He watched the dog wobble toward him down the makeshift street, with all the elegance of a drunkard on roller skates—if one could even dignify this morass with the label. There was no pavement in sight; he suspected that it’d vanished with the last sane resident. Mud and raw sewage had engaged in a grotesque dance, creating a sinister brew that’d make even a skunk think twice. As for the piles of garbage strewn about, they seemed to be the talk of the town. A crowd had gathered at the nearest, representatives of the local wildlife along with a handful of children. With their gaunt frames, they looked like they shared the same nutritionist.

Mr. Starvation, PhD seemed to have a lot of clients on Mahima IV, but the state of its capital wasn’t much better. Towering walls loomed overhead, threatening to hug like a jealous couple at any moment and casting long enough shadows that a vampire could take lunch outside at noon. They provided one questionable blessing, shielding the unfortunate souls below from the brutal sun, but that was the extent of their generosity. Within this sweltering, claustrophobic fishbowl the ever-present stench of Dharavi somehow got worse—like he’d stumbled into a used sock convention at a sauna.

The buildings around him weren’t even buildings; these grandiose structures turned out to be nothing more than a hodgepodge of ramshackle cargo containers, scrap sheets of corrugated metal and—astonishingly—cardboard boxes. It felt like a gang of overzealous dumpster divers with dubious taste had launched some kind of intergenerational artistic odyssey, with each new wave of misfits adding their own unique touch to this magnum opus of urban deterioration.

To his right, rising from the mud like a leviathan, loomed the top half of a six-foot-wide pipe that in a brilliant display of optimism was meant to provide water…to a slum district teeming with nearly a million souls. But drinking from it? As tempting as that game of Russian roulette sounded, he’d pass. Around here, toilets were rarer than unicorn sightings; he’d calculated that each one served roughly two thousand residents. That was an unfavorable ratio by anyone’s standards, fastidious foreigners included.

The dog stumbled to a dramatic pause, quivering with both exhaustion and thirst. It was a tragic figure that even he couldn’t help but pity. He might not like other people, but animals were different. Instinct drove them, their choices made sense, and there was an honesty in that.

As for the locals, their indifference to both him and the dog bordered on absurdity. He couldn’t decide if it was the hopelessness induced by grinding poverty that made danger invisible, or if everyone here had simply achieved new depths of intellectual decline through generous intake of whatever toxic sludge passed as food. Not that he could complain; a cacophony of idiots jabbing fingers and hollering like deranged auctioneers wouldn’t exactly help his cunning master plan.

His new friend, however, was becoming an issue. It’d shadowed his every move for an hour now, like some relentless paparazzo; even worse, it was sick. He waited, locked in a peculiar standoff with the bedraggled beast. Its matted fur framed eyes that glittered like malevolent slits, as if it’d picked up a few tricks from the grim alleys of its surroundings. That was an illusion, though, the dog’s problem wasn’t ill will but rabies.

Rabies, as assassins went, made him look like a clown with a squirt gun. He’d witnessed a man’s torment, once, a feverish nightmare of migraines and confusion that progressed to pain so bad he couldn’t stop screaming. Undercover at the time, he and his supposed fellow rebels had been able to do nothing except keep the virus from spreading. Tied to his bed, raging and snapping, the miserable bastard’s last act before death took him was biting off his own tongue.

Unholstering his side arm, he took aim.

There was a soft pop and the dog collapsed. Its carcass melded into the refuse, a mournful note in the unending dirge of indifference. He’d helped the only way he could, in the end, and hoped that the poor thing had gone somewhere better. Then he made the weapon disappear, and trudged on.

This planet was a cesspool, and he longed to escape it, but duty bound him. He couldn't depart until his mission was complete, but given that he was hunting one of his own he had to take his time. Most targets were about as hard to capture as sloths, but he couldn’t afford mistakes around a fellow assassin—however strung out. Dharun had taken a nosedive into decadence; first it was booze, then a buffet of mind-altering substances and ultimately the woman who’d been more than happy to supply him with both. Somewhere along this chemically induced odyssey, he’d decided that ditching his vows was the ideal path to enlightenment.

Running, he’d landed here: in the outer rim’s armpit.

They’d been friends, once, which seemed absurd in light of Dharun’s escapades. Between transforming bars into demolition zones and magnetically pulling chaos like some renegade asteroid, the man’s life was a cosmic carnival ride. As for the so-called girlfriend, she seemed thrilled to lead him around by the nose and into even worse trouble. Craziest of all, however, Dharun hadn’t had to leave; assassins weren’t celibate and some did have partners, even got married.

Planting his foot in a revolting surprise, he grimaced.

Well, if the stars aligned as planned, he’d be on a transport tonight.

Lifting his gaze, he confronted the grim and battered façade of the abandoned industrial complex that’d been his surveillance sweetheart. He’d finally located Dharun a week ago and after countless spying escapades decided on this derelict stage for their final act. The top floor would provide him with a clean shot and, most crucially, give him an unobstructed view of the path Dharun took each evening. Dharun had been cautious, at first, but after months on the run had apparently decided that no one was following him after all.

He splayed his aristocratic fingers, gripping crevices in the crumbling concrete, and began to climb. The relentless sun scorched his back as he moved upward, lizard-like, superheating the skin beneath his jacket. No one called out, of course, and no one asked questions. Elsewhere, a different dog barked as a train horn pierced the air. Cars were a rare sight on the outer rim, Dharavi’s roads were a miracle compared to some he’d seen and who could afford one anyway?

