The lab was a dump—concrete walls, flickering bulbs, and a stench like burnt dreams. Elias Kane slumped against a workbench, phone in hand, its red glow slicing the dark like a warning shot. Juliana perched across, all sharp edges and feral heat—hair a tangled wreck, scars mapping her arms like battle lines. Her eyes locked on his, wild and electric, and fuck, he felt it—a jolt he couldn't pin down. She was his partner in crime, but tonight she was a live wire, daring him to touch.
"Voice is the key," she said, voice scraped raw from a lifetime of screaming into the void. She gripped the phone, charged to 100% off his laptop—25% to lock on, 10% to twist minds, powered by some alien shard he'd lifted from a shady job. "We run them, E." She aimed it at the janitor stumbling past—"This job's hell"—and the app sucked up his growl, syncing in ten seconds. Ping. Green. Ready.
Her smirk was all teeth and payback, and she hit the trigger. A silent pulse ripped out, and the guy froze—face blank, eyes hollow. "Drop that filthy mop," she barked. It smacked the floor, wet and loud, and Elias grinned, a dark thrill kicking through him. She tapped off—charge slid to 65%—and the dude shuffled away, none the wiser. "Done," she said, tossing him a look that could melt steel.
"Jesus, Juliana," he muttered, half-laughing, half-spooked. "This is insane." She laughed, sharp and broken, and he saw it—her whole life was a fistfight with fate. Foster homes where knuckles split her lip, a mom who'd sold her for a hit, assholes who'd groped her and called it a favor—this app was her middle finger, her chance to burn it all down.
Shit got wild quick. She zapped a barista who'd sneered at her thrift-store jacket—25% to attune, 10% to make her beg in a parking lot, tears streaking her face while Juliana watched, cold as ice. A professor who'd screwed her over handed over his office codes, sweating under her glare—35% gone, her grin pure venom. Elias kept the laptop humming, charging it back to 100% every time she drained it, hooked on the madness. She was a storm, and he was too damn caught up to run—her edge was raw, dark, and way too hot.
But storms don't last. She went big—a dean's wife, some smug hag who'd laughed when Juliana was starving on the streets. "Empty your accounts," she snarled, burning 35% in one shot. Cash rolled in, but a camera caught her. A cop—some prick who'd ignored her pleas as a teen—sniffed her out, half-broken by her last command. Sirens hit, cuffs clicked, and she went down swinging, laughing like a demon. "Keep it going, E!" she yelled as they dragged her off, blood on her fists, rage in her veins.
Elias ran, phone gripped tight, lab a dead shell behind him. Highways blurred into dust—65% charge left from a diner plug—and he dialed Karlee, voice rough. "Hey, K," he said. "I'm back. City's a shitshow—can I crash at yours?" She snorted, all bite and warmth. "You, fucked up? No surprise. Get here." Old friend, always solid, even when he was lying through his teeth.
Then India—sharp as a blade, the girl who'd stared down his bullies back in the day. "Elias, what's your game?" she snapped. "Same mess," he lied, cool as hell. "Burned out. Got a spot for me?" A beat, then she eased up. "Yeah, and a job—RDCC, psych prof. Don't screw it." Job and a bed—clutch move.
Red Devils rolled in, a mess of cracked streets and faded ghosts—his old turf, rough and real. Karlee and India knew him before the chaos—skinny kid with big plans. Now? He was a loaded gun, phone humming at 65%. RDCC loomed, all busted bricks and bad energy. A limo sat in the lot, dark and wrong, and the app buzzed—Signal: Unknown. His pulse kicked, half dread, half rush.
Juliana's shadow stuck with him, her fight a beat he couldn't shake. Red Devils wasn't a hideout—it was a warzone, and he was locked and loaded.
Elias Kane's beat-up sedan coughed to a stop outside a sagging duplex, Red Devils' version of a welcome mat—cracked siding, a porch light buzzing like it was on life support. Karlee and India's place. The air hit him hard—dust, stale beer, and a whiff of something burning down the block. Phone in his pocket hummed at 65%, its red glow a faint pulse under denim. He'd dodged the city's claws, Juliana's arrest still a raw echo in his skull—"Keep it going, E!"—and now he was back, tail between his legs, lies locked and loaded.
He hauled a duffel over his shoulder, boots crunching gravel as he climbed the steps. The door swung open before he could knock—Karlee, all curves and attitude, leaning on the frame. Her tank top clung tight, dark hair spilling wild, and that grin—sharp, knowing, the kind that used to get them busted stealing smokes at fifteen. "Well, shit," she said, voice low and rough. "Look who crawled back. City spit you out, huh?"
"Something like that," Elias shot back, matching her smirk. Lie slid easy—burned out sounded better than fleeing a felony. She stepped aside, waving him in, and the place hit him—a mess of thrift-store couches, beer cans, and a TV blaring some trash reality show. Smelled like weed and cheap candles, homey in a fucked-up way.
India emerged from the kitchen, all edges and steel—tall, sleek, her glare cutting through the haze like a blade. She'd always been the boss, the one who'd decked a punk for Elias at twelve and never let him forget it. Hair pulled back tight, jeans hugging her like a second skin, she crossed her arms. "Elias," she said, voice cool and hard. "You look like hell. What's the real story?"
He shrugged, dropping the duffel. "Told you—city chewed me up. Needed a reset." Her eyes narrowed, bullshit detector on full, but she didn't push. Yet. "Job's yours," she said instead, tossing him a key. "RDCC, psych prof. Crash here tonight—figure out your shit tomorrow."
Karlee flopped onto the couch, legs sprawled, cracking a beer. "So, what's the plan, E? Hide out, drink our stash, chase some tail?" She winked, all dark tease, and Elias felt a spark—old habits, new heat. "Maybe all three," he said, voice dipping low, testing the water. She laughed, throaty and real, while India rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
He sank into a chair, the app's weight tugging at him. 65%—enough for one play, maybe two if he was quick. Juliana's chaos flashed—barista on her knees, prof sweating, that dean's wife caving—and his gut twisted, half thrill, half guilt. Karlee and India didn't know the monster he'd built with her, didn't know the shard in his phone wasn't just tech—it was something else.
A thud outside jerked him up—car door slamming. Through the grimy window, that limo from the RDCC lot idled across the street, engine purring like a predator. "The fuck?" Karlee muttered, peering out. India's jaw tightened, stepping closer. "Sal Ricci's ride," she said, voice flat. "Mafia prick—owns half this dump."
Elias's hand slid to the phone, thumb brushing the screen. Signal: Unknown flickered again, a glitch that buzzed his nerves raw. "He a problem?" he asked, casual, but his pulse kicked up. India shrugged, eyes dark. "Only if you're in his way." Karlee grinned, wicked. "Or if he wants your ass—literally."
The room went quiet, TV static humming, and Elias felt it—the pull. Karlee's tease, India's edge, the limo's shadow. Red Devils wasn't a reset—it was a cage, and the app was his only key. He cracked a grin, leaning back. "Guess I'll find out." Karlee laughed again, tossing him a beer. India just watched, like she already knew he was full of shit.
Juliana's ghost whispered—keep it alive—and the night stretched out, dark and hungry.