The gunshot cracks through the night, startling me so badly I nearly fall off the ambulance step. My heart rate spikes as heads turn toward the sound.

  "What was that?" I ask, struggling to see past the rows of police vehicles.

  "Shots fired, north perimeter," Lighthouse reports in my ear, voice tight. "Multiple skinheads engaging with police."

  The paramedic's hands freeze mid-bandage. "We need to get you inside the ambulance," she says, suddenly all business. "And out of here, now."

  More gunshots ring out, followed by shouting. I can see officers running toward the commotion, weapons drawn. Fury Forge's voice cuts through the chaos, issuing commands I can't quite make out. I hear the low basso profundo hum (that's what Mom called it) of Bulwark's voice, somewhere underneath the murk.

  "Flash, Blink, report," I demand into my comm.

  "Police opened fire on a skinhead," Flashpoint responds, breathing hard in my ear. "Someone riled them up. I think one of the skinheads got aggressive-- is that a toy gun?"

  My blood runs cold. "Lighthouse, visual on Shrike?"

  "Working on it," she replies. "Something's happening at the transport."

  The paramedic tugs at my arm. "We need to move now."

  I resist, straining to see past the wall of vehicles blocking my view. "Just a second--"

  "Bee!" Lighthouse's voice turns urgent. "They're loading him into th--"

  A metallic, ringing hiss scrapes through the din, followed by Bulwark's pained shout. I can't fucking see! I can't see past the ambulance door! I'm trying to strain past this paramedic but she's not letting me go.

  "He's loose!" Blink's voice crackles through the comm. "Bulwark's down!"

  The paramedic pulls more insistently. "Inside, now!"

  I stumble to my feet, wincing as pain lances through my various wounds. Through gaps in the police line, I catch glimpses of movement - officers rushing toward the transport vehicle, which is now sprouting black spikes from every surface, including the windshield and tires. Totally inoperable.

  "Flash, Blink, get out of there," I order into my comm. "If it's gone bullet hot, disengage immediately."

  "But--" Flashpoint begins.

  "That's an order," I snap. "This isn't your fight anymore."

  "I've got a bead on Shrike! I can snipe him!" Blink yells through my earpiece.

  "I'm pulling rank. OUT!" I yell back, trying to not feel all the cold sweat running down my back. I hear the shrill hiss of marbles anyway. "Blink!"

  The paramedic finally manages to get me into the ambulance, closing one of the doors but leaving the other open as she rummages through supplies. "I need to treat those deeper wounds properly," she says, voice steady despite the escalating chaos outside. "What's your pain level, one to ten? Dave, get us moving!"

  "Eleven," I reply honestly. The puncture wound in my back throbs with each heartbeat, and the various cuts are transitioning from adrenaline-numbed to screaming agony. "What can you give me that works fast but won't knock me out?"

  She gives me a sharp look. "You need to stay here and rest. Let the professionals handle this."

  "Not an option," I tell her. "You know I'm not drug seeking. I need an opioid fast. Something that won't knock me out. NSAIDs don't work on me."

  Before she can answer, the ambulance rocks violently. Outside, officers are shouting orders through megaphones: "ALL CIVILIANS, EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY. I REPEAT, ALL CIVILIANS--", and there's a squeal of noise.

  "One of my drones just went dark," Lighthouse reports. "Someone's shooting them down."

  The paramedic hesitates, then reaches for a locked cabinet. "I can give you a local anesthetic for the puncture wound and a mild dose of fentanyl for the systemic pain. But you shouldn't be moving at all with these injuries."

  "I don't have a choice," I say grimly. "I can heal. You can't."

  She begins preparing the injections, her movements quick and precise despite the chaos. "Hold still," she instructs, administering the local anesthetic near the puncture wound. The relief is almost immediate - blessed numbness spreading through my lower back.

  "Bloodhound," Lighthouse's voice cuts in, "he's grabbing the overpass!"

  Her voice cuts off as a thunderous cracking sound splits the air. I can feel it through my blood sense - tens, dozens of new wounds opening simultaneously as people trip, fall, or get thrown into newly formed spikes. There's no way any car is getting out of here now.

  "Lighthouse? Lighthouse!"

  "Still here," she responds. "Lost visual. Too many drones down."

  "Bee! I can't get an angle in! Shrike's barricaded the entire area!" Amelia hisses through the call, the sound of a revving scooter just barely audible. "You have to get out of there!"

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  I ignore her.

  The paramedic finishes administering the fentanyl. Almost immediately, a warm wave washes over me, dulling the sharp edges of pain. "That should help for about-"

  Her words cut off in an unprofessional yelp as the ambulance floor erupts. A black spike shoots up through the metal, missing her by inches but catching her uniform. As she jerks away, she loses her balance, falling directly onto a second spike that bursts through the side panel.

  "Dave!" she screams, blood blossoming across her uniform. "I need help!"

  I lunge forward, catching her before she can fall further onto the spike. With careful movements, I help her disengage from the metal thorn, now slick with her blood. The wound is deep - a puncture through her upper thigh that's bleeding freely.

  "Pressure," she gasps, reaching for a nearby trauma kit. "Direct pressure."

  I grab gauze pads, pressing them against her wound while she fumbles for more supplies. "You need to stay down," I tell her. "Apply pressure and call for backup."

  She nods, face pale with shock. "You can't go out there."

  But I'm already reaching for my helmet, sliding it back over my head. The fentanyl has taken the edge off, making movement possible if not comfortable. My blood sense is lighting up like a Christmas tree - dozens of injured people, blood everywhere.

  "Your priority is to the civvies, and yourself," I tell her. "Live to fight another day."

