I shove my hands into my pockets and jump out of the cargo. Landing with a dull thud, I blend into the crowd, looking no more remarkable than the person next to me.

  No suit. No neatly polished shoes. No neatness at all.

  In these parts, standing out too much could get you killed.

  It had gotten him killed before.

  The driver of the horse-drawn cart pulls away, disappearing into the labyrinth of the city.

  This was the underground of Lagos—the side the government wouldn’t show you. The only place capable of housing the INTEL.

  I step forward, then cut left into a narrow alley lined with broken flower pots and a glowing neon sign. A quick glance in the puddles, the reflection in my glasses, an open window—anything reflective. I’d been checking for a tail for a while now, but I didn’t want to turn my head back.

  Dying so many times had its advantages. You develop a sense for when bad things are about to happen. Even without proof.

  Slipping through a market, I duck under an awning, change direction, and sidestep between two buildings. Eventually, I loop back to the street where I was dropped off, but a block down, passing the same glowing sign again.

  From the outside, you wouldn’t imagine the INTEL was ten times the size within. Some Effectors weren’t afraid of using spatial expansion codes, after all.

  Inside, voices overlap in a tangled web of conversation, buzzing through the hall. It’s a strange place—a fusion of an underworld guild and a high-tech crime syndicate. Candlelight flickers across the space, illuminating remnants of old architecture—wooden beams woven with holographic panels like spiderwebs of data.

  To power those holograms, you’d need a way to break the randomness of energy transfer. Solflare or—if you had the resources—ELECTRICITY.

  I was here for two things. Three, actually.

  I scan the room, making my way toward the far wall, where a row of glass shelves reflects my image back at me, distorted and warped. Not just spatial expansion, then. They were using a distortion index. Could be the lighting.

  It would have been nice to meet whoever built this INTEL. It was the newest in Lagos. The architect might still be alive.

  Or Suspended’s Cowboys might have gotten to him first.

  “Man, why do you always pick such hard missions? This is a solid C+ rank, whatever they call it.”

  “Chill, boy. Talk like that, and you’ll never get better at anything. Dragon Sweeping is easy if you know what you’re doing. It’s not like we’re going for AHv92.”

  “Chill down, Peter.” A short woman placed a hand on the blonde’s shoulder. “Look at Raz’s log plate. He’s done so many missions, he should be able—”

  Since when did kids engage in Dragon Sweeping—and since when did proud men live this long?

  I adjust my glasses, letting the light reflect off the lens.

  They’d probably die in this mission. If not this one, then the next.

  I was ninety percent sure.

  A wad of gum lands on—

  I tilt my head, and it sticks to the newspaper I was reading instead of my sleeve.

  I turn slowly. My gaze locks onto someone at the table across from me.

  Stare.

  “Why are you eavesdropping on our conversation, rich kid?”

  She could tell from this distance? Interesting.

  “I—I wasn’t.”

  I chuckle nervously, scratching the back of my head. I hold up my newspaper.

  “Just reading this.”

  Her lips twitch.

  “Yeah? Your eye movements weren’t tracking like someone who was reading.”

  The rest of her team turns to her, incredulous.

  “Wait—he was? Why are you all—”

  I see what’s happening.

  “Sorry. I actually did.”

  “What—you actually did?”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “Wait. How could you tell, Alyce?”

  She smirks and slaps her log plate onto the table.

  Just a bunch of amateurs.

  The coin flickers briefly:

  Crudes killed: 20,475

  Packages captured: 23 (7 A-Rank)

  Mission requests completed: 100

  Twenty thousand?

  Like hell.

  “Pure ego. Nothing else,” I murmur. “Show who’s more dominant—her or the burly man. Raz.”

  She was the reason for the ninety percent.

  For a brief moment, her eyes flick to mine, and I feel it. Not Coz. Pure murderous intent, properly buried.

  Cut-tail.

  She would kill them on the mission.

  “Hello.” I step closer. “Can I join your team? I’m new to this.”

  “Wait, we’re not really accepting any new people—” Raz starts.

  “Sure,” Alyce interrupts, smiling. “What you got?” Her lips curve upward.

  “Wait—are we accepting this?” Raz protests.

  She leans onto the table, her cleavage exposed.

  I don’t know what’s more dangerous—her beauty or the spike in threat levels I’m getting from her.

  Red hair. A masterfully curved body. Pink lips, arched brows—

  I grip my pen. The urge to stab her just to see her reaction crosses my mind.

  But I might not be able to rewind time fully here.

  “Ehm. I have money.”

  I reach into my pockets, pulling out Narai bills before swapping them for Universals—currency accepted anywhere in Suspended and the Expanse.

  “Whoa. You’re rich.”

  “You could say that.”

  I flick a bill between my fingers.

  “Two thousand. For the five of you. If you let me in.”

  But I could use her.

  I wondered how she would kill Raz—if she even could. There was a faint trace of Coz around Raz. Interesting.

  “I’ll give you time to think about it.” I motion to the counter. “I want to get something first.”

  “I’m not into white men,” she calls after me. “But if you bring me a drink, I might consider it.”

