Page 20 of Fatality

I let my gaze roam over the crowd until it lands on my gang, ore specifically, on a flash of black and toxic green hair—Neo.

He’s grinning, doing some stupid shot competition like a virgin teenager against the rookie I just recruited.

I roll my eyes and head toward them, the crowd parting before I even reach the table.

Probably because I’ve got that kind of charisma or, because they’re smart enough not to fuck around.

I’m six-foot-three, and I don’t have time to check whether I shove annoying drunk assholes too hard.

I’m not built like those guys who spend every waking hour sculpting their bodies until it looks like their muscles are about to burst through their skin.

My strength came from doing, not posing.

I don’t mean to suck my own cock, but I don’t spend hours in the gym beating the shit out of sandbags and lifting car parts for nothing.

I stop in front of the booth and clear my throat.

The rookie immediately scoots aside, letting me slide into the seat.

One of them offers me a drink, I take it.

Soundwaves bounced off the walls and filled every corner of the room.

Some overpriced Upper Layer dance bar packed with rich people—the Uppers, who think having credits means they understand life.

I take a slow sip of my drink while everyone starts talking about the race I just lost, about how some of my people didn't do their fucking jobs.

The argument grows louder, spiraling into statistics, car builds.

Just excuses.

I slam my hand down on the table hard enough to rattle the drinks, and every one finally shuts the fuck up.

“This isn't about the fucking build!” I shout. “It's about every single one of you not doing the jobs I'm paying you for. So, let's make something very clear—if you don't want to end up floating in the docks, you'd better start doing your shit properly. Make damn sure those Iron fuckers never ram my car again, and Ghost Void never gets ahead of me. Am I clear enough, or do I need to make an example out of someone?”

They all bark out a yes at once.

I lean back, grinning.

Good. That's how it's supposed to work.

Hours pass, and my gang—Crimson Velocity—drink their asses off on Lira's tab.

She's rich, and I fuck her right. She can at least do that for me.

Then a commotion cuts through the noise, loud enough to make me raise an eyebrow and lower my glass.

I let my gaze drift over the crowd, but there's nothing.

I'm about to dismiss it entirely. It's a club—loud noises happen. Then I catch a retreating figure as I turn my head back to my table.

Long, dark hair swishing with what can only be furious strides. I track the tension in her shoulders, the angry stomp of her boots across the dance floor.

I wonder what the fuck could've happened to make some rich girl storm off like that. Maybe her cocktail wasn't expensive enough.

I scoff to myself, but then I follow the path she left in her wake.

Oh.