—November 16, 2137, 03:40:18—

  The humid air clung to the back of Adam’s throat like a wet rag. With the window slid open, the breeze flowed into the flat, bringing no relief, only a stale, heavy warmth. It was a reminder of why the architects of the last twenty years had sealed the city's lungs. The Concourse was a relic, erected at the turn of the century when the air still possessed a hint of oxygen and New Verillian was something more than a sprawling metallic grave.

  Adam adjusted the minimal lighting, casting a soft glow toward the hall. It was just enough to guide his escape, but faint enough to keep his sniper’s nest shrouded in shadow. He checked his chronogram. The seconds were bleeding away.

  He braced himself, the weight of the moment pressing against his temples. Across the void due East, in the Gemini Tower, his target sat. Cameron Vaughn. Twenty-eight years old. Sitting at the window of ‘The Last Drop’, oblivious to the optics trained on his back.

  Adam glanced at the slip of paper he had carried through the folds of time. The stark white rectangle seemed to vibrate with importance.

  November 16, 2137, 03:47:32

  Temporal Command didn’t deal in approximations. They had given him the exact second the universe aligned for the kill. Adam had spent years conditioning his body for this specific distance. He knew the drag coefficient of the stale air, the refractive index of the glass, and the precise angle of incidence required to drive the round home.

  The extraction plan was hardwired into his muscle memory. Northeast stairwell, terrace exit, and into the waiting spinner. He had a blaster strapped to his ankle and a dagger in his pocket, though he prayed he wouldn't need them. Once the shot broke the silence, the authorities would swarm the building in under a minute. He had rehearsed the sprint to the industrial sector and the return to the Loom until his legs burned.

  Two minutes.

  He looked through the scope. The silhouette was there. Six feet of trouble.

  Cameron Vaughn. The name tasted like bile. This was the man trying to usurp his existence, the phantom reason Adam felt his psyche fraying at the edges. The voices in his head rose to a crescendo, screaming for the silence only death could bring.

  He switched to thermal. The target bloomed into a brilliant orange ghost, centered perfectly in the reticle.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Thirty seconds.

  He slipped the sound-proof headphones over his ears, muting the city. The anticipation of the trauma ending, of the noise finally stopping, made his hands tremble. He steadied them against the rifle's stock.

  Twenty seconds.

  He lined up the shot. His finger ghosted over the trigger. Exhale.

  Ten seconds.

  A crack shattered the night.

  It wasn’t the tone in his headphones. It was too early. Too loud. Too close.

  Through the scope, the world blurred. A spray of red misted the air across the street.

  “What was that?” Adam whispered, freezing.

  The shot hadn’t come from him.

  Before the realization could fully settle, the distant sound of automatic fire erupted, followed by the stomach-churning tinkle of glass shattering nearby.

  “Shit.”

  Training overrode shock. He abandoned the rifle, sprinting down the hall, bursting through his flat door, and taking the stairs two at a time. As the heavy fire door of the emergency stairwell hissed shut, an explosion rocked the foundation, dusting the air with concrete powder.

  What in the hell is going on? Who stole his kill?

  He checked his wrist. One minute past schedule. He was behind. The lockdown protocols would engage any second.

  He burst onto the terrace level, checking his perimeter. The street was chaotic but blind to him. He moved East, then South, scanning for his ride.

  He found it, or what was left of it. The spinner was a smoldering heap of twisted metal, flames licking the night sky. The explosion he’d heard wasn't the target; it was his exit.

  Panic, cold and sharp, pricked his skin. He turned East, heading toward the Gemini Tower on foot, fighting the urge to run. Sirens wailed, closing in like wolves. To his right, he saw the flash of tactical armor—Special forces sprinting toward The Concourse.

  He felt the hum before he heard it. The low frequency of a hovercar decelerating directly behind him. He braced himself, keeping his pace steady. Don't run. Don't look guilty.

  A door hissed open, expelling hydraulics into the humid air.

  “Mr. Walker.”

  The voice was deep, raspy, and undeniable.

  Adam stopped and turned. Facing him was a man who looked less like a detective and more like a mountain carved from granite, his expression unreadable in the flickering streetlights.

  “Adam Walker,” the man said, stepping onto the pavement. “I’m Detective Rostova. You’ll want to come with me.”