“Wrong,” Handy’s voice chirped as the holographic Ravage swept my legs out from under me for the tenth time. I hit the dusty concrete with a grunt. “You’re leading with your right again. Predictable. Try using that cheerleading footwork for something other than jazz hands.”

  For three days, this was my life: getting my ass kicked by the ghost of my failure.

  I’d stopped sleeping, mostly because the dreams of the hunt were gone, replaced by waking nightmares of my fight in the freight yard. I’d see Ravage’s calculating yellow eyes, feel the scrape of his claws on my face, taste the coppery tang of my blood. The physical wounds were already healing with an unnatural speed, the gash on my cheek a faint pink line, the deep ache in my ribs fading to a dull throb. But the shame was a stubborn, festering infection.

  My training regimen was simple: I got my ass kicked. Over and over. Handy would project the wireframe model of Ravage into the center of the lab, and I’d fight it. The hologram couldn’t hurt me, but every time its simulated claws passed through my body, Handy would buzz my wrist with a gentle, corrective shock. I was getting buzzed a lot.

  I’d pick myself up off the dusty concrete, my muscles screaming, and go again. Dodge, duck, roll. I wasn’t learning how to win. I was learning how not to die.

  “I can’t find him,” I said, pausing the simulation to catch my breath. My voice echoed in the cavernous silence. “It’s been three days. Ravage has just… vanished.”

  “The apex predator is not sending out party invitations, no,” Handy replied. “He’s smart. He knows he’s being hunted now—both by us and by his former masters. He’s gone to ground. Lying low, letting the trail go cold. It’s Protocol 7-Delta: Tactical Dispersal.”

  “So what do we do? Just sit here and wait for him to pop up on the news again?” The thought of another civilian getting caught in the crossfire made my stomach clench.

  “Patience, grasshopper,” Handy said. “Sometimes, a monster is found by the people trying to clean up his mess.”

  As if on cue, a new alert flashed across Handy’s holographic interface. A series of red icons pulsed on a map of the freight yards.

  “And speak of the devils…” Handy laced his voice with a new, sharp excitement. “I’ve just detected a low-level, encrypted Pandora Corp frequency originating from the exact location of your last… shall we say, ‘learning experience.’ They’re sending in the sanitation crew.”

  “Sanitation?” I asked, pushing myself to my feet.

  “Corporate euphemism for ‘men with big guns and short memories,’” Handy explained. “They’re not there to sweep the floors. They’re there to scrub the scene. Erase all evidence of Subject-17’s activity. That includes security footage, physical traces, and, of course, any inconvenient witnesses who might have seen something they shouldn’t have.”

  The dockworker. The terrified man I’d fumbled the play on. They were going after him.

  The anger returned, cold and sharp. Pandora wasn’t just going to cover their tracks. They were going to bury the victims.

  “They can’t do that,” I said, my hands clenching into fists.

  “Corporate bylaws are notoriously flexible about ‘acceptable losses,’” Handy noted dryly. “They’ll either pay the man off or make him disappear. My money’s on the latter. It’s cleaner.”

  My hands clenched. Pandora wasn't just going to cover their tracks. They were going to bury the victims. Not this time. This wasn't about getting even with Ravage. This was about that man.

  I could test the new rules. My rules.

  “I’m going,” I said, my voice low and determined.

  “An excellent plan,” Handy said. “And by ‘excellent,’ I mean ‘marginally less suicidal than your last one.’ What’s the objective this time, Captain? More witty banter followed by a thorough trouncing?”

  “No,” I said, my eyes finding my reflection in a dark monitor. The faint pink line on my cheek was a stark reminder of my failure. “No witty banter. No grandstanding. I’m going to be smart. I’m going to be quiet.”

  I looked down at my hands. “And no one gets hurt.”

  “A non-lethal engagement against a squad of trained corporate soldiers?”

  Handy sounded almost impressed. “That’s a bold strategic choice. I’ll give you a 14% chance of success.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said, and slipped out into the darkness.

  *****

  The freight yards were different this time. The first time, I had seen them through a haze of arrogant rage. Now, I saw them through the lens of tactical awareness. The towering stacks of containers weren't just obstacles; they were cover; they were vantage points.

  The narrow gaps weren’t tunnels; they were choke points. The darkness wasn't a threat; it was a cloak.

  My heightened senses, once a curse, were now a tactical advantage. I moved through the maze of steel, my bare feet making no sound on the gravel. I could smell them before I could see them. The sterile scent of their body armor, the sharp tang of ozone from their energy rifles, the faint, nervous sweat of men trying to act tougher than they felt.

  I scaled a stack of containers with a fluid, silent grace that would have been impossible a week ago, my fingers finding easy purchase on the corrugated steel. From the top, I had a perfect view.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  There were four of them, moving in a tight, diamond formation through the clearing where I had been so thoroughly dismantled. Clad in matte-black armor, the red Pandora logo a spider-like emblem on their shoulders. They swept the area with the muzzles of their pulse rifles, their movements professional, efficient. A fifth man, not in uniform, was with them. The dockworker. His hands were bound in front of him, and his face was a mask of sullen terror.

  “Four hostiles, plus one civilian,” Handy whispered in my ear, his voice now a low, tactical murmur.

  “Standard-issue armor, pulse rifles. The one on the right is the squad leader. See the extra antenna on his helmet? He’s the comms link.”

