Page 38 of Jump or Fall

Mara

T he city was hardly recognizable. Some streets had descended into chaos—groups of people setting fires, the dense smoke curling into the sky. Others, untouched, remained eerily still, as if waiting for destruction to reach them.

Riding during the day didn’t have the same surreal beauty as at night, when the neon lights turned the world into a blur of color, but there was still something exhilarating about it. Even though she wasn’t the one driving, Mara felt the familiar rush of freedom as the wind whipped past.

Gordon wove through traffic, his movements cautious. It wasn’t like their previous rides—no reckless speed, no sharp turns. He was being careful with the borrowed bike, and she couldn’t blame him.

A traffic jam forced them to stop. The lanes ahead were gridlocked, packed too tightly for the bike to slip through. After a few minutes of waiting in stagnant heat, Gordon turned them down a narrow side street.

The detour seemed promising. But the road was clear—too clear. The farther they rode, the more uneasy she became.

Silence pressed in around them.

“I think we should turn around,” she said, her fingers tightening against his sides.

“Yeah… Something isn’t right.”

He turned the bike around, retracing their path.

There was a barricade.

“Shit,” he muttered, turning the bike again. She kept her eyes open and scanned for any sign of who had trapped them. The street remained completely empty, with no movement in the buildings above.

When they reached the first place they had turned around, another barricade was waiting.

They had ridden straight into a trap.

Gordon was about to speak when someone grabbed her from the left, and another set of hands took him from the right.

They were thrown to the ground.

A man wearing a cracked enforcer helmet pointed a gun at her. Two others stood beside him, their faces masked. One gripped a large metal pole, ready to strike.

“Are you Silvers?”

Mara and Gordon stood with raised hands.

Gordon answered, “No.”

“Prove it!”

He extended a hand, rotating it to show his fingers were free of implants.

“That doesn’t mean shit and you know it.”

Gordon dropped his hands, tilting his head incredulously. He glanced at Mara, then pulled off his helmet and stepped forward.

“How many fucking Silvers walk around looking like this?”

The group relaxed, but the helmeted one kept his gun up. “What about the girl?”

Gordon drew his own gun, his voice low and deadly. “Only men can be Silvers, dipshit. And if you touch her again, you’ll have that gun down your fucking throat.”

Mara flipped her visor up and tapped her eyebrow, activating the synth-mind. A dull ache spread across the left half of her face as she studied each person for three seconds, gathering data from their movements .

A small image appeared in the corner of her vision—a projection of the unarmed man drawing a gun. She tapped again to shut it off. Pain lanced through her skull as the image disappeared.

“They got spies everywhere, Eight rat.” Helmet took a half-step forward. “Where’d you get such a nice bike?”

“Stay the fuck away,” Gordon spat without a hint of nerves. She’d never seen him like this. When he’d shot that Silver in the head, he’d been calm and collected. Now, he was absolutely feral.

The helmeted one spoke again. “We’re taking your bike. Run back to Eight where you belong.”

Mara edged closer to Gordon, her heart racing. She kept her voice low enough so that only he could hear. “My synth-mind says there’s an eighty percent chance the one on the left is pretending not to have a gun.”

“Reach under my coat,” he murmured, “and grab the other H-ekaton. I’ll take left. You take helmet.”

Her fingers found the grip. She tried to keep her hand steady as her head still pounded from using the synth-mind.

Before she could draw it, the one with the pipe shouted, “She’s grabbing something from him!”

Mara yanked the gun free just as the helmeted man turned his weapon on her.

She dropped low and fired.

Gordon dove sideways, his own shot cracking through the air.

Her target staggered back, clutching his chest. Dark blood spread quickly across his shirt, soaking it. Muffled gurgling noises leaked out from under the helmet.

Mara whipped around, gun raised toward the man with a pipe, but he had already thrown it aside and bolted into the alley, his footsteps pounding against the pavement.

Gordon approached his own target and patted him down.

He had no weapon .

When he pulled off the mask, it revealed a shockingly young face. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

It had been a gamble to trust such a low certainty, and now they had killed a kid. They probably could have scared him away.

Gordon noticed her troubled look. “We came out alive,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

“I know.” The disappointment and guilt still crushed her. What were these dumb kids doing ambushing people like that?

Together, they moved the barricade and hopped back on the bike.

“From now on, you’re carrying a gun,” Gordon said.

She jerked her head in agreement.

The city had unraveled. What had once been a place of relative safety had turned into a war zone of paranoia and bloodshed. People were being maimed over petty grievances—over nothing.

It was no wonder Asher had fled his apartment.

If the mob would attack a man for being an asshole, what would they do to someone who worked for Hyperion?

The average person wouldn’t know who Millon was or care that he was the one who sent out the list. Hyperion was a place for the elite, and the Silvers were the elite.

Did Millon know the city would fall apart this way? Was this all part of his plan?

Maybe he wanted to be the one to pick up the pieces.