The water in the drainage pipe of the Black Sump was waist-deep, freezing, and thick with the chemical stench of District 13’s industrial runoff. Every step Jack Mercer took was a battle against his own broken anatomy. Beneath his wet leather trench coat, the severe chemical burns from Acid Annie’s secretions flared with white-hot agony whenever the damp fabric brushed his chest. His right hand, wrapped in stiff, blood-smudged layers of medical tape, was an useless, swollen mass of fractured bone. His left wrist throbbed with a dull, nauseating ache.

Yet, he kept moving, guided by the dim, flickering light of Jane Sterling’s tactical flashlight.

"We shouldn't have made this detour, Jack," Jane whispered, her voice echoing softly against the curved concrete walls of the sewer. She kept her eyes on the dark water, her hand resting on the grip of the riot shotgun she had confiscated from Officer Briggs back in the bunker. "The Neon Rose is already filling up. If Lieutenant Briggs leaves before we get there, the logs are gone forever."

"I’m not going into a syndicate stronghold unarmed," Jack rasped. His throat felt like sandpaper, and the low, erratic hum of his DIY Neural Collar vibrated directly into his jawbone. The battery indicator on his wrist-link was a fragile, glowing sixty percent. The electrodes at the base of his skull stung, keeping Brick Malone's gravelly, murderous voice temporarily locked behind a wall of artificial static. "And I’m not using Malone's skin unless I absolutely have to. Every time I turn to stone, a piece of my mind stays behind."

He stopped in front of a rusted iron drainage grate where the sewer current pooled. Five feet below, wedged tight between two thick, corroded bars, was a familiar shape.

Detective Mercer’s Service Revolver.

It was a heavy-caliber, six-shot weapon left to him by his father—a physical relic of a time when the badge stood for something uncorrupted. It had been lost here during his desperate flight from the Aegis tracking hounds.

Jack leaned over the grate, his breath hitching as the movement pulled at his burned chest. He reached down with his left hand, but the angle was wrong. He had to use his right.

"Jack, don't," Jane warned, reaching out to stop him. "Your hand is fractured."

"I know," Jack muttered.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind slide past the throbbing pain in his hand to touch the dark, dense memory of Brick Malone. He didn't invoke the full transformation—just a localized burst of Malone’s brute density. He focused it entirely into the fingers of his right hand.

*Concrete Hardening.*

His bloodshot eyes flashed with a brilliant, unstable blue light—the unmistakable Blue Sclera Flash. The skin of his right hand turned a rough, slate-grey, the bone fractures temporarily locked in place by the sudden, stone-like rigidity. With a guttural growl, Jack gripped the rusted iron bars of the grate and pulled.

The corroded iron groaned, bending outward under the supernatural force. Jack reached down, his stone-hardened fingers wrapping around the cross-hatched wooden grip of the revolver. He yanked it free just as the concrete texture dissolved from his skin, returning his hand to pale, bruised flesh.

A sharp, sickening jolt of pain shot up his arm, forcing him to his knees. He gasped, clutching his wrist as the blue light in his eyes faded. But the heavy steel revolver was back in his possession. He popped the cylinder with his left thumb. Exactly two heavy-caliber lead bullets remained in the chamber.

"Two shots," Jane noted, her voice tight. "Make them count."

"I only need one to make Briggs talk," Jack said, slipping the weapon into his duster pocket. He reached into his other pocket, his fingers brushing the cool, tarnished silver of Sarah’s locket. He didn't open it. He didn't need to. The knowledge that her silent photograph was inside was the only thing keeping him from surrendering to the cold, dark void of his fading mind.

***

The transition from the wet, pitch-black sewers of the Black Sump to the flashing, high-contrast neon of the Neon Rose’s outer perimeter was jarring.

They emerged from a maintenance hatch in a narrow, trash-filled alleyway just fifty yards from the club. The Neon Rose sat on the concrete platform of the Gilded Sector’s border, casting brilliant, pulsing waves of pink and blue light over the rain-slicked asphalt of District 13 below. It was a physical manifestation of the class divide—the wealthy drug tourists and corporate managers from above laughing under the neon glow, while the dregs of the slums shivered in the dark shadows of the platform.

