MAGENTA DISTRICT, PROXIMA

  6:49 p.m.

  The usual hustle and bustle of a city—a mix of murmuring crowds, honking traffic, music, and the rumble of planes preparing to land—was completely absent here. In this rundown suburb, all that could be heard were the playful shouts of children, the chirping of insects signaling the sunset, and the occasional hum of cars speeding along the highway.

  Vicky checked her location on her phone’s GPS. She was in Otaru, a very poor neighborhood on the southern edge of the Magenta District, at Proxima’s border. After taking the metro, switching to buses, and walking several blocks, she had crossed the entire city to reach her destination.

  Would she have saved time flying here with her Daedalus jetpack? Of course! But things had changed a lot since that night when she had jumped out of a window, wings strapped to her back. That Friday, she had done it because Juzo needed to confirm the identity of that woman at the club as quickly as possible—and because staying in Proxima for so long hadn’t been part of her plans.

  Now, though, she couldn’t risk being seen flying across the sky. There were vultures circling nearby, just as Adam had said a few days ago—vultures in suits and ties, the kind she had to avoid. Impractical as it was, for the time being, sticking to the ground was her safest option.

  She stopped in front of an old, rusted wire fence and, hands on her hips, stared at the vacant lot behind it. A vast, overgrown expanse littered with scattered trash and dominated by a massive, abandoned hangar in the middle. Once a sprawling warehouse, it now stood as a monument to neglect.

  She glanced around. There was no one in sight. With a couple of quick hops, she climbed over the fence and, cloaked in the dim light of dusk, sprinted toward the warehouse.

  A section of the side wall had collapsed from years of disrepair, leaving a gap that looked like a mouth with several missing teeth.

  Before her eyes could adjust to the gloom inside—past the rusty beams of the structure—her nose told her all she needed to know: dust, dampness, and decay awaited.

  She took a deep breath and slipped through the gap, diving into the darkness.

  

  CYAN DISTRICT, NEAR THE NATURE RESERVE

  7:14 p.m.

  The sun bid farewell to the city, painting the sky in a sea of reds and purples and turning the buildings into a series of black silhouettes on the horizon—irregular steps of a staircase reaching toward the heavens.

  The temperature had dipped, not that Adam noticed. As he left the gym, a cool breeze brushed through his hair, still damp from the shower he’d taken before heading out. An hour of weightlifting and another on the stationary bike had left him drenched in sweat, but now he felt renewed.

  Adam was wearing a green tracksuit, holding a small bag in his hand, headphones in his ears, and a cheerful smile on his face.

  He was heading home, listening to music that was just right for the moment—a track brimming with energy, fiery joy, and sensuality. It was exactly what he needed! A bit of exercise and some time away from Vicky and that sprawling apartment had done wonders for his mood. He felt alive again, more alive than he had in weeks, and even, dare he say, a little sexier.

  He felt powerful, though it was a simpler, more mundane kind of power than the one he was trying to forget—but that, lately, everyone seemed to remind him of in one way or another: the enemy, with its remote surveillance; Juzo, simply by inhabiting his consciousness; Vicky, with her lectures on responsibility and training; Trevor, with his obsession with keeping him away from the company; and even his friend, Dr. Kara Lieven, with her understandable—though uncomfortable—questions whenever she ran the tests he himself had requested to make sure that so many energy emissions weren’t compromising his health.

  All of them were constant reminders that his sacred privacy was a thing of the past.

  But today felt different. Everything seemed bright and promising.

  Was this the start of a new chapter, a fresh beginning? Or was it just a cruel mirage in the desert, designed to deceive a thirsty traveler? Because one thing was certain: he was heading home—or rather, to his temporary lodging—where Vicky would be waiting to ambush him with the same old topics. What kind of new beginning could he expect then?

  The faster you do what she wants, the sooner she’ll be out of your life, Juzo’s voice—or was it his own thoughts?—whispered.

  He turned up the volume on his music. He didn’t want to hear certain truths right now, whether they came from Juzo, himself, or anyone else. It was better to stay lost in his thoughts and savor a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a while: freedom. A vast, boundless space where only he existed, free of scientific projects and surveillance androids.

