The muted hum of the recovering orchestra solidified the silence around Don Cesare’s chilling words. Zetta’s gaze snapped to Tavito, whose hand had instinctively flown to the Vescovi ring nestled against his sternum. His eyes, usually pools of quiet intensity, now burned with a desperate fire. He knew. They both knew. The air, thick with perfume and panic, suddenly felt too heavy to breathe. “A pleasure, Don Cesare,” Tavito said, his voice a low thrum that barely reached Zetta’s ears. He bowed slightly, a gesture of courtly respect that seemed utterly out of place in this death trap. “If you’ll excuse me, I find myself in dire need of a fresh air.” Before Cesare could reply, Tavito was gone, a blur of motion through the stunned guests. He didn’t run; he weaved, a dark current against the glittering tide of the partygoers, making straight for the wide, glass doors that led to the promenade. Zetta felt a cold knot tighten in her gut. He wasn’t fleeing in fear. He was a lure, drawing the sharks away from her, from Manno, from the illusion of peace she’d fought so hard to build. He thought he could outrun them. She didn’t hesitate. “Manno, I need a new juice box! That last one was… flat!” she declared, her voice pitched with a toddler’s exaggerated disgust, pulling at his sleeve. Her father, bless his oblivious heart, frowned at the champagne flute in his hand. “Flat, cara mia? But it’s…” “Flat!” Zetta insisted, tugging harder. “Come with me! We must find the good juice!” She steered him away from Don Cesare, who was now instructing Gavril with sharp, hushed words, his gaze fixed on Tavito’s disappearing back. Manno, ever eager to please his daughter, let himself be led, his attention already diverted. Zetta released his hand the moment they reached the main foyer, muttering a quick “Be good, Zetta,” before turning her back on him and slipping through the door Tavito had just used. The Vellarno night hit her with a rush of salty air and the distant thrum of the ocean. Tavito was a distant silhouette already, a dark streak against the neon glow of the beachfront. She sprinted, her tailored dress a ridiculous handicap, her leather shoes clicking a frantic rhythm on the cobblestones. She was not leaving him to face this alone. Not her loyal, self-sacrificing partner. She caught up to him just as he skidded to a halt outside the ‘Arcade Paradiso,’ a garish shrine of flashing lights and tinny synth music. The colossal sign, a chrome wave topped with a pixelated palm tree, hummed with charged neon. He glanced back, his face etched with a mix of fury and relief at seeing her. “Zetta! What are you doing? Get back inside!” “You think I’d let you get yourself killed, Tavito?” she panted, catching her breath. “They’ll follow you anywhere. Might as well make it a place where we have a fighting chance.” She pushed past him, the chaotic symphony of flashing cabinets assaulting her ears. “This way. Somewhere dark.” He didn’t argue. They plunged into the heart of the game hall, a labyrinth of blinking screens and the insistent beeps and boops of vintage electronics. The air tasted of stale popcorn and ozone. Zetta led them past rows of ‘Cosmic Cruiser’ and ‘Galactic Gauntlet’ cabinets, past children with sugar-crusted fingers and curious stares, until they reached a less trafficked corner. A sign, vivid with ultraviolet paint, announced: ‘Laser Labyrinth – Vellarno’s Premier Blacklight Battle Arena.’ “Perfect,” Zetta murmured, her eyes scanning the darkened entrance. The faint thud of synth-bass and distant shouts of ‘Pew! Pew!’ echoed from within. Tavito pulled out a fistful of tokens from his pocket. “Looks like we’re playing a different kind of game tonight.” They pushed through the heavy, padded door, and the world plunged into an eerie purple haze. Neon lines painted on the walls pulsed, guiding them into the maze. The air was colder here, smelling faintly of plastic and sweat. They heard the scuff of shoes, the whispers, before they saw them. Three figures, dark against the blacklight, emerging from the maze’s corners. Not children with plastic laser guns, but men. And