24991119 | 2227

  Suburbia Hab-Block 76 | Kowloon | Hong Kong Free Port

  22°19′30.00″ N

  114°10′37.00″ E

  Boss, do we need those cultists alive?

  “Preferably.” Kurt grunted as he reloaded behind the cubicle walls.

  Another hail of bullet ripped into his cover.

  The problem is I can’t tell which one.

  “How about you just shoot the ones shooting at me?”

  Civilians in the crossfire.

  He was pinned on the sixth floor.

  They cleared every chrome-head from the building.

  But they did not anticipate Church followers hiding amongst the denizens.

  Heat signatures swarmed like a hive.

  Families.

  Civilians.

  Traffickers.

  Robed cultists.

  “Civilians expendable.” Kurt said coldly.

  Even the babies?

  “Frost.” He said flatly.

  Kidding, boss. Swapping rifles.

  Kurt reached into his coat as his phone buzzed.

  Tempess.

  Working.

  He read it.

  Started texting back.

  Boss, is it really a good idea to text in the middle of a firefight.

  “Waiting on you.” He replied flatly.

  Jeez.

  An audible silent round.

  It popped the first cultist.

  Drilling a hole into the side of his skull.

  He flopped out from behind his cover.

  Kurt popped out.

  He shot another desperately trying to reposition.

  I could shoot them in the legs.

  “Took you long enough.” Kurt said.

  Could have just told me from the get-go.

  “We just need one.”

  Kurt charged the cultists then.

  His movements were honed, merciless, refined to pure function.

  Illeana watched him cut through the corridor like a scalpel.

  A cultist fired his makeshift harpoon gun.

  Illeana snapped a round into the cable, knocking the projectile aside before it hit him.

  Kurt slammed with bone-breaking force into the three cultists.

  He drove his blade into one.

  Shot the other two assailants in the knees.

  Illeana eliminated one while Kurt executed the other with a shot through the face.

  The last one peaked through the door when Illeana shot him in the knee.

  Kurt reached up, grabbed a collar of his white med-suit and slammed him to the ground.

  “Talk.”

  He rambled.

  About the End Times, the Second Coming, salvation through rot.

  Useless noise.

  Kurt shot him.

  All hostile neutralized. Insulated room ahead.

  “Copy.” Kurt said as he made his way over.

  The first thing that got to him was the smell.

  Each floor smelled different.

  Burnt oil, rotting fruit, urine, chemical cleanser, incense, something metallic and sweet.

  Floor one, the stench of humanity in squalor places.

  Floor two, the scent of decay, old machinery left to die.

  Floor three, the distinct freshness of stale detergent and moist fabric.

  Floor four, the tint of metal and ozone.

  Floor five, the ozone and silent discharge of generators.

  Floor six.

  Kurt covered his nose in spite of his gaiter.

  Death.

  Rotting meat.

  Something else beneath it: wet copper, sweet and fungal.

  “I’m going in.”

  He reached the apartment.

  The door was closed but unlocked, swollen from water damage.

  Paper talismans hung limp along the frame.

  Circles, spirals, symbols drawn in charcoal and cheap ink.

  Not religious.

  Not scientific.

  The scrawling of the unravelling mind.

  He turned the knob.

  Kurt pushed the door open.

  He stepped inside.

  The smell hit first.

  Copper.

  Bile.

  Old blood.

  Antiseptic soaked deep into porous tile.

  The lights were out.

  But stray glow from a cracked window illuminated just enough to see overturned chairs, rusted surgical tools.

  A dried pool of something dark on the floor.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  An ultrasound machine flickered against the wall, screen cracked, static playing instead of images.

  X-rays lay scattered across a table.

  Human ribs.

  Animal spines.

  Something unidentifiable.

  Notes scrawled on the walls in frantic loops.

  Ratios, chemical sequences, anatomical sketches next to scripture passages.

  He walked deeper.

  The back room, eerily dark.