  He strolled along the pedestrian path, took a detour, and, humming the music out loud, entered the small nature reserve in the Cyan District, thinking about how much he missed going to the nightclubs and bars in the Ciccone neighborhood. He closed his eyes, and there they were—the flashing lights, the motion, the noise, the artificial smoke, losing himself in the crowd and the darkness…

  For now, though, he could settle for losing himself in the dim light of this small natural world.

  The day was fading fast. In the distance, he spotted the glowing red eye of the park keeper Cyclops, then recognized its silhouette among the sea of trees and plants. Adam waited for the automaton to move away before heading to the secluded spot where he often unleashed the excess energy the gym hadn’t drained.

  Pushing through thick plants and grass, he arrived at the large pond nestled in the heart of the reserve. He looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then removed his earbuds to listen for any approaching footsteps. The rhythm of his music was replaced by a chorus of frogs, crickets, and other insects.

  He set his bag down on the ground, and just as he was about to remove the splint from his finger to keep it from burning when he activated his flames, his phone buzzed. A message—from Lisandro Carinae.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “And speaking of ghosts from the past…” he muttered.

  I heard you’ve got a new girlfriend! Bring her along. I’ve got champagne waiting for you. We miss you at B-Crush,

  the message read.

  Adam wasn’t sure whether to blush or be annoyed at the mention of a girlfriend. What would Vicky say if she saw the message?

  And since when did Lisandro write such soft, cheesy texts? His usual style was far cruder and more demanding. A few weeks ago, that message would have said something like, ‘We know about your girl, champ! What are you waiting for to bring her tan butt over here?’—though with much cruder language, of course.

  Maybe Lisandro was being polite to win back his attention. Ever since Juzo’s incident, Adam had ignored every invitation the wealthy playboy had sent his way.

  He was about to reply but stopped, remembering Trevor’s words at the club that Friday night, ‘You’re not like them. Why are you hanging out with this crowd?’

  Did he really need to get back on Lisandro’s and his circle’s radar? With all the emotional blows he’d been taking lately, those people had completely lost whatever charm they might’ve had—not that they ever had much, really—but the need to keep ties with that part of his ‘past’ just wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t feel it anymore.

  ‘What makes you any different from them?’ Trevor had asked him that night, and now he finally had the answer: I never needed them to be somebody.

  He never had. Since he was young, he’d built himself up—studying, paying for college with his modeling work, excelling at everything he did. To keep being someone, he didn’t need to grace magazine covers—though it had been a nice experience—or be the sidekick of some arrogant rich kid—a kid who, by the way, hadn’t even bothered to visit him in the hospital.

  He was Adam White, and even though he was now a little bit Juzo too, he was still himself. Beard or no beard, Vicky waiting at home, Trevor’s strange looks—it didn’t matter. After weeks of darkness, Adam finally felt like himself again, and nothing or no one could take that away.

  It was something worth celebrating. And curiously, the first person who came to mind to join him in that celebration was Vicky.

  His phone buzzed again—this time, a call. He recognized the ringtone and rolled his eyes. Speak of the devil…

  “Ex-Lieutenant Alioth,” he answered with a smirk.

  “First of all, let me just say your secretary is amazing,” Vicky said on the other end of the line. “She deserves the best vacation bonus in the world.”

  “Rita’s the best,” Adam agreed.

  “Second, today I had my rant about the names and surnames in this city, and now I’m moving on to the neighborhoods. What’s with this nonsense of naming them after colors? It’s a city, not a freaking rainbow!”

  “Vicky, Proxima has about sixty-seven neighborhoods. Maybe it’s confusing for you, but for those of us who live here, dividing the city into seven colors is way easier than memorizing the names and locations of every single neighborhood.”

  “Adam, Adam… Am I detecting a hint of explanation in that sarcasm?”

  “Nah, not at all! How do you guys divide neighborhoods in Markabia?”

  “With numbers,” she said. “The sections in Markabia are cataloged by numbers.”

  “Oh, sure! Because it’s so much easier to remember a number than a color, right?”

  “I’m not saying that, but… Ugh, forget it! Are you interested in what I found out, or are we just going to keep debating urban planning and color theory?”

  “Excuse me? Let me remind you, Ex-Lieutenant Alioth, I wasn’t the one who brought it up—but go ahead. I’m all ears.”

