Two smashed gaming computers bobbed just beneath the surface. Keyboards, joysticks, and cracked server units drifted in the murky water, caught between broken crates and the slick edge of the dock. It was all that remained of the crime setup Mikal had once run from the nearby warehouse.

  Among the wreckage lay two Stipe Industries bots, slumped and submerged. Their synthetic flesh—that could almost pass for human skin—peeled away in ragged strips, exposing gleaming metal skulls .

  They looked like cosmetic surgery experiments gone catastrophically wrong.

  But it was the scene around one bot that made Tucker pause.

  A shoal of fish drifted through the saltwater haze, nibbling eagerly at the bloated corpse of Mikal. Tiny mouths worked with eerie precision, while small crabs clambered over his limbs like banquet guests. They looked—if Tucker was being honest—far too pleased with themselves.

  The body was already swelling with gases, as the microbiome inside was shifting sides. The once-symbiotic bacteria had begun digesting their former host. Nature’s recycling system was in full swing.

  Tucker had seen it all before. Methane. Rot. The slow dissolution of the human form into a liquid state. All courtesy of those so-called "friendly bacteria."

  He exhaled, wrinkling his nose.

  "Friendly bacteria," he muttered. "Yeah, right."

  Mikal lay cradled in the arms of the mugger bot—his own creation. The same machine he used to mug and maim now held him in death, as if carrying him to safety long after safety had ceased to matter.

  Tucker took a slow drag from his vape, the bitter vapour curling around his thoughts.

  Was Mikal meant to be found this easily?

  The body had been left just outside the crime scene. No attempt to sink it, burn it, bury it, or hide it. Just dumped. Plainly. Deliberately.

  Could the killer really be that careless? High? Overconfident?

  Or was it something else?

  Did they want him to be found?

  Whatever the reason, one thing was clear: this was a murder investigation.

  Tucker would bring the full weight of the NYPD to bear. He would find Mikal’s killer—or killers-no matter what it took.

  But first, there were the machines.

  He couldn’t leave them behind. If the straight cops or their robo-buddies found the hard drives, it wouldn’t take long to trace the muggings, the stolen goods, the digital trail—all of it leading straight back to Viktor and his crime empire.

  That couldn’t happen.

  Tucker would have Viktor move the machines quietly and quickly. Then Kyle, his crooked little tech nerd, would comb through the data. If there was a lead to be found, Kyle would see it.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Tucker looked down at Mikal’s corpse.

  "Thanks for the retirement bonus, kid," he said softly.

  He figured he’d better phone Viktor and get it over with. As his finger hovered over the dial, a wave of dread crept up his spine. A suffocating reluctance settled in his chest.

  The phone rang. Tucker lifted it to his ear.

  Viktor’s voice came through, tense and urgent. "Any news? Have you found him?"

  Tucker swallowed hard. The words tumbled out before he could stop them, heavy with the weight of truth.

  "We found him, Viktor… He’s dead."

  And just like that, it felt as though he’d driven a stake through a vampire’s heart.

  The silence on the other end was deafening.

  Then the line went dead.

  Tucker headed back toward the warehouse. Outside, Davos leaned against the wall, vaping and scrolling through his phone. He looked up as Tucker approached.

  Davos was fifty-seven, and the years hadn’t been kind. Once built like a tank, he now sagged in all the wrong places. His metabolism had slowed, his blood pressure was borderline, and he suffered from what he called "IBS or some other gut demon." It made him fart constantly. He’d find it hilarious—if it were happening to anyone else.

  Unlike his buddy Seb, Davos wouldn’t be broke in retirement. His wife ran a successful flower shop. That, at least, gave him peace of mind.

  He watched Tucker approach with narrowed eyes. Had he found something? As the thought crossed his mind, another urge bubbled in his gut. He let it out quietly, masked by the low hum of the docks and a helpful breeze. He took a deep draw from his vape and exhaled a plume of vanilla-scented smoke, trying to mask the damage.

  "Found him," Tucker said. "Mikal. Dumped by the dockside. He’s now an all-you-can-eat buffet for the marine life."

  Davos snorted. "His mom wanted him to go into catering. Guess she got her wish."

  "The computers and bots are there too. I need a crew. Quiet job. Move them to a safe place. Leave the body. Then I’ll call it in."

  "You tell Viktor?"

  Tucker nodded, solemn and silent. Then he grimaced as the mixed scent of vanilla and something vile hit his nose.

  "Yeah. He took it how you’d expect. I want you to tell Dent Head that Mikal called you from the hospital—so I can get the bot out of here and you can get your crew in, alright?"

  Davos nodded. "Must be a pain, that thing following you everywhere."

  "Pain in the ass," Tucker muttered. "Makes being a corrupt cop hard work."

  Davos smirked. "He got a camera in the back of his head?"

  "No. What are you thinking?" Tucker asked.

  "Maybe he trips on the stairs. Power’s always going out, right? Elevator’s broken," Davos shrugged.

  Tucker paused. "Bet that’s not the first time someone had an 'accident' during a power cut."

  "Easier to cover up than bullet holes."

  "Fine. Let me get ahead of him on camera. Don’t push him into me," Tucker said with a smile.

  Davos made the call. Then he and Tucker headed inside. As Tucker climbed to the top floor, Davos peeled off toward the fuse box. With a flick, the lights went out.

  Dent Head continued to work diligently despite the lights failing. Davos entered the room, his figure now a burly silhouette against the fractured glass of the warehouse windows.

  "Hey Tucker, got a call from Mikal—he’s at the hospital," Davos bellowed across the warehouse floor.

  "Dent Head, stop what you’re doing. You heard the guy, let’s check out the hospital," Tucker said with the usual disdain he reserved for police robots.

  Dent packed the forensic apparatus back into the briefcase. Tucker snatched it from him and headed into the stairwell. Davos waited in the shadows until Tucker was a safe distance ahead.

  Then he gripped the steel bannisters, braced himself, and swung a heavy leg at the robot.

  But Dent Head wasn’t like the others.

  After taking a brick to the head during a riot, his systems had been upgraded with over a thousand predictive countermeasures.

  He heard the wheeze of Davos’s lungs. Felt the tremor in the bannister. Caught the glint in Tucker’s eye—who, for some reason, was looking back up at him as he descended the stairs.

  Before the kick landed, the bot pivoted. Davos flew forward. The robot caught him mid-air and slammed him into the wall—not fatally, but hard enough to bruise.

  "You are under arrest for attempted assault of police property," the bot intoned.

  That wasn’t the plan,’Tucker thought as Dent Head cuffed Davos.

  Dent Head led Davos to the patrol car, Tucker gave the goon a discreet wink.

  Mission accomplished.

  The bot, unaware of Tucker’s true intent, logged the wink. Timestamped. Tagged. Stored.

  It didn’t quite add up.

  But for now, Dent Head said nothing.