Verity woke slowly, sleep still clouding her eyes, as she remembered where she was. A shitty old mattress on the floor of a one-room apartment in Cyn City. The smile on her face couldn’t be contained. It was bright enough to burn the sun.

She took in a deep breath of fresh, crisp air that drifted through her cracked window and tasted the undercurrent of mold that followed everything around. This was what freedom smelled like.

In her twenty-one years, she’d barely ever been alone, always kept with the wives doing chores or in school learning just enough for the elders to determine what trade she’d specialize in. She’d gotten far with holistic healing, but her aversion to blood made becoming a midwife an impossibility. Assisting at one birth was enough to last her an entire lifetime. She’d had to leave the room and vomited just from the smell.

She got up and pulled on a shirt and a pair of loose pants that hung around her hips. Her bones jut out, and her stomach growled. It was okay though, she had enough to pay rent and then find groceries. Everything was going to work out fine.

Her determined optimism faltered for a moment, as she remembered the look in Vick’s one eye when he came after her the night before. She was proud of herself that she’d handled it. Having six brothers at home and training in pressure points had done more than just make her “too rough to be a proper wife” as her mother kept insisting. But if the others had come out even a moment earlier, or if Chance hadn’t been there...

Chance.

Something about him struck a chord of longing through her. She didn’t know if it was the man’s undeniably gorgeous looks, or if it was the way his eyes could flicker from flirtatious to guarded in an instant. Whenever she was around him, she constantly said the wrong thing, like her foot had been permanently lodged in her mouth and she was trying to speak around it, mangling her words even further.

He was a mystery, kind and then cruel in the next breath. She could see the layers of secrets beneath his words and wanted to know more. The memory of her finger running along his strong stubbled jaw warmed her belly and sent a flash of heat up her back. What had she been thinking kissing him? She couldn’t help herself, she’d wanted his skin against her lips. He’d been soft, warm, and smelled fabulous. Everything about him screamed man, and her body tingled just thinking about it. No one else had ever had this effect on her. What was it about him?

Be careful. He’s dangerous.

Should she be worried about him, or herself?

She grabbed her bag and unlocked the four deadbolts and two chains on her door. She didn’t imagine even those protections would help if someone really wanted to get in, especially a cyborg, but she liked the illusion of safety. She locked every deadbolt behind her and made her way down one flight of rickety stairs to Wicksham’s office.

Three knocks on the door and the older man opened it with a strained smile. The wrinkles around his eyes were filled in with grime, and his fingers had the tell-tale orange stain of a chain-smoker.

“Verity, good, good, you’re right on time.” He coughed and opened his door to invite her in.

She wanted to stay in the hall, but exchanging cash, even if it was rent money, in public wasn’t wise. And around here getting robbed in her own building wasn’t out of the question.

Wicksham ushered her in, and the squelch of the recently flooded carpet announced every step she took. If she owned this building, she’d want to live on one of the upper floors. But he’d clearly chosen to live in an unrentable space in order to bring in higher value rents.

Verity reached into her bag and pulled out the crumpled bills she had organized into a neat stack. “Four Hundred and twenty-five credits,” she announced, holding the money out with a proud smile.

Wicksham frowned “Verity, I raised the rent last week. It’s six hundred now and will be seven hundred next month. The cops have been coming down hard lately with raids and searches. I can’t pay them off with only four twenty-five.”

“What?” Panic flooded her system. “No, I don’t have—I can’t pay for anything like that. Why didn’t you say anything? When I moved in we agreed—”

“That I would let you pay at the end of the month instead of when you moved in until you got your feet under you. I don’t want to see a nice girl like you out on the street, but if I don’t get the full amount, I can’t keep you or anyone in the building safe.” Wicksham sat in a ripped-up leather recliner and struck a match to light a cigarette. The closed windows and heavy curtains trapped the smell of rot and smoke inside. Verity wondered how he wasn’t sick from it.

“But I don’t have that much.”

“Then you need to get it.” Smoke curled around the older man, as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Verity, but I already did you a favor. You need to get the rest.”

“I have another fifty credits.” She pulled the last of her money, all she had left, out of her bag.

“Great, so another hundred and twenty-five and you’ll be set for the month.”

“Mr. Wicksham…”

“Just Wicksham, and no, Verity, I’m sorry. I can’t let this go. Everyone has to pay their part, or I have to find someone else who can. You have three days.”

She stood there staring at the man as hope drained out of her, splashing in the soggy carpet that seeped into her thin canvas shoes.

* * *

Verity stood in front of the unlit sign for the Ball & Joint. It was the last place she wanted to be. She hated to have to ask for help when she knew she could do this on her own if only she had a little more time. She’d come to the city determined to be independent. Refusing to be reliant on anyone. But Wicksham had thrown a veritable wrench in her plans.

The street outside the bar was just as gross as it had been the night before. Blood, oil, water, and other unknown fluids swirled in the puddles along the curb.

She threw the door open and walked inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The brightness of the bar’s interior with all the lights on a contrast to the dim filtered daylight of the lower city’s streets. After she regained her senses, she strode toward the bar where a tall, thin man with scraggly dark hair sat with his back turned toward her speaking to someone else. They paid no attention to the slamming sound of the door behind them.

