Word had spread fast that Pacifica was on the rise, and the GIM was at its heart – a hotspot for deals, fights, and every kind of hustle that Night City had to offer. The shops were all filling up, the Valentinos had set up a combination chop shop and showroom in a nearby abandoned building, and the Animals were drawing record crowds with their fight nights. All in all, everything was going swimmingly.

But instead of wandering through the GIM, soaking in the fruits of The Pack’s labor, I was holed up in my office, slowly flicking through a collection of old movies I could play on the projector, trying to find something that might be of interest for the next twenty or thirty minutes. One of the benefits of having an office in the projector room of an old theater was the easy access to a massive screen and a library of old movies.

Deng cleared his throat, calling my attention back to my desk where he and Zion were standing over a paper map of the district. I sheepishly shut down the projector and went to go and stand next to them.

“We need more than just cameras and muscle,” Deng said, his finger tracing over the layout of the GIM. He tapped a few key spots near the entrances and along the main floor. “The GIM’s a glowing target for anyone looking to make trouble. We’ve got the eddies, so we should dot the place with a few turrets. They’ll be hidden. Only activated when we need.”

I leaned in closer to get a better view of the map. Zion, standing beside Deng, let out a low whistle.

“Turrets? That’s fancy,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Deng chuckled at Zion taking the piss. “We’ll have Sandra handle the setup. Key the system so only select members of The Pack can activate them. Same goes for the mines.”

“Mines?” I asked, somewhat skeptical.

“Small ones,” Deng clarified. “Think deterrents, not demolition. Enough to give anyone stupid enough to breach the place a serious case of regret.”

“Thoughtful,” Zion quipped, the sarcasm in his voice balanced by the look in his eyes that said he was taking this a lot more serious than his tone suggested.

The two of them were a solid team when it came to security. Deng handled the GIM, the engine of our growing empire, while Zion took charge of The Batty, our…annex? Overflow? Kinda base of operations? I hadn’t decided entirely what I wanted the Batty to be. It was slowly turning into something like The Pack’s administrative hub – where people came to meet, make deals, and request favors.

Deng’s hand shifted back to the map, his finger pointing at my office – the projector room. “If things go to shit, and I mean really bad, you’re gonna need a way out.”

He traced a line across the paper, following a maintenance tunnel that snaked its way outside the GIM to an alleyway.

“An escape route?” I asked, my tone flat but with a bit of disbelief.

He nodded. “Discreet. Safe. If the GIM’s under siege, or things spiral out of control, you can’t afford to get boxed in.”

The idea didn’t sit right with me. The thought of slipping away while everyone else fought to hold onto what we’d built left a sour taste in my mouth. I glanced over at Zion, hoping for some kind of reaction. He just gave me a small shrug, his expression unreadable.

“I get the logic,” I said after a moment, forcing myself to focus on the practically. “But it feels…wrong. I don’t like the idea of running while everyone else stays behind to fight.”

Deng and Zion shared a look that might as well have been a telepathic conversation. It was probably something along the lines of kids these days, always second-guessing good advice.

“It’s not about running. It’s about surviving, kid. You’re the one steering this ship. If you go down, the whole thing falls apart.” He sighed and looked back at the map before finally standing straighter. “I’ll leave the escape route as an option. But the rest of the security upgrades? Those aren’t negotiable.”

I let out a long breath and then nodded. “Alright. Do whatever you think is necessary. I trust you both. We’ve probably got a lot of this gear in storage already, and if we’re short on anything, there’s plenty of eddies in the war chest to cover it.”

Deng gave a sharp nod, his focus already shifting back to the map as he worked through the logistics of everything. While he did that, Zion stepped up to me and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Alright, boss. Let’s get you chromed up.”

&&&

Zion and I stepped out into the bright morning sun, the rays cutting through the splatter of rain falling from a sky that couldn’t quite make up its mind. The contrast was classic Night City – bright light shining on a slick, dirty world. The sharp scent of rain on concrete hung in the air, cleaning some of the grim baked into the streets.

Zion’s new ride – a Mizutani Shion Targa MZT – was parked just a few steps away, its sleek, angular lines catching the light like a polished blaze. The convertible top was up, naturally. Night City’s weather wasn’t exactly trustworthy, and nobody wanted to risk their synth-leather seats drenched in poisonous rainwater. Plus, Zion was smart enough to avoid broadcasting his location to would-be assassins; an open-top car in this city was just a giant bullseye.