  Rain hissed through a shattered window, but it did nothing to ventilate the room.

  The air was heavy, almost syrup-thick, like the atmosphere itself resisted movement.

  A flash of lightning

  His eyes adjusted.

  Hooks.

  Dozens.

  Strung across the ceiling like abandoned butcher rails.

  A crack of thunder.

  Each one held a liver.

  Pig. Human. Oxen. Goat.

  Mostly human.

  Some still glossy.

  Some dripping.

  Others shriveled and blackened to leathery folds.

  His comms crackled.

  Boss. Talk to me.

  Kurt decided to spare her the details.

  Others shrivelled, blackened to leathery folds, collapsing on their own decay.

  Some had been cut open lengthwise.

  Their pale fibrous interiors stuffed with cotton, gauze, syringes and dark, viscous fluid.

  Kurt moved between them, careful not to disturb the rows.

  The organs swayed gently, bumping against each other with soft, wet taps like obscene wind chimes.

  On the table beneath them lay a notebook.

  Pages sticking together with dried blood.

  Handwritten scrawl documentations.

  Strain 05 — Livestock vectors. Ideal Humidity. Observable Symptoms.

  Another page.

  Strain 06 — Human compatible. Mortality rate. Shelf Life.

  Another page.

  Liver batches.

  Temperature.

  Humidity.

  Hours since extraction.

  Rates of tissue breakdown.

  infection spread radius in Petri samples.

  Formulas and ideal humidity to propagate bacterial growth.

  Channels and delivery payload.

  Strategic location for maximum infection.

  Mutation strains for inter-species propagation.

  Kurt’s jaw tightened.

  Human hands made this:

  Human hands extracted the organs.

  Human hands sewn them shut.

  Real science.

  Real methodology.

  Real evil.

  A callback to the wars.

  He closed the page.

  A biological weapon shaped not in a lab of steel and glass

  But in the slums of Suburbia.

  With kitchen tools

  And stolen bodies.

  A virology lab.

  A thousand-dollar nightmare distilled with ten-dollars’ worth of equipment.

  He approached a set of containers in the corner.

  Rusted metal basins, each with a half-submerged organ floating in cloudy brown fluid.

  Bubbles rose occasionally from deep inside the tissue.

  Something fermenting within.

  Kurt didn’t flinch.

  This was the origin.

  The proto-strain.

  Crude.

  Imperfect.

  But living.

  The perfected strain would not be found here.

  No. He decided.

  This was the rehearsal.

  His eyes caught movement.

  A small shape under a tarp.

  Kurt pulled the sheet back.

  A child’s body.

  No older than eight.

  Surgical incisions along the ribcage.

  Organs missing.

  He inhaled.

  Exhaled.

  He replaced the tarp.

  He reached into his coat and retrieved a steel canister.

  An evidence vial.

  Using gloves, he collected a sample from the least degraded organ from the metal basins.

  He sealed the canister shut.

  It closed with a hiss of displaced air.

  The canister light blinked.

  Blinking, slowed, then a solid green.

  Kurt slid the vial into the containment slot inside his coat.

  He turned to leave.

  Behind him, the organs swayed in the storm breeze.

  They knocked together softly.

  Kurt stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

  Boss, you there?

  “I got what we came for.” Kurt said, “pack up. Ex-fil in ten.”

  Ok, boss.

  His phone buzzed once.

  Shirley.

  I’ll live.

  He didn’t look back.

  He descended down into the rain.

  24991119 | 2247

  Royal Veranda Suite | The Raffles | People’s Republic of Singapore

  1° 17′ 06.0000″ N

  103° 51′ 06.1200″ E

  Nightfall.

  Drowning the suite in gold and blue.

  The rain came in, it pelted gently against the glass pane of the suite.

  Lights dimmed to a soft amber glow.

  Curtains half-drawn against the storm.

  The air thick with the scent of rain and cologne.

  Blending into something warm, indulgent, expensive.

  She stepped out from the vanity.