“I don’t have any of the highsynth oil,” Chance said as he entered from a door she hadn’t noticed before and set a container on the bar next to the man. “Will the catalytic base without sulfur do?”

The sight of him took her breath away. He had the same relaxed posture as he had when they were alone, and his deep voice no longer sounded menacing but vibrated with low undertones. His hair was slicked back, but the ends were already starting to poke out and he looked like he had on the same clothes as last night. His eyes tired.

“Chance?” Verity called, not hearing the man’s response as he grabbed the oil.

“What are you doing here?” he asked with a tight smile. His eyes widened, and she couldn’t tell if he was happy to see her or not. She shouldn’t care. What he thought about her made no difference. She hadn’t come here to find a man. If anything, she came to avoid having one.

Chance came closer. The bar separated them and kept her from reaching out to touch him. Why did he have to look so damn good? The circles under his eyes and grease stains on his shirt gave him the look of a haunted man. “Did something happen? Those assholes didn't figure out where you live? I’ll fucking kill them.”

The fire in his eyes was full of righteous fury but tempered with something Verity hadn't anticipated finding. Concern. Not the kind, she convinced herself he was obligated to show another person in need, no, this was a look of familiarity, and affection. It made Verity’s blood boil.

“No, I'm fine. Is Garvan here?”

Chance's face hardened, and the muscle along his jaw twitched. She would have thought it impossible for a face so strong and chiseled to even do so. A shadow of the danger everyone kept warning her about cast over his face, and her thighs clenched. She couldn’t stop her reaction to the intense masculinity of him. His eyes darkened as he spoke. “What do you need from Garvan?”

“That's something I need to speak with Garvan about.”

Chance stared at her, working his jaw like it was a jigsaw puzzle he could solve if he just mashed the pieces hard enough.

Verity lowered her gaze unable to handle the intensity of his eyes. What was the problem? It wasn’t like it was unheard of for someone to ask for a couple of extra shifts when they needed a little money. She only had a few days to try and make the extra credits waitressing. If she couldn’t she’d have to take more extreme measures. She needed those extra shifts.

“I don’t want you talking to Garvan. Tell me what you need.”

“What?”

“Stay away from Garvan. I can help with whatever it is.”

Verity’s hackles rose. Who did he think he was to tell her who she could and couldn’t talk to? Garvan was no saint, but so far, he’d been kind enough to her. “You don’t have any idea what I need, and I need to talk to my boss. What do you even do here, anyway?”

Chance gripped the bar, and if it hadn’t been secured in place, she was pretty sure he would have swept it out of the way and grabbed her instead. His large scarred hand turned white as he stared at her, not answering.

Behind Chance, the man who had been preoccupied gave a deep sigh and swiveled his barstool in their direction. He wore blue latex gloves covered with blood and grease.

The blood rushed from Verity’s head.

“I think that is much as I can do. This dude took a proper beating. He’s lucky the arm’s still attached at all,” the man said. “You're gonna need a proper cynker to repair it anymore. I’ve done what I can without better tools or nanites.”

Chance redirected his attention to the man who had spoken, releasing the bar and taking in the scene. “Shit, Enver, he looks like you put him back together with a butcher knife, duct tape, and a freaking band-aid. How the hell is he supposed to work his shift at the Deluge?”

As the two men spoke, Verity glimpsed a pale-faced cyborg sitting on a barstool behind the man in the plastic gloves. He was massive, built like a moose and bare-chested. A cybernetic arm hung limply at his side, gears, and tubing held in place with wire and soldered metal. The smell of burnt iron and flesh accosted her senses, sending her stomach tumbling over itself. Blood and oil oozed from where the metal had been crudely attached to his flesh.

The man looked down and clenched his metal hand into a fist. “I can work.”

Chance turned to face the cyborg. “I know you can. I'm just not sure it's safe if you do before we find someone to help put that back together properly. Your elbow joint is shot, and you can't afford to do more damage before we get you in to see a cynker. Enver will make some calls, but you still owe a lot of credits. Garvan’s going to expect you to fight tonight, arm or no arm.”

“Nah, I'm good.” The man reached for his shirt and stretched his cybernetic arm over his head ripping something loose in the process and releasing a flow of blood that ran down his bare chest and pooled onto the floor.

Verity felt the rise of bile in the back of her throat. Familiar white spots filled her vision. If she didn't get away from the gore soon, she’d find herself passed out face down on the Ball & Joint’s sticky floor.

“You're busy,” she said in a rush. “I'll come back. I just need to talk to Garvan before my shift tonight. Maybe you can…” Her eyes widened as the man with the blue gloves stuck his fingers inside the now gaping hole between the cybernetic arm and the man's shoulder and did something that let out a loud mechanical pop.

Verity covered her mouth and turned away, gripping her bag tightly. She rushed outside, willing herself to stay conscious. Once she was safely in the narrow street outside, she leaned against the green stained concrete wall and took a deep, steadying breath. The image of the blood flowing from the man's shoulder, down his metallic arm, and dripping with a splash onto the floor played over and over in her head, bringing the smell of copper and burnt metal back. She bent over, convinced she might throw up, as the white lights swirled in her vision.