I took a moment to admire the ride. It was immaculate, clearly fresh off the lot. Zion had gone all-in on this one. The Pack had been good to him – he’d raked in a fortune from the Jotaro gig, the Pacifica takeover, and everything in between. And he’d clearly spent his eddies well. But his Shion Targa wasn’t just a car; it was a statement.

It reminded me of the conversation we’d had after securing Pacifica. Zion had joked – half-serious, half-smirking – that he could retire if he wanted to. He had the eddies and the connections. He could vanish into the Badlands, buy himself a nice, quiet place, and never run another job again. But the way he said it, with that scoff and shake of his head, made it clear that a quiet life wasn’t for him. He craved conflict, the challenge of being an edgerunner. Retirement was too boring for him.

The Shion, then, was a promise he made to himself. Keep moving. Keep in the game. A Shion Targa wasn’t the kind of car you bought if you planned on fading away.

As we approached his ride, a group of Pack members loitering near the GIM’s entrance spotted us. Their laughter and banter died down as they exchanged nods, moving toward their van – a matte-black beast of a vehicle that practically oozed “unofficial business.” They piled in without a word and waited for us to get going.

Zion slid into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking faintly as he settled in. I climbed in on the passenger side, the door shutting with a quiet hiss as I sank into the low seat. The Shion purred to life, and Zion pulled out of the lot, the Pack’s van falling into formation behind us like a shadow.

As we rolled out of Pacifica, I glanced back, catching sight of my Kusanagi parked by the GIM’s entrance. The bike was sleek, even defiant looking in the sunlight beating down on it. A pang of regret tugged at me, seeing it sitting there, unused, like I was abandoning an old friend. But that was the price of leadership, right? No room for solitude when I needed to play the role of leader, diplomat, and whatever else The Pack needed me to be.

Zion must’ve noticed my expression because he shot me a quick glance as we hit the main drag out of Pacifica. “What’s eating at you all of a sudden?”

“Nothing,” I lied, shaking off the thoughts as the city blurred past. “Just thinking about much better my ride looks compared to yours.

Zion laughed, a low genuine sound that cut through my thoughts. “Yea, but does your ride have climate control and these seats?” he teased, running a hand over the synth-leather with exaggerated reverence. “Didn’t think so.”

I smirked, shaking my head as he grinned like a kid showing off a new toy.

The ride out to Watson felt longer than it should have, the minutes dragging as Zion weaved his Shion through the tangled lanes of Night City traffic while The Pack’s van trailed a couple of cars behind us. I leaned back in the passenger seat, letting the city blur into streaks of neon and steel. But my thoughts weren’t on the scenery – they were focused on the person waiting for me in Watson.

Vik Vektor. The only ripperdoc I trusted.

I’d tried to get him to pack up and move out to Pacifica. The place had everything he could need to set up shop and then some. We’d taken over an old clinic that was practically turnkey – fully stocked, sterile, and ready for someone to roll in and start cutting. It wasn’t the kind of opportunity you’d find just anywhere, especially in Night City. If Vik wanted it, it was his.

Of course, there was another name floating around. Diego had mentioned Nina, a wandering ripperdoc who apparently ranked among the best in the biz. She moved wherever the wind took her, performing surgeries for the rush and thrill rather than the eddies. Diego swore by her skills – she’d worked on some of his cyberware back in the day, before we started The Pack. But as good as Nina might’ve been, the thought of choosing her over Vik didn’t sit right with me.

Vik wasn’t just another name in a sea of ripperdocs. Sure, the first time I’d gone to him was because I knew him from the game – the same ripperdoc V trusted. But that was just familiarity. What kept me coming back to him was something different.

He knew.

Vik knew about the experimental face implant; a piece of tech so revolutionary it couldn’t be found in any corpo catalog, black-market auction, or underground spec list. Even Vik had to spend time studying it just to figure out how to maintain it. And if there was one thing I didn’t want to risk, it was anyone outside of Vik and The Pack’s inner circle learning the truth about it.

The familiar sight of Vik’s clinic came into view as Zion guided his car down one of Watson’s quieter streets. The whole street was pretty unassuming and a tiny bastion of peace, despite the fact we were smack dab in the middle of Watson and Vik’s place was right across from a strip club.