  “All right, check this out: Your secretary told me old Rodolfo died at eighty-eight of heart failure. Despite being fairly well off, his funeral wasn’t exactly crowded. According to her, the guy never had kids and didn’t have many close friends either. With that face, I’m not surprised, y’know?”

  Adam smiled in mild disbelief. “How does Rita know all this?”

  “Mr. White, a good detective never reveals their sources… I don’t think Rita would mind you knowing, though. She told me that Brian Okinawa, I suppose her brother, used to date the uncle of Rodolfo’s personal secretary.”

  “Brian Okinawa is Rita’s former self,” Adam said.

  “Ah… I see. Yeah, I figured something like that from the way she told it to me. Anyway, she also knows this because Homam Enterprises works with the law firm that handled the old man’s legal matters. You know a pretty residential neighborhood full of gardens on the south side of the city?”

  “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “The Flower Quarter in the Blue District. An area for wealthy retirees.”

  “Yeah, that same one! Well, before his house turned into a room at the nursing home, Rodolfo lived there, in one of those gorgeous chalets. I visited it this afternoon. Beautiful place. Now, his sparkling-new widow gets to live out the rest of her days there with her army of cats. This Aida lady is a classy, lively old gal, y’know? Although her housekeepers could stand to do a better job covering the windows with those fancy curtains—never know who might be snooping outside.”

  “Huh! I see you’ve been very, very busy.”

  “Quite. As I was saying, Rodolfo Gutiérrez could’ve been a real estate agent, but his business transactions were… let’s say, unremarkable. One of them was buying a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of the city. He never renovated it or put it to any productive use—it’s basically a junk heap. Doesn’t that strike you as eccentric?”

  “Not necessarily. Vicky, I don’t know how business deals go down in your country, but around here, not every venture turns into a success story. Shocking, right? Buying a rundown building and letting it rot in the sun isn’t eccentric—it’s just bad business.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “But what if I told you that in his will, Rodolfo specified that the property should never be sold?”

  “Okay, I’ll admit, that’s a little eccentric.”

  “The widow never had the chance to discuss it with him because, by the time she found out, Rodolfo’s mind was already wandering the foggy trails of senility.”

  “Pfft… Knowing you, I don’t even need to ask if…”

  “If I went to check out the warehouse? Let me remind you: ex-intelligence soldier with free time.”

  Adam couldn’t help but smile again. “I’m seriously reconsidering training with you,” he said. “I can’t stand seeing you waste yourself like this. Chasing clues from a stupid newspaper clipping? Come on. So, what did you find in this warehouse?”

  “Besides layers of grime, entire rat families, and a dust carpet thicker than your room’s rug? A pile of junk and a bunch of crushed cars stacked in the back. That’s it. By the looks of it, the place hasn’t been touched in over a decade and has turned into a haven for the local homeless and junkies.”

  Adam chuckled. “Are you telling me your little intrusion ruined a hobo party?”

  She laughed too. “Nah, I didn’t find anyone there, but you could see trails in the dirt from footprints, and of course, discarded syringes and other junk. I searched the place top to bottom, and the only noteworthy thing that came out of it was a pigeon deciding to poop on my shoulder.”

  “Wow, sounds like you had a super productive day!” he laughed out loud.

  But at that moment…

  Crunching. Footsteps.

  Even though the last light of day was fading and the park’s artificial lights didn’t reach this densely wooded area, he saw a shadow—a massive one—that loomed over him.

  A burst, dark liquid splattered on the grass near him, and a shower of sparks arched overhead, dragging something that landed at his feet.

  It was the severed head of a Cyclops, still clutching a long, sparking cable that had once been its spine.

  Adam took a step back and felt something gelatinous underfoot—solid silicone pieces coated in oil. Farther back, he saw the mangled torso of the park keeper android in its green jumpsuit.

  He turned just in time to glimpse something dark coming toward his face—too close to dodge.

  A tremendous force struck his right cheek, and then came the pain. Intense, unbearable pain.

  In the blink of an eye, he was on the ground, sprawled in the bushes, his face numb and his head spinning wildly. His phone and earbuds were gone, lost somewhere in the chaos.

  Some son of a bitch had just knocked him out with a sledgehammer!

  No, it hadn’t been a sledgehammer. The hit had been a punch.