  INTEL Reception Desk | 23:54

  An endless stream of holographic screens flickers with data—names, codes, balances shifting like quicksilver.

  — — —

  Now, the receptionist was smirking at me.

  I catch the eye of a woman at the end.

  “I heard that someone brought in a shard for sale. Old Age tech. If you could help with any Effector books on time that you have—and information on the AHv92.”

  Damn. Why the long list?

  The woman’s eyes light with amusement. The others chuckle.

  “Look at you, all polished and tidy,” a man smirks.

  “Yeah. Got that ‘chosen one’ look.”

  The laughter fades as their eyes turn serious.

  “If you insist,” the woman says. “How do you want it?”

  “Printed.”

  Silence.

  “Paper?” she echoes. “Actual paper?”

  “It’s ten times the price,” another murmurs.

  I shrug, adjusting my glasses. The sheen of light on my lenses hides my expression.

  “I’m rich.”

  I flick a Dragon Sweeper’s Pass between my fingers—a coin carved with a mythological dragon on one side and an empty eye socket on the other.

  I press a button on my bag.

  “Transfer a million.”

  A minute later, their gazes turn more respectful.

  One step closer.

  I head back to the table, setting a drink in front of Alyce.

  “So. When are we doing this?”

  “Who said you’re in?”

  I slide a thick bill to everyone at the table.

  Alyce smiles.

  “Tomorrow. Portals. Think you can handle it?”

  “I can.”

  Lagos at night was a living thing, pulsing with neon and whispered secrets.

  The alley swallowed me whole. Dim neon bathed the walls, and the scent of rain-soaked concrete hit my nose.

  What would my colleagues think if they knew I was a Dragon Sweeper?

  I pull out a piece of paper, angling it under the light. My lips move as I confirm the coordinates:

  13.5460° N, 44.0178° W.

  I turn into a curve, walking toward the wall.

  Dead end.

  Then I wait. Just for a while. Then—

  I stilled. Listened.

  A shuffle—just behind me.

  I turned.

  His eyes flicked between me and the bag.

  Too slow.

  I moved first.

  The bag left my hand. Mid-air, he reached for it—reflex, instinct.

  That was his mistake.

  In the space of a breath, I was already in front of him.

  My fingers brushed his forehead.

  The watch ticked once.

  Coz pulsed.

  His skin cracked like old leather. His breath caught. His eyes—wide, disbelieving.

  He tried to speak.

  Too late.

  — — —

  Dust.

  I put the shard back in the bag as it hummed faintly.

  I glance at my watch. Three seconds.

  I’ve wasted more time blinking.

  THE SHARD PULSED.

  Jagged edges trapped in a rough metallic frame, fused to the crystal by ungodly heat. Inside, an ethereal blue light flickered, glyphs shifting, rewriting themselves. A double helix of luminescence curled through its core.

  Natasha emerged from the back, adjusting her red cap. She wore a half-buttoned shirt, sweat clinging to her curves, and shorts dusted with grime.

  “This shard is Old Age. Whoever got it did us a favor.”

  Maps of gryphons littered the table. Their mechanics. Manuals. Flight paths.

  A laptop sat open—one of the reasons I needed the shard—to simulate assumptions of interceptions I had thought out.

  Diagrams of contraptions designed to break into Suspended lay scattered everywhere.

  In the center, a shirtless man sat cross-legged amid a chaos of notes. My mustache thick as ever twitched as I flipped through an open book—runes, circles, and lines of code meticulously scribbled across the pages.

  I stretched out my hand.

  “If I could control the effect…

  Increase the oxygen level at a point.

  Pull fire parameters from the Great Code.

  Define a confinement point.

  Add a motion vector…”

  VUSSSH–flames erupted from his palm, twisting upward in a controlled spiral.

  His wristwatch ticked.

  Then—nothing. The fire was gone.

  I exhaled sharply and jumped to my feet, spinning toward Natasha.

  She smirked.

  “So this is what Effectors call a base.”

  Something temporary. Mostly ten seconds before it vanished. But if you learned it, you could create anything with the correct parameters—substance, energy, force, emotions—limited only by the user’s knowledge and time.

  “Not bad. Learning a base in a day,” Natasha mused, crossing her arms. “People would call you a prodigy if they knew.”

  I rolled my shoulders.

  If she knew I could do my Ritual.

  “That’s what happens when they take everything you love away from you.”

  She tilted her head.

  “What did you use that million for, anyway?” She stepped closer. “’Cause I could become a prodigy. The way you called and asked for it—like it was just sitting there, waiting for you.”

  I laughed. Natasha had more money than I ever did—both legally and illegally. It was beyond that but it played an important role in her being the first pick how else I would have been building. She was the queen on the chess board.

  I motioned toward the wall.

  A piece of paper was taped there, bold letters scrawled across it:

  30 MORE DAYS.

  The plan was already in motion.

  Call me a terrorist.

  But whoever runs Suspended—

  They’ll wish they never existed.

  I swore it to my father in Suspended—before they erased him from existence.

  That I would bring it to its knees.