  Her hair half-dried, towel gathered around her chest like a careless afterthought.

  She leaned against the doorway, watching him.

  He lounged across the bed.

  One arm behind his head.

  Sheets low on his hips.

  He smiled when he saw her.

  The smile of a man sated.

  “Come here,” he murmured, his voice carried a hint of affection.

  She didn’t move at first.

  The silence spanning the distance between them.

  She smiled.

  Then she strode forward.

  Slow steps across the polished timber.

  The towel loosening at her hips.

  His eyes flashed hungrily then.

  She reached the edge of the bed.

  Let the towel fall.

  A whisper of cotton hitting the floor.

  Damian inhaled sharply.

  Shirley leaned in close, letting her hair spill over his chest like wet silk.

  Her lips brushed his jaw.

  A ghostly wisp of a kiss.

  An ethereal promise.

  Her breath hot, the warmth of her body.

  Her fingers traced circles on his ribs.

  She offered her lips, he sat up to kiss her.

  “You were intense,” she whispered into his skin.

  He saw the marks then.

  He swallowed.

  “Shirls, I..” he began “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She placed a finger upon his lips.

  A soft, humorless exhale escaped her.

  A perfect imitation of amusement.

  She slid next to him.

  “You didn’t,” she lied smoothly, lips brushing his ear. “I’m not as fragile as I look.”

  His hands rose, tentative, softer.

  She let him.

  He traced the bruises, the bite marks.

  As if seeing them for the first time.

  She shifted then.

  Gradually.

  Naturally.

  Effortlessly.

  Guiding him back against the pillows,

  Swinging one leg over him she straddled him.

  Rain whispered across the glass, steady and soft, like fingers brushing silk.

  Gentle pelting as the storm comes in.

  She was atop him.

  Her lips devouring his.

  She shifted above him with slow, deliberate grace.

  Unhurried, she sat up and set a rhythm.

  Her hands upon his bare chest.

  He breathed in.

  She smiled.

  He gasped.

  This was something else.

  His hands clutched at her waist.

  “Shirls,” he breathed, voice cracking under strain.

  His chest rose and fell beneath her, ragged, uneven.

  “That’s my name now?” she asked, her hands clasping his.

  He threw his back, groaned.

  She dictated the pace.

  He, her hostage.

  Her hair spilled around them like wet black ribbons, catching the lamplight in molten streaks.

  She kept him there, at the edge.

  For a full minute.

  Sweat beaded upon her body, her breath laboring from the exertion.

  Her hair clung damp to her shoulders, her skin glowing in the spill of city light.

  “You still haven’t told me,” he managed between gasps, “what you want.”

  She smiled down at him.

  Razor-edged, knowing.

  She slowed.

  He arched upward in helpless response.

  “Ask nicely,” she whispered, leaning close enough that her lips brushed his ear.

  The words were soft, breath warm, tone merciless.

  “Ask.” She purred, kissing his neck, “and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  He did.

  Her laughter was quiet, honey-slow, cruel.

  “That’s better.”

  He shuddered beneath her, fingers gripping sheets.

  Muscles lifting in a useless attempt to reclaim momentum she refused to relinquish.

  “Shirley.” He said haltingly, “please.”

  She lowered herself just slightly.

  A strangled sound issued from his throat.

  She smiled, then resumed.

  Holding him right at the edge of release, balanced on a knife’s point.

  “There’s someone I need to meet,” she breathed. “Privately. Safely. No fanfare.”

  She dragged her nails lightly down his chest.

  “Prince Soren Fehr.”

  He sat up, she pushed him down.

  She leaned in and bit his lower lip.

  “The one you pretend you’re not cultivating.”

  His eyes widened.

  Even through pleasure, shock cut clean.

  “Soren? Why? What do you want from him?”

  “That’s a secret.” She replied, the wisp of a smile.

  “Are you going to let him…?” his voice trailed off.

  She raises an eyebrow, grinding just enough to pull a gasp from him.