  My aim was clear. Isolate. Incapacitate. Leave no permanent damage.

  The squad leader barked an order, and two of his men shoved the dockworker toward a large, open-topped disposal unit. They were going to silence him, then dump the body. Classic.

  That was it. My cue. No cockiness this time. No grandstanding. Just a cold, clean objective: neutralize the threat, protect the civilian. This was my chance to get it right.

  I started with the rear guard.

  I dropped from the container, a silent shadow. I landed in a crouch; the impact absorbed without a sound.

  My hand clamped over his mouth before he could make a noise. The heel of my other hand struck the base of his skull. Old spy movie trick.

  His body went limp. I caught him before he hit the ground and lowered him into the shadows.

  One down.

  The squad moved on, oblivious. So focused on the task at hand, their professionalism made them predictable.

  My next target was the one on the right flank. He was nervous, his head constantly swiveling. I used it against him. I picked up a loose piece of scrap metal and tossed it into the darkness to his right. He spun toward the sound, rifle raised, just as I came at him from the left.

  I didn’t go for a punch. I went for his legs. A low, powerful cheerleading sweep, my foot hooking his ankle. He went down hard, his helmet cracking against the gravel. I was on him in an instant, my hand chopping down on his exposed neck. He went out like a light.

  Two down.

  This was working. The training, the simulations… it was paying off. I wasn't fighting with rage. I was moving with a cold, obvious purpose. Every action was deliberate, controlled.

  The squad leader and the last soldier had reached the disposal unit. They shoved the dockworker toward the edge. The leader was talking into his comms, his back to me. The last soldier stood guard, his rifle pointed at the civilian’s head.

  I needed to separate them.

  My eyes scanned the environment. A heavy-duty magnetic crane stood silent and dark beside the containers, a massive electromagnet dangling from its cables.

  “Handy,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. “Can you interface with that crane?”

  “Can a data-shark swim in the net?” Handy replied. “Give me a second.”

  I watched as the last soldier prodded the dockworker with his rifle. The squad leader was still distracted. Come on, Handy.

  With a loud groan of protesting metal, the crane’s arm lurched to life. The massive electromagnet swung down, smashing into a stack of empty fuel barrels a few yards away from the soldiers. The sound was a deafening clang of tortured steel that echoed through the entire freight yard.

  The last soldier spun around, startled, his rifle swinging toward the noise. It was the only opening I needed.

  I burst from the shadows. I moved so fast I was almost a blur. The soldier had just enough time for his eyes to widen in shock before I was on him. I didn’t disarm him. I became disarmed.

  My hand shot out and clamped down on the barrel of his pulse rifle. I squeezed. The high-tensile polymer groaned, then cracked, then shattered in my grip, splintering into a dozen useless pieces.

  The soldier stared at his broken weapon, then at me, his mind unable to process what had just happened. A single, precise punch to the jaw, pulling the blow at the last second so it would stun, not shatter, sent him crumpling to the ground.

  Three down.

  The squad leader was finally off his comms, spinning around, his rifle coming up. He was faster than the others, his movements sharper. He fired. A bolt of super heated plasma sizzled through the air, searing a hole in the container right where my head had been a split-second before. The metal glowed cherry-red around the impact point.

  Okay. So this was the messy part.

  I didn’t charge him. I used my agility. I launched myself sideways, using the wall of a container as a springboard, flipping over his head in a wild, acrobatic arc. I landed behind him, my feet silent on the gravel.

  He spun again, tracking me, but I was already moving, darting low. His next shot went wide, exploding against the ground and sending a shower of dirt and sparks into the air.

  I was in close now, too close for him to aim properly. He tried to bring the butt of his rifle around to smash my face, but I was expecting it. I caught the stock, our strengths pitted against each other. His armor whirred, servos straining. My muscles burned, the monster inside me roaring to be let loose, to just rip and tear and finish it.

  No. I gritted my teeth. Control.

  I let his own momentum do the work. I twisted, using his forward push to spin him around, breaking his balance. He staggered, and in that moment of vulnerability, I drove my knee into the back of his thigh, right where the armor was weakest. He grunted in pain and went down on one knee.

  His rifle was still in his hands. He tried to bring it up one last time. I brought my hands down on it, not with a punch, but with a sharp, two-handed chop, like a karate move from a movie. The force of the blow, focused and controlled, snapped the weapon in half.

  He stared at the two useless pieces of his rifle in his hands, then looked up at me, his faceplate reflecting my own grim, determined expression. I didn’t say a word. I just hit him once, a sharp, clean blow to the side of his helmet. His head lolled, and he slumped forward, unconscious.

  Silence.

  I stood there in the sudden, deafening quiet, my chest heaving. My body hummed with a level of adrenaline I had never felt before. It wasn't the wild, chaotic rush from the first fight. This was different. It was a clean, sharp, powerful thrum of energy. The feeling of a tool being used correctly.

  The dockworker was staring at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. I gave him a sharp nod, then used my claws—extended just enough—to slice through his bonds.

  He scrambled to his feet, gave me one last, unreadable look, and then fled into the night without a word.

  I looked at the four unconscious soldiers. Bruised, but alive. It wasn't pretty, but it was a win. My win. I looked down at my hands. Not just weapons. Tools. And I was finally learning how to use them. The hunt for Ravage wasn't over. But for the first time, I felt ready.