the glint in their hands wasn’t from toy blasters. It was polished steel. *JOLT 1* The first shot ripped through the air, a sharp crack that drowned out the arcade’s cheerful din. It wasn’t a toy. A slug tore into the padded wall beside Zetta’s head, kicking up a shower of luminescent plaster. “Down!” Tavito roared, pulling her to the ground behind a low, luminescent partition. The heavy *thump-thump-thump* of automatic fire followed, stitching a deadly pattern across the wall where they’d just been standing. “They’re real,” Zetta whispered, her voice devoid of fear, filled instead with a cold fury. “Gavril’s men.” “Looks like it,” Tavito grunted, peering over the barrier. He drew a small, reflective object from his belt – a folding knife. “Stay low. I’ll distract them. You find an exit.” “Distract them with a butter knife?” Zetta scoffed. “No. We outsmart them.” Her eyes darted around, taking in the glowing landscape. Wires. Power conduits. She needed an equalizer. Her gaze landed on a dilapidated vintage ‘Token Torrent’ console tucked into a shadowy alcove near the laser tag arena’s entrance, its power light flickering erratically. A tacky, half-melted ‘Cosmic Crush’ paper cup lay abandoned on its console, a slow drip of syrupy liquid seeping into the cabinet's seams. *JOLT 2* “Keep them busy!” Zetta ordered, scrambling out from behind the barrier, low to the ground. Tavito, surprised, didn’t argue. He flung himself behind another partition, drawing fire with a quick, feinting move. The gunmen's submachine guns roared, bullets impacting the walls with sharp thuds. Zetta crab-crawled towards the ‘Token Torrent’ cabinet. It was old, its plastic casing cracked, clearly neglected. Perfect. She snatched up the discarded cup, the cold, sugary syrup sloshing. She peered at the back panel, searching for the access port, for the tell-tale hum of high voltage. A small, unsecured panel. Just what she needed. One of the thugs, a brutish man with a scar slicing across his jaw, spotted her. “Hey! The girl!” He started moving, his barrel leveled. Zetta didn’t flinch. With a swift, practiced motion, she pried open the flimsy panel. Wires, thick and colorful, pulsed with dormant energy. She saw the main power conduit, thick as her thumb. She took a deep breath, ignoring the approaching footsteps, the rising shouts. She gripped the cardboard cup, its contents now half-empty. With a decisive thrust, she tipped the sugary, conductive liquid into the console's exposed guts, drenching the copper. A sickening sizzle filled the air, quickly followed by a shower of blue sparks. The machine shuddered, then let out a high-pitched whine. The scarred assassin, just two steps away, yelled, “What in the—!” before his foot hit a damp patch of carpet. The syrup had pooled beneath the unit, completing a circuit. A violent jolt seized him. His body spasmed, his submachine gun clattering to the ground as he collapsed, a faint smell of burnt hair rising in the air. His eyes were wide, unseeing, fixed on the pulsing neon ceiling. A second gunman, a leaner man with a slicked-back ponytail, charged forward, only to meet the same fate. His boots hit the electrified patch, and he stiffened, a silent scream frozen on his face, before his knees buckled. Two down. The third, a stocky man with a balaclava, froze, his eyes darting between his fallen comrades and Zetta, who stood amidst the sparks, a sticky slushie cup still clutched in her hand. The balaclava-clad gunman, his face contorted in disbelief and rage, let out a guttural roar. He raised his firearm, no longer caring about stealth. Tavito, seeing his chance, lunged from his cover, his small knife glinting. But the man was faster. He swung his stock, knocking Tavito’s arm aside, and in a single, brutal motion, seized Zetta by the throat. Air cut off instantly, the world narrowing to the iron grip around her windpipe. She struggled, her small hands scrabbling uselessly at his arm. He pressed the cold steel of his submachine gun’s barrel against her temple, his voice a ragged snarl. “Drop it, kid, or the girl dies.”

Neon and High Voltage