The punch came fast, with the clear intent of knocking her out.

  What remained of Nyx’s Shrouded ability spared her the worst of it; she managed to twist away, but the hand still passed way too close. Close enough to split the skin above her eyebrow.

  She knew she had gone too far. Dug too deep.

  Ever since she began extracting code and pulling deeper layers of information from the device belonging to Dot’s Contractor, Nyx had stumbled into a vast, tangled sea of data on the Shrouded and the Ascendants, one that stirred her curiosity in a way that bordered on obscene.

  Her personal hunt for answers about her own Shrouded origins was what had driven her into hiding in the first place, living in the shadows, in service of the Order. And now, armed with the data Dot had handed her, Nyx had fallen into a relentless loop, search after search, connection after connection, an insane sprint toward answers to questions that had haunted her for years.

  Until she finally found something.

  A discovery. Or perhaps merely the confirmation of what had always lingered at the edge of suspicion: she was not the product of a natural genetic deviation, but she was the result of a forced one.

  That knowledge alone unfolded in layers and subtleties, but it gave her direction, just enough to push her into the next step. Enough to make herself the experiment.

  The execution was… complex. Manipulating cerebral electromagnetic fields to hack her own neurotransmitters, relying on illegal implants, left her with a constant, grinding headache as collateral damage. But her pupils had lost that cross-shaped distortion she found so grotesque. From her perspective, that made it a success. For a brief moment, she even felt… almost normal.

  What she hadn’t accounted for was the visit, an unwelcome one. Especially not from a brute, in her one-bedroom rented apartment.

  The giant breached her small refuge like a system error: no subtlety, no hesitation. Just a body programmed to execute and exit. The violent kick against the door’s cheap security lock reduced it to technological scrap, and Nyx saw the threat seconds before it fully manifested in front of her. Enough time not to die but not enough to walk away unscathed.

  The first strike was a clear message. He hadn’t come to scare her…he had come to silence her.

  Pain flared at her eyebrow as blood spilled fast, but she was already moving.

  As she dropped sideways, she dragged one of the metal bracelets off the table with her, something that looked like a forgotten accessory, but housed one of her pulse triggers: a short-range disruptor.

  The intruder advanced, but without urgency. He probably sized her up by her fragile frame. Or maybe he filed her away as just another tech nerd—no physical threat. A code specter. A mind behind a screen. Nothing dangerous. Nothing lethal.

  Big mistake.

  Nyx rolled into the darkest corner of the room and fired the pulse.

  A muted snap, like a live wire tearing apart, cracked through the air. The man locked up. His eyes widened, jaw clenched tight.

  “Adaptive neural disruptor,” Nyx said as she rose, watching him stagger. “Containment tech for Ascendants.” She smiled, sharp and sardonic. “Guess what? I modified the range.”

  He tried to move, but his motor commands shorted out; muscle without brain, a machine without a BIOS. His body gave up and collapsed like dead weight. She stepped closer, studying his eyes as their color nearly drained away, leaving him almost human.

  A glimpse of what she wanted to be.

  “People like you don’t erase people like me,” she said quietly, her voice low and unforgiving.

  With minimal effort, she slid her hand to the base of his neck, where a cervical collar tightened. She recognized the beta-human pattern immediately: a constructed, shaped, striving toward something more. Even paralyzed, he still twitched, mumbling incoherently. She ignored it.

  With the certainty of someone who knew exactly what she was doing, Nyx moved to the small nightstand and retrieved a compact case. She returned to the giant, whose spasms had begun to subside, and slotted a small overload relay chip into the collar. Nothing lethal, just enough to disconnect the central nervous system for at least forty-eight hours.

  The body finally went slack, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

  She stayed there for another second, breathing shallow. The headache surged back in rhythmic pulses. Blood, tremors, adrenaline…all of that, she expected. She knew how to handle it.

  The fear, though…that part hadn’t been in the plan.

  Using her foot, she flipped the fallen body onto its back with a sharp motion. Her hands moved on autopilot as she searched his pockets: an oddly shaped device, several electronic components, and a communicator. That one she tossed aside without hesitation, letting it bounce and crack against the floor. The impact echoed in the cramped space.