Rain fell in a heavy, steady downpour, hissing against the hot neon tubes. Jack pulled the collar of his Lead-Lined Trench Coat up, his eyes scanning the perimeter. The front entrance was heavily guarded by augmented bouncers in dark suits, their eyes glowing with the amber light of active ocular scanners.

"The bouncers are running real-time biometric checks," Jane whispered, crouching behind a stack of industrial recycling bins. She checked her NCPD scanner, which was picking up high-frequency Aegis security feeds. "If we try to walk through the front, the system will flag your face in three seconds. Christian Ward’s predictive sweeps are already active in this sector."

"We aren't going through the front," Jack said.

He closed his eyes, pushing his logical processing to its absolute limit. He didn't use a superpower; he used the decades of gritty, old-school detective training his father had beaten into him.

*Deductive Flash.*

In his mind’s eye, the chaotic scene of the alleyway slowed to a crawl. The flashing neon lights resolved into predictable patterns of shadow. The rain-slicked ground revealed the tire tracks of high-end corporate town cars. He analyzed the placement of the security cameras—their panning arcs, the three-second blind spot between the rotation of the northern lens and the southern motion sensor. He noted the back exit, a heavy steel door marked with a glowing red VIP sign.

"There," Jack whispered, pointing his taped left hand toward a narrow maintenance alcove near the VIP exit. "The private security guards rotate every ten minutes. The VIP exit has an unmonitored blind spot behind the steam vent. That’s where Lieutenant Briggs will leave. He’s too paranoid to walk through the main lobby with the original security logs."

Jane checked her watch. "It’s five minutes to midnight. If Officer Briggs’s confession was right, the meeting is ending now."

"Let's get into position," Jack said.

They slipped through the shadows, utilizing the thick steam from the street vents and the constant downpour to mask their movements. Jack’s boots made no sound against the wet asphalt—a baseline human skill that saved his precious collar battery from draining.

As they reached the shadow of the maintenance alcove, the heavy steel VIP door clicked open.

Jack pulled Jane back into the deepest recess of the alcove, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Two men stepped out into the rain.

The first was Lieutenant Donald Briggs. The chief of the fifth precinct was a heavy-set, bloated man in a wrinkled NCPD officer uniform, his red face slick with rain. He looked nervous, his eyes darting frantically down the alleyway. In his left hand, he clutched a sleek, silver briefcase—the secure transport container for the original memory files and security logs.

The second man was a syndicate runner dressed in a flashy, high-collared red duster. He handed Briggs a small, glowing blue data drive.

"The Seven appreciates your cooperation, Lieutenant," the runner said, his voice smooth and cold over the sound of the rain. "Victor Vance has already authorized the transfer of your retirement credits. Once the Aegis mainframe executes the database wipe at midnight, your connection to the Mercer case will be completely erased."

"Just make sure the wipe is clean," Briggs grunted, his voice nasal and wet. "Mercer is still out there. He’s got Sterling with him, and my nephew hasn't checked in since the church sweep. If they find those logs—"

"They won't," the runner cut him off, turning back toward the door. "Subject Zero is a dying man. His brain is turning to mush as we speak. Enjoy your retirement, Chief."

The steel door clicked shut, leaving Lieutenant Briggs alone in the dark alleyway.

Briggs let out a shaky breath, clutching the silver briefcase tight against his chest as he turned to walk toward his private hover-car parked at the end of the block.

He didn't make it three steps.

Jack Mercer stepped out of the steam, blocking the exit.

Briggs gasped, his boots slipping on the wet asphalt as he stumbled backward. His hand flew toward his holstered sidearm, but before his fingers could touch the leather, Jane Sterling stepped out of the shadows behind him, the cold steel muzzle of her riot shotgun pressing firmly against the base of his skull.