“Still trying to poach him?” asked Zion as we pulled up outside the clinic.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and looked over at him. “I can dream, right? But no, I doubt Vik’s leaving this place anytime soon. Besides, this city needs at least one ripperdoc who doesn’t rob their clients blind or hack into their systems while they’re under.”

As I stepped outside, the rain finally gave up its half-hearted drizzle and turned into a full downpour, soaking everything in seconds. The Pack’s van rolled up moments later, its dark bulk pulling into a spot down the street. No one got out – just as I’d instructed. The van just turned off and all I could see from it was the faint glow of a cigarette ember visible in the driver’s seat. That’s exactly how I wanted it.

Watson wasn’t our turf, after all. Technically, this patch of the city belonged to the Tyger Claws, though they didn’t have the largest presence around here. Relations between The Pack and the Claws were good enough – decent, even. Still, setting foot in another gang’s territory always came with a certain edge of caution. Not that I expected trouble. The deals we’d made with the Claws ensured everything stayed smooth.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Selling off our old gambling dens in Watson had been a win-win. The Claws took over the operations, expanding their empire, and we walked away with a fat stack of eddies. More importantly, we’d solidified a partnership. The Pack had become a key player in a logistics chain that spread throughout Night City. We moved Barghest weapons to both the Claws and the Valentinos, which meant everyone was making money and getting what they wanted. And nobody wanted to jeopardize that by pulling dumb shit while I was here getting my hardware tuned.

I stepped into Misty’s shop, the comforting smell of incense greeting me. Misty was at her usual spot behind the counter, her hands idly shuffling a weathered deck of tarot cards.

“Hey, Misty,” I greeted, wiping rain from my face.

Her eyes lifted, and a warm smile crossed her lips. “Back again? Say hi to Vik for me.”

“Always.”

I made my way to the familiar stairwell leading down to Vik’s clinic. My mind was buzzing with all the possibilities for upgrades. Back when I’d first landed in Night City, I didn’t even have the bare minimum that people in this world took for granted. That had changed fairly quickly.

Now? I was kitted out well enough to be above the average street-level player. The Feen-X spine implant bolstered my Cyberdeck OS. My Kiroshi optics let me see things most people missed. The smart link, which I hadn’t used a lot lately, kept my shots on target. And my monowire was a brutal solution for when things got up close and personal. And finally, my experimental face implant – a one-of-a-kind piece that granted me advantages that put me in a league above most of Night City’s citizens.

Still, I wasn’t naïve enough to think I was invincible. I needed more. I wasn’t about to chrome myself out to the point of losing my humanity. But incremental upgrades? That was just smart.

I’d called Vik ahead of time and had him set aside some key enhancements. The Ex-Disk was top of the list. Simple, but effective, it worked like external RAM for my Cyberdeck, boosting storage and speeding up quickhacks. Then there were the bone and muscle lattice upgrades, paired with some neo-fiber. None of it was flashy, but it was practical. It was the kind of internal cyberware that made me a little stronger, a little faster, a little more durable, all without turning me into a walking steel monstrosity. It wasn’t enough to allow me to trade blows with the most dangerous solos, but it was enough to give me an edge when things got rough.

I reached the heavy metal gate marking the entrance to Vik’s clinic and stepped inside. The space was as familiar as my own reflection, with its cluttered shelves and faint antiseptic tang. Vik was where he always was, perched on his rolling chair, watching old boxing clips on a dusty screen.

He glanced up as I walked in, his lined face breaking into a grin. “Heya, kid. Ready to get to work?”

“Always, Vik,” I said, stepping further into the room. “Let’s do this.”

&&&

The itch was driving me insane. Only a day had passed since Vik had opened me up and added all my upgrades, but it felt like my body was protesting, adjusting to the new hardware. My fingers twitched at my sides, and I resisted the urge to scratch or poke at the faint, lingering soreness under my skin. Instead, I stared out the window of the Batty, trying to focus on Pacifica’s landscape instead of the buzzing discomfort in my body.

Pacifica was waking up. The GIM was busy, surrounded by the usual crowd of hustlers, joytoys, and randos looking for a deal or a thrill. The life we’d breathed into the district was palpable and I could see a whole host of people down by the GIM or in front of the Batty who never would have ventured into Pacifica had The Pack not taken over. But all I could think about was the itch.

A knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts. I turned just as Cyndi stepped into the room, a look of boredom on her face. She was acting as my office assistant for this meeting today, something she no doubt hated.

“I’ve got some guests for you,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “Mikhail Akulov and his…associate.”