  She collected his weapon and a small dagger, inspecting both before stowing them away. Then she lifted her own communicator and sent a brief message to Walkyria—coded, blunt, leaving no room for doubt.

  When she looked down again, her gaze lingered for a beat on the man’s communicator. She crushed it under her foot, the snap of breaking components vibrating through the worn sole of her sneaker.

  She stuffed her backpack with whatever looked useful—parts, gadgets, anything worth taking—her movements fast, rigid.

  Because if they had sent an Executor after her, one thing was certain: the game had just changed.

  ? ? ?

  Dot was caught in a deadlock, somewhere between reining in her embarrassment and dealing with the lingering edge of arousal. Spectrum’s interruption snapped her and Ghost back into reality like a punch to the gut.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Ghost took a second longer than necessary to let go of Dot’s waist, as if the touch still clung to his fingers. Or maybe because a part of him was still weighing the option of simply continuing where they’d stopped.

  Eventually, he pulled away—with effort—letting out a breath that sounded more like a curse. Hoarse. Choked between clenched teeth, heavy with frustration. He dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to scrub the desire away with a single, rough gesture.

  Then he turned his back to her.

  Dot watched him with a mix of curiosity and humor, catching the low muttered curse as he adjusted… himself. He composed his body like a soldier returning from battle. First the zipper, precise and mechanical, tension barely contained. Then the button. T And finally the belt, drawn from her hand in a controlled, deliberate pull, like he was forcing himself back into alignment.

  His posture still carried the weight of the world, but now she saw him through a different lens. They’d been one step away. One step from willingly committing a consensual crime of desire…only to be torn apart at the worst possible moment

  She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or disappear.

  From where she stood, she had to bite back a smile. She simply couldn’t look away. The view of his back was distracting… until the awareness hit her. One glance down was enough to confirm she was just as out of place.

  She let out a muted breath and closed her eyes for a second, as if sheer willpower might erase the embarrassment from existence.

  Dot hopped down from the crate in a quick movement, her boots barely making a sound against the floor. Taking advantage of the fact that Ghost was still facing away, she discreetly—and desperately—adjusted her underwear with a sharp tug, pulling her hoodie back into place with another anxious motion.

  Still turned away, Ghost bent down and picked up the balaclava from the floor, his fingers gripping the fabric a little too tightly. His movements were more restrained than usual, as though he were trying to reclaim the cold composure he’d let slip between kisses. His breathing was still slightly heavy, so far from his usual control that it felt like exposure all on its own.

  The silence between them was thick, as if even the air felt embarrassed.

  Dot finally murmured, a trace of humor in her voice as she tried to break whatever this was between them:

  “Spectrum is officially the biggest cockblock in history.”

  Ghost let out something between a stifled laugh and a cynical cough, still facing away.

  When she moved closer, he was collecting his gloves, acting as if all of this had been just another ordinary day.

  “You think he’s going to… talk about it?” she asked, still trying to fill the silence with something.

  Ghost glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes still dark with something unfinished.

  “He’s going to sing.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” she said with a dry laugh. “So now we’ve become the soundtrack to a musical.”

  Another silence stretched between them as they headed toward the elevator.

  Tense.

  Almost tangible.

  Ghost reached it first and called the elevator while pulling on his gloves. Dot followed, the cup spinning between her hands in a failed attempt to steady her nerves. She deliberately slowed her pace, staying a step behind until she stopped beside him.

  Both of them stared at the elevator doors as they finally slid open.

  They stepped inside.

  And for a second, everything shrank into a space far too small for two bodies that were still far too warm.

  By instinct, Ghost leaned back against the rear wall of the cabin, arms crossed, gaze fixed on something invisible ahead. Or maybe on nothing at all, like he was trying to reboot his own system.

  Dot remained standing in the center of the elevator, eyes on her reflection in the doors. Both hands now squeezed the cup with unnecessary force, yet another failed attempt at distraction.

  And the silence returned.

  Dense.

  And irritating.

  The stainless steel doors reflected the image of both of them: her, disheveled, her hoodie riding higher than she remembered; him, now adjusting his gloves with the precision of someone who had almost lost control, and was forcing himself back into something unshakable.

  Centimeters between them.

  And an invisible fire burning everything in between.