  "BLOOOOODHOUUUUUND!" Shrike roars, his voice amplified by a megaphone to gunshot-loud. "WE'RE NOT DONE YET!"

  I secure the last clasp on my helmet and move toward the ambulance door. "Stay here," I tell the paramedic. "Keep your head down and wait for help."

  She looks at me with the sort of bleak expression you only see in movies.

  I slide out the back.

  Outside is a scene from a nightmare. The spike forest has regrown, more chaotic and deadly than before. Police cruisers are stuck between spikes, nudged into unusuable positions, their tires shredded. Officers take cover wherever they can as black thorns erupt from the ground in waves. The overpass above is transformed into a grotesque metal garden, spikes flowing along its concrete surface like ivy.

  And there, atop a mound of twisted metal that used to be the transport vehicle, stands Shrike. Even from this distance, I can see that something's changed. His posture is different - still exhausted, body language broadcasting fatigue, but somehow more focused, more dangerous. In one hand, he holds a police megaphone. In the other, I catch a glimpse of something small and black. He wiggles it around in his hand, just to make sure I see it, and then throws it to the ground.

  Hypeman. Now where'd he get that?

  I activate my comm. "Flash, Blink, status?"

  "Clear of the immediate danger zone," Flashpoint reports. "Police have established a perimeter two blocks out. It's chaos, Sam."

  "Stay back," I order. "This is between me and him now."

  "Sam, you can't be serious," Lighthouse cuts in.

  I step forward, picking my way carefully through the field of spikes. It's nothing like the tightly knit labyrinth of before - this is an open forest, a nuclear exclusion zone. Clear sightlines. An aesthetic, not a tool. Shrike watches my approach, his face split in a bloody grin.

  "I knew you'd come," he calls, his voice carrying without the megaphone now. "The dog always returns to the fight."

  "This ends now," I tell him, continuing my careful advance. "You're only making it worse for yourself."

  He laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Worse? There is no worse for me. There's only this moment, this stage, this performance." He gestures expansively at the destruction around us. "You still don't understand, do you? This was never about winning or losing."

  "Then what was it about?" I ask, buying time as I close the distance. Twenty yards. Fifteen.

  "It's about showing the truth," he says, stepping down from his perch, limping towards me. "That your system, your rules, your prisons - they're all illusions. I'll keep coming back. Again and again. Put me away in Daedalus. Throw me in a padded cell. It doesn't matter. I'll keep coming back. I'll always come back."

  The plastic wrap is gone, but his handcuffs are bloody, the chain snapped from the middle. His fingerless boxing gloves are covered in dozens of twisted thorns - gone are the straight, perfect cones he was using before. Maybe it's the Hypeman. Maybe it's his rage, but they're all spirals now, like a drill. Something designed to puncture and drain the blood right of you.

  "You had your chance," I tell him. "You could have stood down."

  "And you could have faced me alone, as agreed," he counters. "But here we are. So let's finish this. Just you and me."

  Ten yards between us now. I can see every detail - the blood soaking his suit, the unnatural pallor of his skin beneath the crimson stains, the wild light in his eyes. He's running on fumes and Hypeman, but he's still deadly.

  "It's me and you, Bloodhound. Me, you, and the oxygen you haven't earned yet. The only way this ends is with one of us in a body bag. COME GET ME!"

  He lunges without warning, lashing the cabinet rail hidden behind his back leg with one hand like lashing a whip. I dodge, but barely - my injuries slowing me just enough that the edge grazes my shoulder. The spike-covered glove follows, aiming for my neck

  I grow Instant Armor just in time, the teeth erupting from my skin to meet his attack. The impact jars through my entire body, but the armor holds. I counter with a strike to his midsection, feeling ribs give way beneath my knuckles.

  He doesn't even flinch, just brings the rail down again, forcing me to roll aside. Pain flares in my back as the movement reopens the puncture wound, but the fentanyl keeps it manageable. I come up in a fighting stance, blood dripping down my side.

  "Getting tired?" he taunts, circling like a predator. "I can do this all night."

  "That makes both of us."

  We clash again, a flurry of strikes and counters. He's abandoned his earlier strategy - no more elaborate traps or careful maneuvering. This is prison-yard brutality, each attack meant to maim or kill. He hurls the rail towards my head, and it spins end-over-end, knocking my helmet aside long enough for him to land a bone-shattering inward punch to my gut. It lands on kevlar, but those spikes hurt, and I can smell my own bruises forming in real time.

  A spike forms beneath my feet when I step up - fuck! I forgot! - and it digs in enough through my boots to almost cut my sole. He swings like a manic gibbon, laughing, spraying blood out into the air in pink clouds and red whips, while it's all I can do to keep my forearms armored up and blocking his fake loser versions of my tooth-knuckles.

  A metallic ping! behind me warns me nearly a moment too late of the cabinet rail getting kicked at me from a spike from behind. Almost gracefully, he snatches it out of the air and catches my ribs in one smooth motion, knocking the wind out of me. Then, a flat jab from the tip that catches me in the chest, and a spike near my ankles completes the trip, sending me sprawling onto my back. Pain explodes through my body as I land on the puncture wound. Before I can recover, he's on me, one knee pressing into my sternum, the rail across my throat.

  "See?" he hisses, face inches from my helmet. "This is how it was always going to end. With you beneath me."

  I struggle, but his weight and position give him leverage I can't overcome. A spike slowly reaches out from the tip of the rail, curling towards me like a hungry baby, seeking the gap between helmet and collar.

  "You fought well," he concedes, increasing the pressure. "Liberty Belle was right to pick you. You really are her perfect understudy. Now die."