Her hesitation on the last word told me exactly who she meant. Mikhail’s blonde bodyguard. Nadezhda Tiurina. Mikhail strolled in first, all business in a sharp suit that was as polished as his overly confident smile. But it was the figure behind him that made my skin crawl more than itch. She was a study in unsettling precision. Her movements were fluid, her face unreadable – a mask of indifference that made her seem more machine than human.

Mikhail extended a hand, his grin widened as I shook it. “Noah,” he began in his thick Russian accent. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

I guided us to a couple chairs and we sat. “You’ve got my attention. Pacifica’s a long way from Russia, so you must have something interesting on your mind.”

Mikahil smiled, a practiced expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m a fixer,” he said simply, like it explained everything. “Recently arrived from the Soviet Union. Night City is…fertile ground. I’m in the business of building relationships and I see an opportunity here.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “You must be aware I’ve already got contacts with a fixer in Night City. She helps me with information or moving things I need moved.”

“Ah, but your fixers don’t have my contacts,” Mikhail countered smoothly. “Specifically, SovOil.”

That name hung in the air like a loaded gun. He had my attention now.

“SovOil has been quite active in Night City recently, though you wouldn’t know it from your local fixers. They have been supplying Barghest with weaponry – large shipments that are smuggled into Dogtown. Barghest repackages them, puts their stamp on them, and sells them. SovOil also provides equipment to help run Hansen’s Armory, Barghest’s own little factory for manufacturing weapons.”

He let that sit for a moment before leaning forward. “Imagine a similar arrangement for The Pack.”

“And what’s SovOil’s interest in Pacifica?” I asked, my tone skeptical.

“Profit, naturally,” he said. “Pacifica is a blank canvas. You have resources, influences, and a strategic position in Night City. SovOil sees an opportunity to turn you into a reliable partner. Weapons, supplies, perhaps even manufacturing capabilities…all within your grasp.”

I glanced over at Cyndi, who was watching Mikhail with the same wary skepticism I felt. “And what’s the catch?” I asked.

Mikhail smiled again, that same calculated expression. “Always a catch, isn’t there? But no, this is a straightforward business proposition. SovOil simply wishes to expand its network of allies in the region. The more influence they have, the better for everyone involved. And,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I hear The Pack is lacking a ripperdoc.”

I frowned, unsure where he was going with this.

“I happen to know several talented ripperdocs back in Russia,” he continued, “experts in full-body conversion techniques. I think they would gladly trade the cold and chaos of Russia for the warmth of Pacifica. And they’re quite skilled. Far more than most of what you’d find in Night City.”

The implication of that wasn’t lost on me. Full-body conversion was…a rarity in the Cyberpunk world. Not just every gonk on the street could get it. It was something that could instantly propel someone into the upper echelons of individual power. Mikhail was basically saying that, with his help, The Pack would be able to offer something that no other gang could: advanced cyberware and a ticket to the big leagues. It would instantly attract mercs, solos, and anyone desperate enough to trade their flesh for chrome.

“And what exactly are you expecting in return for all this?” I asked.

“Partnership,” Mikahil said, spreading his hands. “A profitable relationship that benefits all. SovOil gets new markets, I get heaps of eddies, and The Pack gains resources and expertise that no other gang in Night City can match.”

I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. Mikhail’s offer wasn’t just about guns or ripperdocs. It was about leverage. About pushing The Pack into something that could make us one of the biggest players in Night City – or get us buried under more enemies than we could handle.

“I’ll think about it,” I said finally. “Bring it up with my people.”

Mikhail’s polite smile faltered for a fraction of a second, and I caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Annoyance? It was gone before I could pin it down. He stood, buttoning his jacket as he did.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Take your time. But do not take too long.”

“I nodded, my eyes flicking to his bodyguard, who gave me a look that felt like a silent warning. As they left, I stood and turned back to the window, my mind already sifting through the risks and rewards of Mikhail’s pitch. Something about Mikhail didn’t feel right to me.

Rogue had confirmed some basic facts about him. Mikhail Akulov was, indeed, a fixer back in the Soviet Union. But the scope of his resources felt…wrong. A lone fixer with connections to SovOil? Maybe, but it felt more likely he wasn’t flying solo. The thought that corporations, or even governments, were backing him raised all sorts of red flags.

