Long after he’d had the Draqon female thrown out, Tane’s body hummed with energy.

He’d been this close to losing it. To unleashing and shifting. He hadn’t been that close to losing control in years. Nearly a decade. And a few words from her, from Kinyi, had threatened his white-knuckled grip on sanity.

He could have killed everyone in the entire building. Perhaps everyone on the street. One shift, one tiny lapse in control, and everyone would have burned.

The images came unbidden, flashing through his mind like the neon signs in the lower city advertising warm women and cold beer. He saw his people falling through the fire that shouldn’t have hurt them, but defying all logic, it had. The fire—his fire—had burned so hot it had consumed even the Draqons. He saw them burning. Screaming. Dying.

His fire. His madness.

His fault.

He sagged onto the ground, the dustpan and broom he’d used to sweep up the broken lamp falling from his hand. He let his head loll back onto the wall as he stared up at the water-spotted ceiling. Outside his office, the crowd was long gone and the night was wrapping up as his men counted out the winnings, tallied the marks in the books, and laid out everyone’s cuts. He should have been out there helping. He couldn’t risk someone coming in and seeing him sitting on the floor. He couldn’t risk looking weak. One small hint of it and Garvan, Ball & Joint’s mobster owner, would have him thrown into the ring.

And that would be a surefire way to make him lose his tenuous control.

Tane stood and swiped the glass from his pants. After closing and locking his office door, he went out into the main room.

Chance sat at a table with a few of the other guys, counting credits and stacking them in neat piles. Others swept and mopped up the floor, and the waitresses bustled around with heaping bags of trash.

A long, low moan pulled Tane’s attention to the ring. There, Enver was still working on Steele. She was prone beside him, and he hunched over her with her arm cradled in his arms and a screwdriver between his teeth.

Tane walked over. Passing Chance, he said, “Double-check Hollywood’s counting. I don’t trust him.”

Chance chuckled as a cyborg across the table from him lifted his head and smiled broadly at Tane. Half of Hollywood’s face was as pretty as could be, and none of the guys ever let him live it down. But the plesh ended in a clean line down his nose, revealing the cybernetic half of him, which wasn’t nearly as good looking.

“Fuck you too, Taint,” Hollywood called cheerfully.

Tane growled, but Hollywood only laughed.

“If you don’t stop calling him that, he’ll kill you eventually,” Chance said quietly as Tane walked away.

He grinned. He’d been right to throw Kinyi out, no matter the hollow ache in his gut. This was his home. These men—these cyborgs—were his people now. His brothers.

“What’s going on?” he asked Enver as he stepped into the cage.

Another moan from Steele answered him.

Enver dropped the screwdriver from his mouth and flipped a lock of dark hair from his face. The dog tags around his neck jingled like little bells of death. Most vets didn’t bother wearing them after the Trans-Atlantic War, but he had never seen Enver without them. He glanced up at Tane. “Your girl really jacked up her arm. I’m not equipped to deal with human injuries this serious.” He scowled. “She should have messed up the other arm. At least then I could have rewired it.”

“Going for her human arm was probably the point,” Tane said. “And she’s not my girl. Get Steele cleaned up and out of here before Garvan comes down. He doesn’t need to see fighters on their backs.”

“Got it, boss.” Enver bent back over his work.

Tane left the ring and glanced around the room. The sun would rise soon behind the perpetual smog that hung low over Cyn City. They’d be treated to their own personal brand of toxic beauty, and it was always Tane’s favorite part of the day.

“I’m out,” he called. “Get this shit finished. Chance, lock up.”

“Yes, sir,” some called out. Others just nodded, focused on their work.

With one last glance, Tane went to the back stairwell leading out of the club’s basement. He climbed the steps with a weariness that always settled on his shoulders around this time. It felt extra heavy today.

Upstairs, the bar had long since closed. The chairs sat upside down on the tables like dead spiders, and the lights were off, save for a few sconces on the wall. The front windows and door had the gates pulled down and locked to ward off would-be looters, not that anyone would be stupid enough to steal from Garvan. Tane went out the back and locked all three deadbolts behind him, then pocketed the keys.

Once, during his early days in Cyn City, a street thug had tried to mug him. But word had gotten around quick. Tane was not one to be messed with. Better to mug people who couldn’t snap necks and backs with one hand.

He set off for home as the sun peeked out above the upper city’s sky-rises, casting a sickly wash of pinks and purples like fresh bruises across the puddles in the cracked street.