down, plucked a discarded handgun from one of her victims, and continued her work without missing a beat. Each shot was an exclamation point in a symphony of destruction, the sound of gunfire and panicked screams reverberating through the gym's once-hollow walls.
One by one, they fell, each corpse a testament to the inevitability of her wrath. The symbiote didn't just kill—it erased. Every movement was purposeful, every kill a step closer to the only thing that mattered: ensuring the Black Daggers understood who they had provoked.
"This floor is clear," one of the voices in Vomi's mind noted, calm and measured, though edged with caution, a whisper of dread. "The damage might have spilled into the other floors. Expect resistance."
"Best we keep going," another voice urged, this one electric with bloodlust, "Don't let them regroup. Don't let them think. Kill while they're still terrified. Confusion is our advantage."
"Our strategy is working," the third chimed in, coldly analytical. Its tone carried the faintest hint of amusement. "Even if it was devised on a whim. Their surveillance is in shambles. No need to hold back.”
Vomi nodded slowly, her movements deliberate as if appeasing the cacophony in her head. "The faster this ends," she said aloud, "the faster we can rest."
But then came a voice not born of the symbiote—a human voice, familiar and grounded.
"Vomi?"
The symbiote whipped around, tail flicking defensively. The Nue, now warmed by the massacre, snapped up, its barrel fixed on the source of the voice. Vomi's mask twisted, sharp eyes locking onto the figure in the doorway.
It was Heitor.
Recognition flickered, and the grip on the gun relaxed. The tail stilled, though irritation lingered, directed not at Heitor himself but at his audacity to be here, in this place, in this moment.
"Heitor," the symbiote said, its voice a blend of Vomi's own and something deeper, primal.
Heitor stepped forward cautiously, the soles of his boots crunching over shattered glass and pooling blood. His face betrayed nothing outright, but Vomi could see it all—the disbelief, the conflict, the unspoken questions swirling just beneath his hardened expression.
"You did all this?" He gestured faintly at the carnage, bodies crumpled in grotesque angles, walls painted with jagged sprays of red. "In less than a minute?"
His voice was steady, but the disbelief was there, lingering on the edges. Subtle, but not invisible.
The symbiote stared at him, its predatory stillness unnerving. For a moment, none of the voices spoke, and neither did Vomi.
"It was necessary," Vomi finally replied, her voice quiet but resolute. The mask over her face softened slightly, the monstrous edges retreating just enough to remind Heitor of who she used to be—who she still might be.
Heitor's jaw tightened. He looked past her, scanning the room as though trying to piece together how something so brutal, so clinical, could have been orchestrated by the woman he knew.
"They were... threats," she continued, her voice lowering. "I neutralized them."
"You call this neutralizing?" Heitor said, gesturing at the chaos around them. His tone wasn't accusatory—it was incredulous, even a little impressed despite himself.
"Efficient," one of the symbiote's voices interjected, unseen but felt.
“That's sure one way to call it…”, Heitor exhaled sharply, regaining his composure. "Look, Vomi. Whatever this is... we've got bigger problems. If you're not careful, we're going to have MaxTac breathing down our necks. Or worse."
The symbiote's tail flicked again, this time in irritation. "Then don't waste time," it said, and there was no mistaking the edge in its tone.
Vomi turned her back to him, stepping toward the stairwell. "You shouldn't even be here. You should be somewhere safe. All of you should be safe.”
Heitor hesitated, watching her as she disappeared into the shadows ahead, her voice drifting back toward him, cold and decisive:
“None of this is over until all of them are dead.”
Heitor sighed, his voice heavy. "I know. And I’m sorry."
“For what?” Vomi turned to him, startled by the sudden weight in his words.
Then it happened—a sharp sting at her neck. Her hand shot up instinctively, clawing at the source of the pain. It wasn’t just a needle piercing her skin—it was something taking, stealing what was theirs.
The symbiote flared, rage boiling over as she spun around, ready to strike. But then she saw him.
“Heitor…?”
Her voice cracked as recognition set in, but it was too late.
A single motion. Not even a deliberate punch—a reflex, driven by survival, by instinct.
Vomi stared, frozen. For the first time, the weight of death wasn’t distant. It wasn’t just another tally. It was there.
“Why… why is there a hole in your chest?”