The Soviet Union angle made it even messier. In this world, that country hadn’t crumbled into history like I remembered. No, here it had evolved – or maybe devolved – into a kleptocracy run by megacorporations, government officials, and the ever-present shadows of organized crime. It was still a superpower, its tendrils reaching across the globe in ways that no one could ignore. If Mikhail had the ear of megacorps and the Soviet government, this wasn’t just gangland politics. It was a deal that could bring the weight of a global power crashing down on my doorstep.

The Pack was growing – there was no denying that. Pacifica had slowly started thriving under our control, and if we wanted to hold onto it, we needed more than just eddies and muscle. The reality of Night City was that every major gang had some ties to corporations, no matter how much they might deny it. The Tyger Claws worked with Arasaka. 6th Street had Militech. Maelstrom? Rummor was that they were practically pet projects for cyberware corporations, willingly turning themselves into guinea pigs for new cyberware in exchange for helping them work out the bugs.

It was clear: you don’t stay on top in Night City without dealing with the devils that run it.

Mikhail’s pitch had been enticing on the surface. Access to SovOil’s resources? That would mean weapons, tech, infrastructure – all the things that The Pack needed to solidify our hold and grow our burgeoning empire. But the price felt steep, even if I didn’t know exactly what it was yet. Getting into bed with SovOil wasn’t just a business move. It meant pulling The Pack into the orbit of a foreign megacorp, and potentially the Soviet Union itself.

If I was going to do that, I needed to make sure the megacorp was going to play by The Pack’s rules when it came to Pacifica. I needed to make sure it would understand that, while they would benefit from a partnership, The Pack needed to benefit more.

&&&

Night City City Hall. An incredibly awkward and bulky name that somewhat detracted from how surprisingly modern the building was. Being the house of government for Night City, I’d expected it to be a weathered relic built in a time back when Night City still believed in grand visions. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the actual building was nothing like what I imagined. It was a towering building in the middle of The Glen, one of the fancier districts in Night City. Palm trees were out from, adding a little bit of green to the concrete jungle. Barricades topped with barbed wire surrounding the entire structure to keep the unwashed hordes from descending on their “elected” officials to decry failed policies. All-in-all, it was a great representation of the hypocrisy of the elites of Night City and the failures of its government.

Anna and I stepped inside one of the many chambers in the building, a room lit by fluorescent lights and dominated by a crescent-shaped table where the councilors sat like performers on a stage. Their expressions ranged from feigned concern to regal determination, each one playing their part in a well-rehearsed political performance.

“…soaring crimes rates,” one councilor declared, his voice sharp and accusatory as he jabbed a finger at a colleague across the table. “If we don’t address this, we risk losing the few investors still interested in Pacifica.”

“And yet,” another shot back, calm but steely, “most of them abandoned Pacifica after the Unification War. Militech and the NUSA made sure of that. The question isn’t about maintaining interest. It’s about rebuilding it from the ground up.”

I found a spot along the wall to lean against, not trying to draw attention to myself. Anna stood at my side, her hands clasped in front of her like a stone sentinel. She’d drawn the short straw today, acting as my bodyguard for this little expedition.

None of the councilors even glanced our way, which was just as I wanted. This wasn’t my moment to shine – it was theirs. I wasn’t here as a player in the political drama unfolding before me. I was simply the director, quietly admiring the execution of a script I’d painstakingly helped craft.

It had taken weeks to set the stage. Angelica and John had buttered up the three councilors who worked with The Pack, offering a mix of promises and veiled threats to ensure they played their parts. Now, as the discussion shifted from crime rates to the crumbling infrastructure of Pacifica and proposals for tax incentives to lure businesses back, I listened to them regurgitate arguments I’d written myself, dressed up in the flourish of political rhetoric.

This wasn’t politics. This was theater.

The councilors all hit their marks. Two of them, tied to Militech, pushed the narrative about the need for increased corporate security. Their words were laced with the unmistakable influence of their benefactors, promising stability through stricter enforcement. Opposing them were two councilors with loyalty to Arasaka, their agenda slippery and indirect but ultimately meaningless.

What most people in the room didn’t know was that there were three councilors in the room who belonged to The Pack. To me. They spoke carefully, subtly steering the conversation in the direction I’d intended, laying the groundwork for decisions that would serve my interest.

My three councilors all owed their seats on this council to the work The Pack had done for them: the bribes, the “favors,” the muscle. They’d set up this city council meeting, organized the agenda, and would vote exactly how I wanted them to.

