Danelle Baker's body ached like she'd been put through a gauntlet, every muscle stiff from overuse. The cold metal bench at the bus stop did little to help. The chill seeped through her jeans, biting into her skin, but she didn't care. Sitting felt like a victory after the shift she'd just survived.
Six days a week at the Bellagio buffet was already enough to break anyone's spirit, but tonight? Tonight wasn't even supposed to happen. She shifted her weight on the bench, the sharp edge digging into the back of her thighs. The memory of her manager's voice still echoed in her head — "No one else can cover." The guilt-trip was a tactic she knew all too well, and she'd fallen for it. Again.
But that wasn't even the worst part.
Her eyes flicked down to her wrist, where a fresh bandage was wrapped tight against raw, pink skin. The sting had faded to a dull throb until she moved it wrong, and then it felt like hot iron pressed into her flesh.
"What's another scar," she muttered, flexing her fingers as if the ache might vanish. Her thumb brushed along the edge of the bandage, the sticky adhesive tugging at her skin. She winced as a spike of pain shot up her arm. The burner had caught her off-guard, just for a second, and that's all it took. No check-in from the shift lead. Just a clipboard, a write-up, and a dismissive "be more careful next time."
Across the street, two drunk tourists staggered by, arms draped over each other like they were the only people in the world. One of them swung a bottle around like it was a trophy, laughing loud enough to echo. A pair of headlights swept past, their glow carving fleeting shadows on the pavement before disappearing into the distance.
Danelle leaned back, rubbing her eyes, and pulled her phone from her bag. Might as well see what garbage Facebook had in store. The news feed scrolled by—baby pictures, engagement photos, and some "hustle harder" motivational post that made her roll her eyes. Then a familiar profile picture popped up. Jennifer.
Jennifer's purple-dyed hair was hard to miss, even in a tiny profile photo. This time she'd shared an article.
"GENETX UNDER FIRE BY HUMAN RIGHTS LOBBYISTS," it read, bold and in all caps like it wanted to scream at her.
Danelle hesitated, lips tightening into a line. It was probably more anti-bioweapon rhetoric, but her thumb hovered over the link anyway. She tapped it, and the page loaded slowly, the spinning circle of loading doom mocking her.
Finally, the article appeared.
---
"GENETX UNDER FIRE BY HUMAN RIGHTS LOBBYISTS"
By Sarah Collins - April 27, 2021
It was five years ago today that the bio-company known as GENETX unveiled their first and only genetic bioweapon: the parasite 1-XB. Dubbed "The Holy Grail" of modern warfare, it was created by lead researcher Dr. Samantha Porter, a Harvard graduate at the age of 17. The 1-XB, a modified variant of the natural parasite Toxoplasma gondii, was designed to invade host bodies and excrete a mutagenic compound that accelerates evolution at unpredictable rates. The result? Violent, mindless organisms with hyper-aggressive behavior, capable of following simple commands...
---
"Violent, mindless organisms," Danelle muttered, flicking her thumb to scroll further. Same story, different year. It was always like this—scary headlines, blurry photos, and conspiracy theories. She was about to scroll past it when a single line snagged her attention.
---
"...17 marines were injured, and 3 confirmed dead during a routine mission in North Korea. DNA sequencing revealed exposure to the 1-XB strain."
---
She sat up straighter, her spine stiff with sudden alertness. North Korea? Last week, the government had denied any use of bioweapons. "Nothing confirmed," they'd said. So what was this? She scrolled down, but the page froze, the spinning circle back to mock her again.
"HHHEEEELLLLPPPP!!!"
Her breath hitched. Her head shot up so fast her neck cracked. That scream wasn't from her phone. It was real. Close.
Across the street, a girl stumbled into view. Young. Maybe eighteen, nineteen. Her black dress clung to her like a second skin. Her arms flailed like she was drowning, nails clawing at the air. Three men closed in on her. Three.
One of them grabbed her from behind, his arms locking around her waist. She kicked and twisted, wild and frantic, but he lifted her like she weighed nothing. Another man stepped forward, blocking her escape, his hoodie pulled low over his face. The third man staggered back, wheezing and clutching his chest where she'd kicked him square in the ribs.
Danelle was on her feet before she knew it. Her phone slipped from her hands, and she scrambled to grab it. Fingers stiff with panic, she punched in 9-1-1, her heart slamming against her ribs. She pressed the phone to her ear, each ring feeling longer than the last.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.
Her eyes snapped back to the street. The girl wasn't struggling anymore. Her limbs hung limp like all the fight had been drained out of her. They tossed her into a van. No windows. No plates.
No. No no no.
"HEY!" The shout ripped from her throat. Her legs moved on their own, and she bolted across the street, her sneakers slapping the pavement. "HEY! I CALLED THE COPS!"
One of the men turned, his eyes catching the streetlight—dead and flat as marbles. He moved fast. Too fast.
CRACK!
A bolt of white-hot pain shot through the back of her head. Bright. Sharp. Blinding. Her skull exploded with pressure, like a balloon about to pop. Her knees buckled. The world tilted sideways, and the pavement rushed up to meet her.
Her face hit first. She felt the skin of her cheek scrape against the concrete. Everything spun. Her eyes wouldn't focus.
Move. Get up. Move.
She clawed at the ground, nails scratching at rough stone. Her arms felt numb. One of them wasn't working right. Blood leaked into her mouth, warm and metallic. She coughed and tried to push herself up.
Move.
A shadow loomed above her. Her vision blurred, but she could still see the outline. Broad shoulders. Hoodie. A glint of metal.
The Glock 17 hovered inches from her face, the barrel wide as a tunnel. Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded in her ears, so loud she barely heard the click of the safety.
No. Not like this. Move. Move.
Her arms flinched, her hands reaching for him. Her fingers brushed the fabric of his hoodie.
BAM!
The world went quiet.
It wasn't like the movies. No loud ringing. No cinematic fade-to-black. Just quiet.
She tasted blood.
Her head hit the ground. It didn't hurt anymore. Everything just stopped.
---
Vegas Police Report — April 28, 2021 — 3:42 a.m.
Deceased: Danelle Baker
Cause of Death: Gunshot wound to the head
Location: North sidewalk, near Caesar's Palace
Her body lay at an awkward angle, her arms bent in ways they shouldn't be. Her head tilted just enough for her eyes to remain open, staring at something distant. Blood pooled beneath her, a wide circle seeping into the cracks of the sidewalk. It dripped slowly, winding its way toward the street like little red rivers.
Her eyes were still locked on the road where the van had driven away.
The neon glow of Caesar's Palace flickered.
The city didn't stop.
Neither did the night.