  Dot looked away, only to catch her reflection again along the side of the elevator. Her neck still marked where his lips had been. Her hair undone by fingers that knew exactly where to go.

  A shiver ran up her spine.

  Congratulations, Dot thought bitterly, you almost pioneered a brand-new category of interdepartmental crime: preemptive passion by spontaneous combustion.

  She glanced sideways at Ghost. His profile looked carved from stone. Jaw tight. Eyes half-lidded. But his fingers… those were still worrying the edge of the glove, like he hadn’t quite decided whether he wanted to wear it.

  Or use it against her.

  The elevator kept descending, stopping at empty floors. Still slow. Obscenely slow, as if the universe were deliberately stretching every second of that ridiculous silence.

  Dot took a deep breath. She wanted to say something. Anything. But the only sentence forming in her head was If he touches me again, that’s it. Goodbye restraint, to hell with the world. She swallowed hard, fighting the ill-timed laugh threatening to escape as she rotated the cup between her fingers. She felt unbearably restless.

  She let out a quiet sigh, already resigned. Shit… this is going to be a long ride down.

  Ghost remained silent, his massive body leaning almost casually. His arms now rested on his legs, his attention seemingly fixed on the balaclava dangling from his fingers, as if weighing a decision.

  Dot held her silence for two floors—barely—before the tension became unbearable. She turned slightly, casting a look over her shoulder. Her eyes traced his face, which until not long ago had been a mystery.

  It still was, but now she could see the layers.

  And that alone unsettled her.

  “If this was because of me…” she began, turning a little more, a subtle smile edging toward challenge, “…you don’t really need to wear that anymore.”

  Ghost lifted an eyebrow slowly. His gaze rose to meet hers, as if reassessing her under a new light. The corner of her mouth curved a little higher as she added, amused:

  “I promise I’ll restrain myself and not start kissing you in public.” Her voice was deliberately provocative.

  The corner of his mouth lifted too, half smile, half provocation.

  And devastatingly lethal.

  That broke her.

  It wasn’t fair that something so minimal could hit that hard. Seeing his expressions now—after so long deciphering nothing but silence—felt like resisting something that was already under her skin. It was strange.

  And far too intense.

  She turned forward again, as if another second of looking at him would be pushing her self-control too far.

  “Anyway… do whatever you want,” she murmured, weaker than she’d meant to.

  Silence.

  One. Two. Three seconds.

  Then she froze.

  She felt his breath at the back of her neck. She hadn’t heard him move, only the heat of his body close to hers. The air splitting between them. His presence dense, like a storm about to break.

  “…whatever I want?” he whispered, so close his voice felt like it burned against her skin.

  His fingers brushed her waist with almost cruel slowness; light as a breeze, dangerous as a sheathed blade, while his lips touched her neck. Warm. Damp. A stark contrast to the cold of the elevator, enough to make everything inside her twist.

  “Do you know what the worst part is?” he murmured against her ear. “You still taste like a memory.”

  His voice was low and rough, a sweet poison slipping in unnoticed.

  It was more than a provocation.

  It was a fact.

  Dot couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe for a brief moment, her entire body reacting before her mind could catch up with the impact. Whatever existed between them wasn’t just desire, and she knew it. She knew it was about everything that still burned between them. And everything that had never stopped burning.

  The memory wasn’t in the taste,it was in the recognition. In the fact that, despite everything, he still felt her the same way.

  Dot was about to turn. To answer. To risk everything all over again.

  Ding.

  The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open slowly, revealing the corridor that led to the rooms. She raised an eyebrow and with it, a crooked half-smile appeared.

  It was almost comical. Almost prophetic.

  The universe didn’t joke… it wrote soap-opera scripts.

  The pressure of Ghost’s fingers at her waist betrayed that he might be thinking the same thing. Very likely wanting the same thing she did.

  Dot felt a nervous laugh climb her throat, that cursed reflex from when the body can’t decide whether to explode or flee. She swallowed it down as best she could. Then, finally, she turned slowly on her heels to face him.

  One of her hands slid up Ghost’s chest, palm flat, like she was tattooing his presence into her skin. Over his collarbone, his shoulders, the warm fabric of his clothes. She kept her gaze lowered. Still didn’t dare look at him. Not after everything that hadn’t happened.

  But she felt all of it.

  ? ? ?