I start to turn. I see a flash in the corner of my eye, and then my reflexes take over.

I push Oscar, shoving him off to the side. I duck sideways. My arm lashes out. Two of my fingers squeeze together, catching the hilt of a windmilling throwing knife where Oscar’s head had been.

The momentum from the knife pushes my arm back, rotating me and putting me off balance. I lean into the spin, one foot off the ground for a half second until I right myself, my back to the dropoff.

Oscar rights himself.

Tanya is standing on the opposite side of the platform. Her legs are in a wide stance, her hand wrapping itself around the hilt of her gun. She draws.

Oscar unfurls, disappearing just as Tanya squeezes the trigger and the gunshot rings out.

Gunsmoke hovers for about a second before being carried away by a dry gust.

“Kit,” Tanya says. Her face is strained, pleading. “You’ve got to listen to me—”

Oscar furls, just behind her. He grabs her, and they both disappear.

I drop the knife—it clatters, scratching the platform—and rush over to the edge.

A gunshot sounds, echoing from below.

I start circling the edge, scanning the streets below.

The city is dirty and unkempt. Not at all like what I remember it being back in the day. Clumps of dirt and dust cling to the surfaces of its buildings and walls like rust-colored barnacles.

There’s a laziness to it, as well. There are wide open spaces where only five or so figures can be seen at a time, most of them lounging or meandering around. They all seem to be wearing armor and carrying some form of weaponry.

There are two explosive poofs as Oscar and Tanya reappear down in the market district. Old booths are knocked over, tables upended. Dust is kicked up, trailing in the plaza. There are several more gunshots, before they both disappear again.

Suddenly, the gang members throughout the city start to perk up, some of them scrambling in the direction of the noises, ants in an overturned hill.

There are more gunshots, some rattles and bangs. I can’t see where they’re coming from, perhaps because it's happening too close to the base of the tower.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

I circle the edge again, this time looking for some kind of trap door or ladder.

No luck. Every inch of the platform is smooth and polished, without blemish, save for the white crack of marble running across it.

Same with the outer surface of the tower just below the platform. There are no ladders or poles or notches or anything I could use to safely climb down.

There’s only one option open to me. There are these black spires that run up the length of the tower, curving outward toward the base, almost like a ski slope, or the world’s deadliest waterslide.

I could slide down that, I think. I crouch, perched dangerously, the toes of my boots poking out past the platform. I could use the roof of one of those buildings to dampen my fall. They don’t look well-maintained. The materials could be old, malleable.

The answer of why is simple, and one way or another I’m going to have to confront it. If—and it may be a big if—Tanya was telling the truth about what happened, then that would mean Oscar was the one who got in with the Rifters. He could be working for the feds. He could be…

A government assassin!?

It seems crazy. I can’t make sense of it. But before whatever happens next, I need to know. I need to be sure.

Don’t you know Oscar? Don’t you trust him?

I did know him. I did trust him. Ten years ago.

I lower myself, butt on the platform, legs hanging over the edge. Below me, a dozen floors below, is one of the spires, arcing away from the tower at a steep angle.

I think floors, but really there are no floors. The tower is purely aesthetic in design. It's a landmark. A beacon. Something you can see from almost anywhere on the northern continent.

I close my eyes for a second. The wind picks up, causing my hair to whip around and tickle my face.

If my avatar dies from the fall, I’ll be temporarily booted from the game. I’ll wake up on that couch, Mason standing over me, a gun barrel pressed against my head; if he was telling the truth, though the severity of the situation seems to support that he was.

Perhaps worse, I can feel this sense of foreboding, like I might miss another chance to do...something. I’m not quite sure what, but that seems to almost make it worse.

When I open my eyes, I can see thick boughs of smoke rising from the woods, murky and black. A pair of dragon wings extend, flapping, obscured amidst the plumes.

I glance down at the spire again, starting to feel kind of stupid. You’d die in the fall. The slope is too steep. The curve is too sharp.

I pull myself up and start circling the platform, giving it another once-over.

That’s when my eyes settle on Tanya’s knife, lying in the middle of the platform. I reach down and pick it up. It’s light, weighted, but still sharp-looking. There’s a symbol etched into the center of the blade: the face and mane of a lion.

For a moment, I stare at the symbol. There’s something almost sinister about the way it makes me feel, harboring a sense of deja vu that’s both alien and familiar—as deja vu always is.

Slowly, as if of its own accord, I feel my hand moving up to the left sleeve of my jacket. The fabric is thin and loose. I slowly roll back the sleeve down the length of my arm, until my forearm is exposed. Perfectly revealing the black, minimal tattoo of a lion’s head and mane.