Chapter 6: Friendly Fire

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  Manuel had been reading comments off his screen, chuckling to himself like a man watching a particularly entertaining episode of reality TV. Occasionally he’d pan the camera slightly, making sure my bruised face and King’s unconscious form were still in frame. Always the showman.

  Then he rose.

  “Well,” he said, turning toward the camera with the sword in hand, “here comes the real fun. There’s a theory floating around, you know. That the ESPer Association has some secret tech. Something that lets them track the life force of their agents in real time.”

  He raised the sword, its edge catching the overhead light. “Wouldn’t that be wild?”

  He looked down at King. “One quick slice and—boom—instant reaction. Like magic. Want to test it?”

  He stepped forward, sword lifted high, eyes sharp and theatrical. He looked so ready to bring it down.

  “Hey,” I called out, voice calm despite the thunder in my chest. “You want to know why the journal’s so important?”

  The blade froze mid-swing. Just like I hoped.

  Manuel turned his head, lowering the sword until the flat of it rested against his shoulder.

  He looked curious now, maybe even interested.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “it contains classified information, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure,” I said with a shrug, tugging a little at the rope around my wrists. Still tight. “But you don’t know what kind.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I admit, I’ve been dying to find out. But that briefcase?” He gestured toward the table. “It’s adamantine. Sealed with a triple-encrypted cipher lock. Government-level. No existing tech’s been able to crack it.”

  He crouched in front of me, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “So tell me, Goodman. What’s inside it?”

  I smiled, slow and deliberate.

  “How about this,” I said. “Let’s make it interesting. A contest. If you win, I’ll tell you what’s in the journal… with no strings attached.”

  He blinked. “And if you win?”

  “Then I’ll still tell you,” I said. “And… you’ll have to pay for it. In cash.”

  He laughed. No, guffawed—a full-body, nose-crinkling laugh like I’d just handed him the punchline to a joke he didn’t see coming.

  “How about we skip the game and pay you in cash right now?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. See, I don’t just want a payout. I want a percentage.”

  Manuel tilted his head.

  I continued, cool and even, letting the words pour out like I’d rehearsed them.

  “The organization that wins this little bidding war doesn’t just get to lock me up or poke me with needles. They get to employ me. Use me. I want cut of the prize, Manuel. Because once they know what the journal really contains?”

  I smiled again.

  “The price is going to skyrocket.”

  [Aura: 15%]

  Manuel stood, sword lowering just a little. His eyes flicked toward the camera, probably already imagining the numbers jumping in the corner of his screen. Comments lighting up. Donors scrambling to outbid each other.

  He liked the drama. The performance. He was in this for the money, sure—but also the flair.

  “This better be one hell of a reveal,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw.

  He looked at me again.

  “Alright then. What’s the contest?”

  I leaned back, as much as the ropes allowed, and gave him a deadpan stare.

  “Arm wrestling.”

  He blinked. Laughed. Then laughed harder.

  “Arm wrestling? You’re tied to a chair, and you want to challenge me to arm wrestling?”

  “I’m nothing if not traditional.”

  He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. “You really are something, Goodman.”

  I said nothing, just stared him down.

  Manuel stared at me a moment longer, then smirked, tapping the flat of the blade against his shoulder like he was considering whether I was serious or just insane.

  “You know,” he said, “you really were the joke of the ESPer community. Washed up. Burned out. A cautionary tale they tell rookies when they get cocky.”

  He stepped away from me and toward the far side of the room, rummaging through the clutter like he was picking props for a stage play. Then he dragged over a heavy metal drum, the bottom screeching across the cement floor. It landed with a metallic thud directly between us.

  “But even a joke,” he continued, “can be dangerous if you let your guard down. You’re still an ESPer. I’m not stupid.”

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  He crouched next to King, still sprawled out cold on the floor, and strapped something to his chest… small, cylindrical, and blinking red.

  A bomb.

