The night could not have been darker. The sky was moonless, and even the stars refused to blink, a vast, indifferent void that perfectly matched the hum of his own life—a never-ending tunnel whose end he could not see.
When he had started college, chasing the fragile dream of institutional education, he thought he had left the dark alleys of his past behind. But they never left him. At every bend in the road, at the stop of every conversation, at the end of even his brightest day, he found himself standing right where he had begun. Forget the earth, even life was round.
His phone screen lit up, cutting a small, blinding square of light into the gloom. It was a text from Jordan.
Askai pulled up the shuddering metal shutter of the old garage. Inside sat an ancient bike, bearing a fake registration plate he knew intimately, having screwed it into place years ago. People had a childhood home. The bike—a battered, loyal machine—was all Jordan and Askai had. They never stayed in a place too long to call it a home. The bike wore their best memories and also the inescapable locus of their worst.
He pulled off the sheet, revealing the oil-stained metal, and turned the ignition. The engine coughed, then caught with a familiar, hungry roar. The night was still young, and they had brutal work to do.
"Are you sure this is the way?" Askai whispered, precariously balancing a rotting, unstable chair on three and a half legs.
"If we go down the front way, the camera is going to be all in our faces, even with the masks. The security will be on us before we hit the first door," Jordan explained, his voice terse. He was checking the rusty strength of the drainage pipe they intended to climb to the second floor of the neglected hospital wing.
"All right. I'll go first." Askai sighed, hoisting himself onto the joint. His arms strained and his legs shook violently as he struggled to find secure footing on the cold, slippery metal.
Jordan watched him like a hawk, bracing his stance to catch his friend in case of a fall—a futile gesture, as the combined weight and the subsequent clang would kill them both. The ground below was cluttered with the kind of decaying rot they didn't want to name, let alone invite onto their bodies.
But Askai had been doing this his whole life. He moved with the trained fluidity of a phantom, scrambling up the pipe in no time. Jordan followed closely behind, the familiar, desperate teamwork - a rhythm they knew better than their own heartbeats. They jumped onto a narrow ledge and crawled in through a window whose latch Jordan had skillfully broken during his earlier staking of the place. The floor inside was dark, silent, and empty.
"Which room?" Askai whispered, his voice catching slightly on the dry air.
"The third on the right," Jordan whispered back, his eyes constantly checking their surroundings, relying on the instincts honed by years in the West End.
Askai hummed a low acknowledgement and walked with silent, padded steps toward it. There was a large window in that room facing the corridor, but the curtains had been pulled tight from inside. Alex peeked in from a narrow slit, through which a faint, cold light was spilling out.
The first thing he saw was a monitor beeping rhythmically by the bed. Zeke was a gruesome mass, entirely covered in wires and tubes. The sight made Askai's stomach want to retch. The last time he had seen someone helpless in a hospital bed, that person was Kael, and every encounter with a medical facility since had reminded him of the loss he feared the most.
But he could not—would not—let the old, consuming emotions cloud his judgement tonight.
Right next to the bed, a heavily built man was keeping a silent vigil. He was not one of Zeke's usual muscle; Askai could tell by the precise fit of his clothes and the wary, professional stillness of his posture. Another guard stepped into the room from the right, likely emerging from the bathroom.
The ensemble they wore was nothing like the usual that cut-throats in the West indulged in. The black tailored outfits more likely resembled those of the guards he had often seen in the East, especially around a person he did not wish to name right now. Was this a new security agency? Whoever they were, they did not seem to be expecting any threat.
Askai raised two fingers—two targets—then waved an open palm over his chest—I'll take lead, you provide distraction—and Jordan gave a grim nod. Askai stepped away from the door and melted into the dense shadows. Jordan pulled up his mask and his well-worn monkey cap over his face. He casually walked toward the door, turned the knob, and stepped in.