The neural-link throbbed, a phantom ache behind my ear, even as Xoco’s frantic words faded into a low hum. Itzcoatl’s hand, still on my arm from where he’d been stitching, tightened. His dark eyes narrowed, searching my face for a tell. He hadn't heard Xoco, of course, but my sudden, rigid stillness was a beacon. I forced my jaw to relax, a deliberate loosening of muscles, and met his gaze. The synthetic Sun-Blood in my veins hummed, a low, aggressive pulse, urging me to *do* something. Protect. Eliminate. “My apologies, Director,” I said, my voice pitched low, Nayeli’s usual curtness a shield. “A sudden spasm. The wound still settling.” It was a lie, clumsy but swift, the kind Nayeli might offer. Itzcoatl’s stare lingered, sharp as a honed blade, before he finally released my arm. He didn’t believe me, but the imminent threat of Tenoch likely pushed his suspicions to the back burner. For now. He moved with a coiled grace, the stiff fabric of his tailored coat rustling, towards the med-bay exit. “Tenoch has breached the lobby,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of panic. “He requests a ‘peace summit’ in the main boardroom. A transparent ploy.” “Then he’ll be met with a fitting reception,” I murmured, falling into step behind him. The hum of the Sun-Blood intensified. Peace. Summit. The words were a bitter mockery. Tenoch had poisoned me, ruined my empire, and now dared to parade into Itzcoatl’s fortress with talk of peace. This wasn't a negotiation; it was an execution by proxy. My proxy. The corporate spire's upper floors, usually full of muted data-hums and distant magitech thrums, stood unnaturally quiet. The corridor reeked of ozone and damp slate. We passed silent guards, their faces grim, weapons held at ready, their eyes tracking me with Nayeli’s familiar blend of fear and respect. Fear, because she was lethal; respect, because she served Itzcoatl with an unyielding brutality. The boardroom was a stark, expansive space. A single slab of polished black stone dominated the center, reflecting the neon glow filtering in from the rain-streaked panoramic windows that overlooked Metztli’s churning depths. The chairs, carved from a dense, dark ferro-alloy, felt heavy, permanent. Itzcoatl strode to the head of the table, his presence commanding, and I took my place a half-step behind his left shoulder, a shadow made of muscle and intent. Across the table, framed by two hulking bodyguards with the blank, glazed eyes of vat-grown Enforcers, stood Tenoch. He was a swaggering insult to the very concept of peace. His tailored tunic, a garish shade of vermillion, seemed to suck the light out of the room. A self-satisfied smirk played on his lips, revealing perfectly capped teeth. Beside him, his lieutenant, a man named Tlacoch whose right arm was a gleaming, multi-jointed mechanical graft, preened with a similar arrogance. “Itzcoatl, my old friend,” Tenoch purred, his voice dripping with false cordiality, a sound that made the Sun-Blood in my veins churn with violent anticipation. “Always so… prompt. And I see you’ve brought your pet viper.” His gaze slid to me, lingered for a fraction too long on Nayeli’s angular features. “Such a shame about your other viper, though. What was her name? Citlali, wasn’t it? The one who thought she could carve out her own little corner of the market before she choked on her own ambition. A waste, really. She had potential, for a woman.” He chuckled, a low sound, while the lieutenant snickered beside him, flexing the plated limb. The words hit me like a physical blow, cold and sharp, echoing the very poison that had ended my past life. *Choked on her own ambition.* The insult was a deliberate cut, meant to wound Itzcoatl by disparaging his former rival – me. But it resonated with a deeper, more personal fury within Nayeli’s reborn body. Tenoch was still the same venomous rat. My hand, without conscious thought, shot out. It was a blur of motion. The Sun-Blood sang, a roaring current through my limbs. My target wasn't Tenoch, not yet. My target was the one who had dared to snicker, to validate the insult. The lieutenant's prosthetic limb, a marvel of magitech engineering, was built to turn blades. But Nayeli’s speed, amplified by Citlali’s rage and the synthesized blood, transcended its defenses. My fingers, hardened from years of brutal combat, found the precise junction where the metal met his organic shoulder. There was no finesse, only brute, calculated force. A sickening *crack* like bone splintering through metal, followed by a high-pitched whine of tortured servos. His pupils shrank as his snicker died in his throat, replaced by a wet gasp. With a final, explosive yank, I tore the entire prosthetic rig from his body. Tendons ripped, wires sparked, and a geyser of synthetic lubricant sprayed across the polished table, glinting in the neon light. The heavy, chrome limb clattered to the dark stone surface, bouncing once before settling with a dull thud. The man screamed, a raw sound, clutching the mangled, sparking stump of his shoulder. His face, moments before smug, was now a mask of agony and disbelief. Blood, dark and viscous, pumped rhythmically from the wound, mixing with the lubricant on the table, a grotesque modern art piece. Silence descended, broken only by the man's ragged gasps and the faint hiss of the detached arm’s failing systems. Tenoch’s smug expression had vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise, quickly masked by a cold, calculating fury. He hadn't expected this. No one had. Itzcoatl, beside me, stood utterly still. His gaze, fixed on the detached limb, then on the writhing lieutenant, and finally on me, betrayed a rare fracture in his reserve. A faint flush touched his high cheekbones, barely perceptible, but present. He was flustered. Deeply, irrevocably flustered. “An… apology,” I stated, my voice devoid of emotion, my eyes fixed on Tenoch. “For the disrespect shown to your host, and to the fallen.” The hum of the Sun-Blood settled, a satisfied purr. This was my language. This was how I made amends. Brutal, undeniable violence. Tenoch recovered, slowly, a dangerous glint entering his eyes. He surveyed his screaming lieutenant, then the torn machinery, then me. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face, not one of amusement, but of grim, unsettling satisfaction. “Ah, Nayeli. Always so… *enthusiastic*.” He clicked his tongue, a dismissive sound. “Such a shame you’re wasting your talents with Itzcoatl. He’ll never appreciate true loyalty like I can.” He gestured to the mangled arm on the table. “However, that little display does confirm something for me. My intel was good. Someone high up in the Obsidian Syndicate is looking out for my interests. They told me you’d be… *unpredictable*.” My gaze flickered to Itzcoatl. His face was a mask of cold fury now, the brief fluster gone, replaced by a dangerous focus. A mole. Tenoch wasn’t just here for a show. He had a deeper game. He knew Itzcoatl was exposed. The paranoia, an insidious tendril, began to uncoil in the room. Tenoch’s smile widened, twisting into something truly wicked. He glanced at the discarded weapon, still sparking faintly on the table. “Speaking of looking out for my interests… you know, these older models of arms, they always have a few… *surprises*.” With a flick of his wrist, Tenoch produced a small, silver remote. His thumb hovered over a crimson button. “Such a shame we couldn’t come to terms, Itzcoatl,” he said, his voice a low, taunting drawl. “But perhaps a little… *redecorating* is in order.” He pressed the button. The metal casing on the table whined, a high-pitched shriek of overloading circuits, and then erupted outwards. The panoramic windows of the Obsidian Tower’s boardroom shattered, showering us with diamond dust and a gale of wind that screamed through the newly formed gaps, sending glass shards and papers swirling into the raging Metztli night.

A Severed Apology