  “Here’s the deal,” Manuel said, brushing off his hands and rising to his feet with a showman’s flair. “If you lose, this little present goes boom.”

  He turned toward the camera, flashing a grin like a late-night host delivering the setup to a punchline.

  “Controlled explosion, of course,” he said to his audience, voice dripping with mock reassurance. “No harm will come to the merchandise. Just enough to light up the ratings.”

  Fucking psycho.

  He returned to me, pulled a switchblade from his belt, and sliced through the ropes holding my wrists. My arms dropped like dead weight at first—numb and tingling—but I flexed my fingers until the blood returned.

  He pointed to the drum.

  “Let’s begin.”

  Manuel rolled his neck, then set his elbow on the drum with a cocky grin. “Just a heads-up,” he said, flexing. “My ESP gives me a little extra when it comes to raw strength. You’re in for a world of pain.”

  I flexed my jaw and gave him a nod. “Then I hope you don’t mind if I fight dirty.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Define dirty.”

  “I need my shoes off. So I can grip the ground with my toes. Use my whole body.”

  He actually frowned at that. Like the thought of bare feet offended him more than the bomb threat. “You’re serious?”

  I just stared at him. Deadpan.

  He sighed and gestured with a flick of his fingers. “Fine. Do your weird foot thing.”

  I crouched beside the drum and bent down, fingers brushing the laces like I was about to remove my shoes. Manuel watched, amused and vaguely disgusted, probably imagining all sorts of unsanitary possibilities. But I wasn’t thinking about traction. I wasn’t even thinking about my feet.

  I was calculating the distance.

  The exact weight shift I’d need.

  The breath to time it.

  I twisted just enough to reach across my body with my right arm, stretching as though preparing for balance. In truth, I was coiling. Compressing like a spring. My aura hummed… quiet, restrained, but poised behind my skin like a blade behind velvet.

  Then I exploded off the floor.

  One clean leap, body cutting through the space between us like I’d rehearsed it a thousand times. I landed square on King’s chest, one knee pressing into his ribs, the other balancing just enough not to cave him in.

  My right hand glowed, faint but sharp—a shimmer of pressure tingling across my palm.

  And then I slapped him.

  Smack.

  Not a showy one. Not cruel. Just precise. Laced with aura and directed to jolt his entire nervous system into alertness.

  “Wake up,” I said, close to his ear, voice low and laced with threat. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “What’s that about?” Manuel asked, his brow furrowing as he yanked a sleek black detonator from his coat pocket. His thumb hovered just above the switch, casual but twitching, like a man too familiar with what came next.

  I didn’t answer right away. King was still out cold—no flinch, no breath change, nothing in his eyes. Just a dead weight beneath my knee. No good to anyone like this.

  So I grabbed him by the collar, grunted, and hauled him up. It was awkward—he was still seated, slumped like a rag doll—but I leaned into it. I hefted him by the gut and slung part of his weight across my shoulder, then wrapped my arms around him. Not for comfort. For cover. I made myself his shield, spine straight, arms locked, his chest tight against mine.

  Manuel narrowed his eyes.

  “Really?” I said, breath short. “You’re the one who presented a weapon I could use, and now you’re surprised I’m using it? Go on. Press it. Let’s see who’s the real idiot here.”

  He raised an eyebrow, his expression almost pitying. “Stupid? Me?” He gave a little laugh. “Buddy, you ever look in a mirror?”

  He stepped forward, raising the detonator just a touch higher, his grin turning razor-sharp.

  “Get away from your friend,” he said, voice smooth and clipped, “or the both of you are going to suffer a very miserable end.”

  I met his stare, unblinking. “Try me.”

  Then I turned, deliberately slow, dragging King’s weight with me. Each step felt like hauling a soaked mattress, but I didn’t let it show. I walked into the clear line of sight of the camera, making sure every angle caught me—the defiant stance, the limp body in my arms, the sweat matting my hairline.

