The Catacombs of Paris were never meant to host a high-stakes corporate takeover, but rows of polished human skulls really tied our little revolution together.
Kyle stepped out of the freshly wrecked cell, rolling his shoulders with a lazy swagger that made my pulse spike with a sudden, thrilling spark. He snatched a spare mag-rifle, his fingers brushing mine with deliberate, lingering heat that sent a sharp shudder straight up my arm.
“You know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his eyes dancing with playful, low-key mockery, “if you wanted to break me out of a subterranean bone-prison, you could’ve just slid into my DMs. Breaking three floors of security feels like flex culture.”
Kyle didn't look like he’d spent two weeks locked in a catacomb. He looked like he’d just rolled out of a high-end Seattle loft—messy dark hair, a sarcastic smirk, and a faded band tee that survived dimensional collapse way better than the local security systems.
As a former cyberpunk hacker and tactical specialist, Kyle treated high-grade magical containment grids like poorly coded firewalls. Arcane runes were just syntax errors; ancient wards were mere suggestions. He leaned against a stack of human femurs with the infuriating, unbothered poise of a guy lounging at a rooftop bar, his optic grid casting a soft blue glow over his sharp jawline as his fingers twitched with restless, addictive energy.
“Oh, it’s absolutely a flex,” I purred, giving him a slow, unabashed once-over that coaxed his smirk into a predatory, feral grin.
Beside us, Lyra shouldered a heavy mag-cannon with crisp, practiced hostility, scanning the skull-lined arches. She stepped close enough for me to feel her radiating warmth, her golden eyes flashing with a cocktail of raw excitement and fierce affection.
“Let him talk, Tiara,” Lyra laughed, her armored gauntlets clinking softly as she nudged my elbow with playful fondness. “Personally, I rate the grand entrance a ten out of ten. Though next time, leave a few guards for me to throttle with my bare hands.”
“Deal,” o-Tiara chimed in, stepping into my peripheral vision with a wicked, cat-like tilt of her head. Her ruby eyes glinted with dark, mischievous delight. “Though if we’re building a proper hit-squad polycule, we need to survive the lobby first. The Grand Arbiters are waiting at the altar down-tunnel.”
Kevin—a grizzled mercenary who looked like he ate landmines for breakfast—exhaled a cloud of synth-cigar smoke, his weather-beaten face completely deadpan, completely unbothered by the sirens wailing through the halls. "Not bad, kid," he grunted, his gravelly voice heavy with reluctant, gruff respect. "Though if we're breaking out, I hope the exit plan involves more explosives and fewer speeches."
Kyle pushed off the bone-wall, stepping straight into my personal space with zero respect for boundaries. “So,” he hummed, his tone dropping into a low, tantalizing hum that set my nerves on fire, “an elite syndicate assassin who bends space, heals like a horror-movie monster, and casually wrecks security wings. Are you single, or do I need to fight a guard for your attention?”
Before I could fire back a retort, Lyra smoothly leaned into my other side, her shoulder bumping mine with possessive, electric heat. She cast a sideways glance at Kyle, her golden eyes glowing with competitive challenge. “Back off, hacker. She snapped that security turret first. Protocol dictates she belongs to the vanguard.”
"Vanguard?" Kevin snorted, racking the bolt of his mag-cannon with a lethal, violent clack-clack. "She's doing all the heavy lifting while you two flirt in a cage. Pay's zero, but the company's entertaining. Count me in—somebody has to keep you kids alive."
Clone-Tiara crossed her arms, a throaty, dark chuckle rumbling in her chest. "Technically she's me, which means I get priority access to the polycule lineup. But I suppose we can share."
I couldn't help the unhinged, wildly amused laugh bubbling up in my throat. Spatial energy crackled across my fingertips, shadows weaving around my boots as hyper-regeneration thrummed a steady, intoxicating rhythm beneath my skin.
“Save the turf war for upper management,” I purred, thrusting my hand toward Kyle with a theatrical flourish, flashing Lyra a sharp, inviting wink, and giving Kevin a curt, respectful nod. “Welcome to the squad. Try not to fall in love with me too fast—we have a building to burn down.”
Kyle squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing my knuckles in a slow, possessive stroke. “No promises, sweetheart.”
“Stick close, look pretty, and shoot anything that doesn't look like us,” I commanded, my chest swelling with a surge of dark, eager adrenaline as the distant, sinister chant of the Grand Arbiters echoed from the altar ahead.
“My favorite instructions,” Kyle grinned, his shoulders relaxing into a combat stance with pure, unadulterated zeal.
We marched forward into the dark, leaving pure carnage in our wake. The Grand Arbiters thought they were culling anomalies. They were about to find out what happens when you corner a multi-powered assassin and hand her an absurdly hot, wildly lethal support team.