  “Why? Are you jealous?”

  “No, I –“

  “I thought you want me,” Her voice carried a teasing lilt, biting and beautiful.

  He opened his mouth, closed them without a word.

  “It just—Shirls—this is big. He’s powerful. Dangerous.”

  “So are you,” she said softly. “And yet…”

  Her nails drifted lightly along his shoulder.

  “…you didn’t mind when you tore the Vesperé off me.”

  His breath choked as she shifted—just barely.

  “That’ll cost me favors. Political capital. Social credit. That circles back to me.”

  But she keeps moving.

  Deliberately, tenderly, cruelly.

  “You poor thing. Should I slow down so you have time to think?”

  He flipped them in a single, desperate surge of strength.

  That’s… no small ask. I’ll have to burn half my social credits. The man’s surrounded by security, handlers, diplomat.”

  She scissored her legs, pulled him in.

  “The Singapore Regatta. Three days from now.” She said.

  His eyes widened.

  “The Prince will be there,” she continued, accorded him a view of her sensual body.

  “Don’t play with me like that,” he rasped against her skin, trying not to move, “that’s exclusive.”

  She arched slightly against him, breath warm, eyes half-lidded.

  “I’m exclusive.” She whispered softly.

  He found no words.

  “So what do you want in exchange?” she said,

  He looked down at her.

  “I want you to say it.” She said, lightly pinching him.

  “You,” he said, his voice raw.

  “I want you.”

  She tilted her chin as he thrusted into her.

  “One more night?” she gasped.

  “Two.”

  She pouted luxuriously.

  The same small, practiced pout that so endeared her to so many.

  “And here I was,” she murmured, “hoping you’d take me shopping. Or yachting. Something… extravagant.”

  “Done. Two nights.” He swallowed hard. “Whatever you want.”

  “Whatever I want?” Her smile sharpened.

  He did not reply.

  He was close.

  “Fine,” she whispered. “Two nights. But…”

  He braced for it.

  “I want you to arrange the meeting.” She gasped, smiling, “Personally.”

  He nodded.

  “And I want my entourage with me.”

  “Your… entourage?”

  “My people. Bodyguards,” she took a grip of his hips, “Two of them. Wherever I go. They go.”

  Another nod.

  Damian dragged his hands up her waist, shaky, mesmerized.

  “I want the full treatment. Yachting. Dining. Shopping.” Her voice huskier now, panting, “And while I’m with you. I’m your exclusive.

  She bored into him.

  “No other girls. No threesomes. No parties. No experiments.”

  His eyes widened.

  “You think that little of me?”

  She extracted herself off him and slowly sat back.

  She lifted her chin so the city light traced the marks on her throat.

  Every faded bruise, every violet shadow he’d left on her skin earlier.

  “No rough stuff,” she smiled, “I trust the Prince would not like his goods, damaged.”

  His face fell.

  She didn’t need to say a word.

  “Shirls… I didn’t mean,” he began.

  She eluded his grasp.

  “You didn’t mean anything,” she said gently. “You just took it. Now I want something too.”

  He hesitated, breath trembling.

  Then cautiously, he asked

  “Is that everything?”

  “No.”

  He stilled.

  “I want you,” she said softly, “to take me to your seaside manor.”

  His breath caught between fear and thrill.

  “My home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” he asked hoarsely.

  She reached for him.

  He gasped.

  A teasing stroke.

  “You seemed to be really into the idea, so let me tell you.”

  He eyed her with anticipation.

  “Within the next two days,” Her voice dipped to a husky whisper, molten and lethal.

  “…I want you to take me on your marriage bed.”

  His face drained.

  “You know you want to.” She said simply, smiling.

  He stopped.

  He just stared at her.

  Why?

  She kissed him lightly.

  A brush of lips.

  A promise.

  A threat.

  “Insurance,” she breathed.

  Then she tightened her legs around him and pulled him down to her.

  “Come for me.” She whispered.