I stared at the comms unit, Morovan’s manic cackle still grating against the speakers while the Spire’s alarm tore through the air. The raw steam-roar intensified, a deep, grinding shudder that vibrated up through the floor, making my teeth ache. “No,” I rasped, the word a foreign taste on my tongue. “Oh, for the love of the Founders, no.” This was it. My soul remained tethered to Morovan's pulse, but Davorin—the only muscle keeping my revenge intact—was currently stewing in superheated vapor. And the only way to stop it… the only way was to move. Physically. I inspected the schematics projected against the safe-room bulkhead. The thermal control station sat three decks below, accessible by a service tube or three runs of metal stairs. My stomach turned at the sheer, wretched prospect of deliberate exercise. My new body, so adept at dodging bullets when I *chose* to, now felt like a lead ingot. Vex uncurled from my lap, sleek pelt bristling, and darted toward the safe-room threshold like grease down a hot chute. “Wait!” I barked, a desperate urgency overriding my chronic aversion to movement. “Vex! You’re supposed to sleep on my lap, not… not motivate me!” But the mink was already squeezing through the barely ajar blast doors. I shoved myself off the cushions, my calves knotting in immediate outrage. My silk lounge pants felt like lead weights, the plush carpet beneath my slippers a viscous swamp. Every single step was an act of profound, personal betrayal. “This is absurd,” I muttered, wrenching the heavy door open. The Spire's backup beacons bathed the corridor in stagnant amber, drowned out by the thrum of tortured boilers below. “I have strategists for this. I have enforcers! I have… *feet* for nothing but ornamental shoe displays!” The staircase was a dizzying spiral of durasteel, slick with condensation. Three tiers of naked, unvarnished cardio. My lungs, accustomed to leisurely puffs from a shisha pipe, screamed in protest as I began a clumsy, reluctant descent. Each thud of my slippered feet on the metal grating sent a jarring impact up my spine. “You owe me for this, Davorin,” I gasped between labored breaths, already feeling a stitch in my side. “This is at least three months of no paperwork. Six months of never having to step foot on an air-skiff again.” I was pretty sure the last time I’d sprinted was… never. Not even in my previous life. Betrayal, yes. Murder, certainly. But *running*? Unthinkable. Vex had already bounded two landings ahead, a smudge of black silk skimming the risers. I cursed the creature’s boundless energy, the sheer unfairness of it. My expensive, tailored silk clung to me, soaked with an unholy sheen of sweat. My hair, usually a perfectly coiffed raven’s nest, was now plastered to my temples. I probably looked like a drowned rat, a very, very annoyed drowned rat. “This is why I pay people,” I wheezed, finally reaching the last landing, my legs burning with the fury of a thousand tiny, protesting muscles. “This is why I have a sprawling network of informants and a fleet of luxury gondolas. So I don’t have to… *do* this.” The thermal valve station hatch parted with a blast of copper scent and wet heat. The air inside was a humid, choking blanket, smelling of ozone and scorched metal. A brass gauge dominated the station console, its dial pinned against the danger notch while exhaust lines shuddered against their wall clamps. “Right,” I said, marching, or rather, shuffling, to the main console. My eyes scanned the complex array of dials and levers, my mind, thankfully, still sharp despite my body’s utter rebellion. The station prints showed an auxiliary dump lever, a bypass built for boiler runaway. My fingers caught the copper manifold labeled 'External Divert: Quadrant Delta-7'. Quadrant Delta-7. That was Morovan’s luxury quarantine suite, just two levels above. A small, cruel smile stretched my lips. If I had to suffer, so did he. My fingers, surprisingly steady, flew across the illuminated interface, bypassing safety protocols, rerouting pressure. A scream tore through the pipe seals as the floor kicked under my slippers. The needle backed off its stop, settling into the amber grid. Instead, it changed pitch, a high-frequency shriek now ripping through the Spire’s broadcast feed. I could hear Morovan’s voice, suddenly cut short, replaced by a series of choked, spluttering curses. “It appears,” I announced, my voice echoing through the comms, laced with sweet, cold satisfaction, “that your imported brocade wall-hangings have just been steam-scoured, Morovan.” I imagined his furious, drenched face, his ruined wardrobe, the public humiliation of it all on the internal security feed. A small, delicious victory that almost, *almost*, made the sprint worthwhile. I reached for the chamber purge bar, painted raw cadmium, and threw my weight down on the iron. The thick, reinforced door hissed open, revealing a cloud of superheated vapor. Through the mist, a dark, slumped figure lay sprawled on the grimy floor. Davorin. He was shirtless, his usually impeccable hair plastered to his forehead, his skin flushed an alarming crimson. His chest rose and fell in shallow, gasping breaths. Vex was already there, nudging his face with its snout, chirping worriedly. “Oh, you idiot,” I murmured, rushing forward, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten. His skin was searing to the touch. I hooked an arm under his shoulder, gritting my teeth against the sudden weight, and began to drag him out. He groaned, eyes fluttering open, a haze of pain and disorientation clouding his intense gaze. “Corenza?” His voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the subsiding pipes. “You… ran?” A flicker of something that looked suspiciously like amusement, even through the pain, crossed his face. “Don’t you dare start,” I snapped, pulling him further into the cooler, though still humid, corridor. His skin burned through my sleeve like hot brass. I managed to prop him against a structural beam, his head lolling. His eyes, though still unfocused, found mine, and in them, I saw a raw, unshielded gratitude. A gratitude that had nothing to do with broadcast feeds or syndicate politics. “You saved me,” he breathed, his hand coming up, surprisingly strong, to cup my jaw. His thumb brushed my cheek, scorching my skin. Lactic acid and adrenaline stung my limbs, but the grip of his fingers anchored me fast. He leaned in, his lips parted, and I met him halfway. It wasn’t the staged, deliberate kiss for the cameras. This was a desperate, raw collision of mouths, tasting of steam and fear and the faint metallic tang of effort. His hand tightened on my jaw, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, his heat seeping into my very bones. I kissed him back with an intensity that surprised me, a fire sparking that had nothing to do with the furnace room. A concussive shockwave rocked the corridor plates, rattling the deck bolts so hard my jaw clattered. A high-pitched, metallic whine pierced the air, followed by a grinding boom that rattled the very foundations of the fortress. On the internal broadcast, Morovan’s voice, now truly unhinged, screamed: “You think you can humiliate me? You think you can steal from me? I’ll burn this entire city to the ground! Full lockdown! Spire Defense Cannons – target Quadrant Gamma, Sector Three! Open fire on the Vermillion Syndicate’s docking ports! Let the blood flow!” The Spire groaned, a sound of immense machinery turning. Outside, far above the canals, I heard the unmistakable, terrifying *whump-whump-whump* of massive defense cannons charging, aiming, ready to unleash hell on the unsuspecting city.

Five Seconds of Cardio