Davorin’s manic cackle died, replaced by a wet cough as Yevna lunged across the lacquered roulette table, her hand a blur. Not a strike, but an intervention. Her fingers, usually so precise with a scalpel or a deck of cards, now clamped around his jaw, prying open his mouth. His eyes, bulging with a mixture of terror and grotesque glee, met hers. “You think you’re clever,” Yevna said, her voice a low growl that vibrated through his bones. “A mutually assured destruction? How utterly pathetic. You will live, Davorin. You will suffer. And then you will give me what is mine.” Before he could react, she barked an order. “Ognjen! Activated charcoal. Now!” Ognjen Ravic, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of disgust and grudging admiration, snapped a command to his looming enforcers. Two hulking figures, their faces scarred from countless skirmishes in the lower levels, moved with surprising alacrity. One, a man with a cybernetic arm replacing his left limb, produced a compressed medical kit from his coat. The other, an imposing woman with jet-black irises, already had a pouch of dark powder ripped open. “Wait, what – no!” Davorin thrashed, the effects of his self-administered toxin not yet fully manifesting, but the fear of a forced intervention was immediate. “Get away from me, you brutes! I’m the owner of this… this establishment! You’ll regret this!” The cyber-armed enforcer, introduced earlier as Kaelus, simply grunted. “Shut your trap, boss-man. Ghost Doctor says you live, you live.” With a practiced motion, he seized Davorin by the nape of his neck, his augmented grip crushing. Davorin’s protests became a choked gurgle. The dark-eyed woman, Zorya, pinched Davorin’s nose, then, ignoring his flailing, tilted his head back and poured the gritty black powder directly into his mouth. Davorin gagged, sputtering. “This is… this is an outrage! I’ll have your implants stripped! I’ll have you dissected!” “Drink this, you idiot,” Ognjen ordered, pushing a glass of water into Zorya’s hand. She forced it between Davorin’s clenched teeth, sloshing water and charcoal down his throat. He convulsed, spitting some onto the pristine velvet. The indignity seemed to hit him harder than the poison. Yevna watched, her expression cold, clinical. She felt no satisfaction from this humiliation, only measured focus. The nerve-blocker hummed through her veins, a temporary truce with her own deteriorating body. She had traded three days for this twenty-four-hour window of strength, and she would not waste a second. Davorin’s life, for the next few hours, was hers to preserve. “Keep him moving,” Yevna commanded, her gaze sweeping across the opulent gaming hall, noting the scattered patrons now nervously eyeing the commotion. “We need to reach the server array. He’s our transport.” The two enforcers exchanged bewildered glances. “Transport?” Kaelus mumbled. “Boss, he’s a sack of poisoned meat.” “Precisely,” Yevna replied, already moving towards the main exit of the private room. “A sack of poisoned meat that holds the key to our survival. Keep him conscious, keep him alive. If he collapses, administer another dose. And slap him if he tries to play dead.” Ognjen’s thugs, accustomed to lethal force, looked utterly nonplussed by this new, bizarre directive. Zorya, however, seemed to relish the thought. She delivered a crisp, open-handed smack to Davorin’s cheek. The sound echoed in the sudden, tense quiet of the high-roller lounge. Davorin yelped, rubbing his face. “You… you barbarous wretch!” “He’s awake,” Zorya noted, a flicker of dark amusement in her eyes. “And whining. That’s a good sign, Doctor.” They dragged Davorin out, his feet scrabbling uselessly on the polished floor, a ridiculous, squirming burden. The remaining patrons, now fully aware of the chaos, scattered toward the service exits. Yevna and Ognjen followed, their steps measured, their eyes scanning for threats. The Obsidian Spire was a fortress, but Davorin’s influence, even in ruin, still extended far. As they entered the main gambling floor, a roar tore through the ceiling. The reinforced glass skylights, usually a shimmering canopy reflecting the neon city, shattered inward. A rain of jagged shards and twisted metal cascaded onto the tables. Four hulking figures, equipped with advanced biomechanical modifications and heavy-duty combat plating, crashed through the opening, landing with concussive thuds that vibrated through the floor. “For Cernak!” one of them bellowed, its voice distorted by a vocoder. Davorin’s loyalist cyborg-mercs. They were here. “Rescue the Chairman! Eliminate all hostiles!” Plasma fire erupted instantly. Streaks of searing energy lanced across the gambling floor, vaporizing betting slips and scorching the velvet. A volley of bullets ripped into the grand chandelier, sending crystal fragments raining down like deadly jewels. The air filled with the stench of ozone and burned circuitry. Yevna pushed Ognjen behind a massive roulette table, the heavy, inlaid wood offering momentary protection. Kaelus and Zorya, still dragging a protesting Davorin, ducked behind another, returning fire with their own augmented weapons. The hall, once a venue of measured stakes, had become a chaotic warzone. “The server elevator is at the far end!” Yevna yelled over the cacophony, her gaze tracing trajectories and cover. “We need a path!” Ognjen, drawing a pair of sleek, chrome pistols, fired a precise burst that shredded the optical sensors of a charging merc. “These units are enhanced! Standard rounds won’t cut it!” Yevna’s gaze fell upon a stack of high-stakes gambling chips, their edges glinting under the strobe of the firefight. They weren’t merely decorative; the Spire’s premium markers held minor embedded kinetic charges as theft deterrents. Her mind raced, connecting dots. “The chips! They’re triggered by kinetic impact! Throw them!” Without waiting for confirmation, Yevna swept a handful of chips from the table. She hurled them with practiced precision towards the mercs. They hit the armored plating with sharp clicks, followed by a series of concussive pops. Shrapnel, mostly ceramic and micro-circuitry from the chips themselves, sprayed out, peppering the mercs’ exposed joints and disrupting their delicate optical systems. One merc staggered, its targeting array fritzing. “Brilliant!” Ognjen grinned, recognizing the improvisation. He grabbed a handful, his movements fluid, and flung them in a wide arc, creating a blinding, deafening burst that sent two more mercs reeling. The pair behind them caught on, slinging trays of discs into the line of fire. Davorin, still being dragged, shielded his head, terrified. “My… my chips! They’re worth millions!” “Consider it a transaction, Davorin,” Yevna retorted, pulling a sleek, compact energy pistol from her belt. She moved in a crouch, weaving between overturned tables, using the explosions of the chips as cover. Ognjen moved in tandem with her, a dance of choreographed violence. They were closing the distance to the server elevator, each step calibrated against incoming fire. One of the mercs, its armor sparking, let out a guttural roar and lobbed a small, spherical object. It bounced once, twice, emitting a high-pitched whine before it detonated near Yevna. Not an explosive, but a pulse. An EMP grenade. The blast radius hit her with an invisible static discharge. The hum of the nerve-blocker in her spine died. The artificial strength, the clarity, the temporary reprieve – all of it vanished, leaving behind a sudden, terrifying emptiness. Her legs, mid-sprint towards the elevator, simply crumpled beneath her.

Collateral Diagnostics