  “Not so clever now, are you?” I said, eyes flicking to the lens. “This what your viewers paid for? You threatening to blow up your own prize just because the odds shifted?”

  Manuel’s jaw clenched.

  “Go ahead,” I added. “Pull it. Kill me. Kill him. Let the world watch what kind of mastermind folds the second someone calls his bluff.”

  For a long second, there was only silence. The hum of the lights above. The soft mechanical whir of the camera as it adjusted focus.

  Then Manuel let out a breath through his nose, slow and deliberate. He lowered the detonator a few inches.

  “Cute,” he said. “But you’re still stuck. Still trapped! And in case you forgot, there are two more floors of security between you and any kind of exit.”

  “Then I guess we’d better start climbing,” I said. “But seriously, you just admitted us being underground… Judging by the look of the place, I wouldn’t have guess right on my first try.”

  King groaned.

  It was faint, barely audible, but it was there. A twitch of the head. A flutter at the edge of his eyelid.

  Manuel saw it too. His face tightened, and the detonator rose again.

  But this time, my hand was already moving.

  With a grunt, I dropped King and spun, my aura flaring through my fingers like lightning igniting a fuse. I didn’t aim for Manuel. I aimed for the detonator.

  A burst of force lashed from my palm—a whip-crack of pressure, sharp enough to knock a weapon from any ordinary grip. The device flew from his hand and skittered across the concrete floor, landing near the far wall with a clatter.

  Manuel cursed, already reaching for something else.

  But I was faster.

  I shoved King behind the metal drum, crouched low, and channeled every ounce of remaining aura into my legs. The air shimmered around me, heatless but charged. Every nerve in my body screamed for release.

  Then I launched myself at him.

  And this time, there was no contest.

  “I am stronger than you,” Manuel growled.

  His voice dropped half an octave, deepening into something animal. Then his eyes shifted—turning yellow, almost glowing, with slitted pupils like a predator caught in moonlight. Horns curled out from his temples with a wet cracking sound, bone tearing through flesh as if summoned by rage alone. His breath steamed the air, heavy and sulfuric.

  I didn’t flinch.

  I punched.

  He snarled as he sidestepped, quick as a snake. “You missed me.”

  He swung the sword—a low, sweeping arc meant to cleave me in two. The edge gleamed under the harsh lighting, a silver blur cutting through the air. My eyes tracked it in slow motion. It was so close I could see my own reflection in it—bruised, sweaty, eyes locked in.

  “No,” I said, steady. “I didn’t miss.”

  The punch had never been the point. It was a feint, a wide swiping motion that slipped past his guard. My fingers had brushed the hilt of the switchblade on his belt just as he dodged. The blade, already freed, was mid-air, flipping end over end with a glint of opportunity.

  Behind me, King moved.

  The ropes around him snapped—not by force, but by design. His fingernails shimmered, sharp as glass. No, sharper. He’d channeled his ESP into them, turned them into weapons that could cut through steel like paper. With a flick of his wrist, the final strands binding him came apart.

  The switchblade spun once, twice, then…

  Zing.

  King caught it clean, his hand a blur of motion.

  For a moment, everything froze. Manuel smirked like he still had the upper hand.

  Then the sword in his hand split.

  A sharp crack echoed through the room as the steel separated cleanly, severed diagonally from several feet away. The top half clanged to the ground, skittering across the concrete.

  Manuel looked down at the stump in disbelief. A jagged edge where perfection used to be.

  King rose slowly, the switchblade still in hand, its tip glowing faintly with residual energy. His eyes burned—not literally, but the glare he gave Manuel could have flayed skin from bone.

  “I’m still paying off that sword,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous.

  A beat passed. Then another.

  I raised a hand, waggled my fingers in a little wave.

  “Bye-bye,” I said.

  Manuel took a step back. For the first time, his expression flickered—not anger, not arrogance. Uncertainty.

  He didn’t know who was in control anymore.

  And that was exactly how I liked it.

  [Aura: 17%]