"Don't even think about it, Chief," Jane said, her voice deadpan and unyielding. "Draw the weapon and I’ll paint this alley with your retirement plan."

Briggs froze, his hands slowly rising, though he kept his grip tight on the silver briefcase. He stared at Jack, his bloated face turning a sickly, translucent white under the flashing pink light of the Neon Rose.

"Mercer," Briggs stammered, his teeth chattering from a sudden wave of panic. "You... you're supposed to be dead. The SWAT team... they said they cornered you at the church..."

"Your nephew was soft, Donald," Jack rasped, stepping closer. He drew his father's heavy revolver with his left hand, pointing the long, scratched steel barrel directly at Briggs’s chest. His hand was trembling slightly, but the weapon remained dead-center. "Just like you. You signed Sarah’s death warrant to protect your pension. Now, you’re going to tell me who ordered the hit."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Briggs squeaked, his eyes darting toward the alley exit. "It was a gang hit! Brick Malone’s crew—they were the ones who went into your office! I just cleaned up the database afterward! I was protecting the city from a scandal, Jack!"

Jack’s eyes flashed a cold, dangerous blue. The DIY Neural Collar against his neck let out a high-pitched, angry hum as his anger spiked, threatening to loosen his mental partition.

"Malone was the muscle, Donald," Jack growled, his voice dropping into a hollow, gravelly register that made Briggs flinch. "I saw his memories. I saw the blue fire. I know Victor Vance was the one who burned her. But Vance doesn't move without a corporate paycheck. Who at Aegis funded the hit? Who gave you the order to clear the security cameras?"

Briggs swallowed hard, his bloated chest heaving. He looked at the heavy revolver in Jack’s hand, then at the cold, determined face of his former detective. He realized he was trapped. His nephew was gone, the database wipe hadn't executed yet, and the man standing in front of him had nothing left to lose.

"It... it was the research division," Briggs whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain. "The Subject Zero project. They needed the serum back, Jack. Sarah stole it. She injected you with it because she knew they were coming for her. I didn't have a choice! They told me if I didn't clear the cameras, they’d wipe my mind and dump me in the Sump!"

"The name, Donald," Jack demanded, his finger tightening on the trigger of his father's revolver. The cold iron felt heavy, a solid weight of impending justice. "Give me the name of the Aegis director who signed the order."

Briggs opened his mouth, his lips trembling as he prepared to speak. "It was... it was Director—"

Briggs’s words died in his throat.

Not because he chose to stop, but because the air was violently, physically sheared from his lungs.

Jack watched in horror as Lieutenant Briggs’s eyes suddenly bulged out of their sockets, his face turning a dark, suffocating purple in a fraction of a second. The silver briefcase slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the wet asphalt.

An invisible, silent force had clamped around Briggs's neck.

Jack heard the sickening, wet *crack* of bone shattering from five feet away. Briggs’s head tilted at an unnatural, broken angle. The corrupt chief collapsed onto the wet ground like a puppet with its strings cut, his eyes staring blankly into the falling rain.

"Jane, get down!" Jack yelled.

Before Jane could react, a sudden, powerful kinetic wave slammed into her chest, throwing her backward against the brick wall of the alley. She let out a sharp cry, dropping the shotgun as she slid to the ground, temporarily dazed.

Jack spun, raising his father's revolver, his eyes scanning the dark fire escapes above.

A figure descended slowly from the shadows of the iron catwalks, hovering in mid-air for a brief second before his boots touched the wet asphalt without making a single sound.

It was Grip.

The telekinetic enforcer was dressed in a pristine, dark corporate suit, his hands encased in thin, black leather focus gloves. His cold, calculating eyes glowed with a stable, brilliant blue light, reflecting the neon pink of the club above. He looked at Jack with a quiet, clinical detachment, as if analyzing a specimen in a laboratory.

"Lieutenant Briggs was a liability," Grip said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He raised his gloved hands, the blue light in his eyes flaring as the invisible, telekinetic pressure in the alleyway began to tighten around Jack’s throat.