“Selling portions of Pacifica to the corporations could be a solution,” said one of mine, sliding the suggestion into the debate with just the right amount of nonchalance. “If we offer land at a symbolic price – say, one eddie per lot – but tie it to strict conditions on security and development, it could attract the kind of investment the district needs.”

There it was – the moment we’d been building toward. Her words landed like a thunderclap in the room, and the councilors all reacted on cue.

The Militech reps leaned forward, exchanging glances. Cautious but intrigued. They wouldn’t want Arasaka to buy out the lots of land in Pacifica, but the opportunity for their benefactors to claim a foothold in a growing district? That was tempting. You could almost see the wheels turning as they weighed the risks.

The Arasaka-backed councilors, predictably, pushed back. Their polite smiles didn’t hide the sharp edges of their disdain. “We’d have to be careful,” one of them said, his voice oozing corporate poise. “Certain parties might use this as an excuse to destabilize the region further. Pacifica’s issues require a more nuanced solution than simply handing over land.”

He wasn’t fooling anyone. He didn’t give a shit about nuance. What he cared about was making sure Militech didn’t get a stronger position in Night City. If it came down to it, he’d vote to sell to any other megacorp – hell, probably even SovOil – than let Militech tighten its grip.

My three stayed steady, playing the middle ground, threading the needle. Their job wasn’t to argue. It was to steer the conversation, subtly but deliberately, toward my vision. They’d nudge Militech and Arasaka’s reps into circling one another like wolves fighting over a fresh kill, all while guiding the conversation toward the council’s unanimous approval of the plan and their backing for whichever corporation I chose to deal with.

If The Pack could pull this off, it would be a game-changer. While I was slightly wary about SovOil getting involved in Pacifica through The Pack, it was only because they approached us thinking they had the upper hand. They were a large, multinational corporation with holdings all over the world. We were a small gang that controlled a single district in Night City. Our partnership wouldn’t be equal. But if The Pack could control which corporation landed in Pacifica, we’d show we were in a much better bargaining position.

The corporations would pour money and resources into the district – rebuilding infrastructure, fortifying security, creating a foundation my people could capitalize on. It would ease the burden on The Pack, freeing us from the need to act as both enforcers and engineers. And it would allow us to send a clear message: if the corporations wanted a slice of Pacifica, they’d need to deal with The Pack. No one else. We were the gatekeepers.

I let my gaze drift across the chamber, soaking in the scene. A few familiar faces stood out in the crowd – journalists from the big networks, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes darting between the councilors. I knew a few of them from watching tv or catching bits of news while waiting in elevators. WNS, N54, Diverse Media Systems – all the heavy hitters were present. They weren’t here for the politics. They were here for the story, for the drama, for the clicks.

My mind wandered, caught in the details of the room: the flickering overhead lights, the godawful wallpaper, the young interns in the back who all looked fresh and eager to be there. I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice Anna stepping closer until I felt her nudge my side.

“You look like you’re enjoying this,” she murmured, her voice low but tinged with amusement.

I glanced over at her, catching the faint curve of a smirk on her lips. “Just appreciating good theater,” I replied with a grin, letting my eyes drift back to the councilors.

The meeting played out exactly as I’d hoped. After more heated “debate” about crime rates, infrastructure decay, and the failures of past investments, the council finally arrived at their resolution. The official word was that they would “do their due diligence” and start interviewing corporations interested in purchasing land in Pacifica.

Perfect.

My councilors would steer those corporate reps straight to me. I’d tell them all in no uncertain terms how they could secure a foothold in Pacifica: by dealing fairly with The Pack. They wouldn’t have much choice, not with the kind of influence we’d secured on the city council.

As the councilors declared the meeting adjourned and began to file out, I straightened, ready to leave. That’s when I noticed her.

Nadezhda Tiurina.

She was seated in the far corner of the room, half-hidden in the shadows, but unmistakable. Mikhail Akulov’s so-called “bodyguard.” Her sharp features were framed by blonde hair, and her eyes were a bright fake blue that locked onto me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

Our gazes met, and she didn’t so much as blink. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile – if you could even call it that. It wasn’t friendly. It was the kind of look that promised trouble.

Anna noticed my hesitation. “What?” she asked, her hand already drifting to her holster hidden under her jacket.

“Nothing,” I muttered, tearing my eyes away from Nadezhda and heading toward the door. But I could still feel her gaze burning into my back as we left the room.