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At the fourth floor, he stopped.

Then, slipping through what’d once been a window, he moved deeper into the heart of darkness. Buttons and other notions littered the floor of a once bustling workshop, sewing machines still waiting in the permanent twilight. He glided across the room on the balls of his feet, a silent ballerino tiptoeing through a minefield. To either side of him, a chasm of rusted fence posts and jagged debris waited to skewer the slightest misstep. Some men might’ve been scared, but he wasn’t; he had confidence in both his balance and his judgment.

Growing up within palace walls, he’d been nurtured in the art of grace along with everything else a prince should know. Destined to be emperor, like his father, he’d spent countless nights dancing and charming women twice his age—until disaster struck. Escaping his uncle’s coup, he’d sought refuge with the Brotherhood of the Dragon and traded his birthright for the life of a faceless specter. Now, instead of leaving breathless twitters in his wake he left only questions.

He knelt down, shedding his jacket and revealing the gun strapped to his back. A long-range sniper rifle with a narrow barrel, its straight and polished lines were a stark contrast to nature’s chaos. Forged on his home world, it was a masterpiece of design from Brontes’ most famous gunsmith and boasted an accurate range of well over a mile. Today’s assignment would be up close and personal but, nevertheless, he disassembled it and examined each piece. A sniper’s work wasn’t for the hot-blooded; cold, methodical precision was the name of the game.

Research was important, too, and over the last week he’d studied the sun’s angle as it rose and set. Light glinting off a mere inch of exposed barrel could doom his mission and, as he took his position, he kept his head down. He had about an hour before Dharun appeared, assuming the man kept to his usual schedule. Three afternoons in a row he’d waited here, in a grim dress rehearsal for the big night, and each time Dharun had come from the north and alone. More importantly, there were no swarms of children playing their stupid games or other annoyances.

Willing himself to calm, he settled in to wait.

Then, out of nowhere, Dharun strode into the fading light. He honed his concentration; a miniscule hitch of his chest could obliterate the shot, hence the reason professionals squeezed the trigger on the exhale. The former assassin looked around, as if sensing him somehow, and he readied himself.

A searing pain pierced his calf.

He whirled, sidearm drawn, to confront his attacker—and stared, disbelieving, and what he saw. Before him squatted a disgruntled urchin, a sullen pile of rags that glowered at him in the gloom. She looked like a child but she wasn’t, he realized; her demeanor oozed a world-weariness that defied her small stature. Whatever she was, regardless, she wasn’t frightened; casting a nonchalant glance at his gun, she once again returned his frigid stare. “You’re going to Hell.”

And this, he knew, was what happened without a spotter.

The fork she’d used as a weapon still protruded from his calf; removing it, he applied first pressure and then disinfectant while she made herself comfortable and waited for him to die. “I’m not going to Hell,” he said patiently, as he unrolled a bandage. “There is no Hell.”

She tilted her chin. “Take not life,” she recited, in that clear voice of hers, “which God hath made sacred, except by way of justice and law: thus does He command you, that you may learn wisdom.”

He sighed. “Can we at least introduce ourselves, before we start praying? I’m Ceres.”

Ignoring his proffered hand, she crossed her arms.

“I’ve read the scriptures, too,” he informed her. He’d memorized them, as part of his training—although the contrast between the world’s malevolence and a benevolent God’s wisdom only cemented his belief that her Al-Hakam, The Judge, was nothing more than a celestial no-show.

“Then you know,” she replied, “that what you’re doing is neither justice nor law.”

Leaning against the wall, he suddenly felt older than his twenty-seven years. “Actually, it’s both. Although why I’m justifying myself to you, I have no idea. My order has rules, and he broke them.”

“So?” she challenged. “Your rules aren’t God’s rules.”

“Neither are the state’s!” He threw up his hands, frustrated. “Even so, the scriptures tell us to heed them. Obey those in authority, sound familiar to you? The man you’re so desperate to protect isn’t doing that, either, in case you’re wondering. He’s a sinner, too, a worse sinner than I am.”

“We’re all sinners.” Her tone was tart.

Standing, he studied her. “You have to come with me.”

Terror seized her features, an oddly satisfying sight.

“It’s one of my rules not to harm dumpster goblins,” he replied calmly.

She blinked, incredulous. “Assassins have rules?”

So she knew what he was—and probably more about Dharun than she was letting on. He didn’t want to terrorize her, he didn’t like one-sided fights, and he also didn’t want to kill her if he didn’t have to but he couldn’t let her run around Dharavi broadcasting his business. “Everyone has rules,” he said, shouldering the rifle. “You just might not understand them.”

“Please.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to.”

He shrugged back into his jacket, adjusting the collar. “This can be as agreeable or as disagreeable as you wish,” he warned, savoring the fear that shrouded her gaze. It seemed that his new friend had at last grasped the weight of her mistake. He moistened his lips, a subtle gesture not lost on her, as her pallor deepened. Her gradual realization that he might indeed kill her was a forbidden elixir, igniting the desire to tease her and watch her squirm. The intoxicating rush of his own dominance surged within him, as the smallest of smiles flashed across his features.

She rose. “Fine, then. Let’s go.”