Page 111 of Neon Flux

I rolled my eyes. “So how didyouleave the Kitsune and join POM, if it’s impossible to do?”

His smile faded. “Walked through hell and survived.”

“Wow, could you be more cryptic?”

His eyes flashed with anger, but he let out a long sigh, and I felt the pulse of Flux fade. “You remember about ten years ago, the Kitsune ruled Magenta. No other gang dared mess with them. And then—poof—they almost completely vanished overnight.”

“Wasn’t it the flood? I heard they built their Den in the old underground, destabilized the structure and caused a catastrophic collapse, flooding the place.”

His expression darkened. “That’s a nice, clean story, isn’t it? But nah. Back in ’75, the Kitsune allied with POM. Ran a bunch of synthetics straight out of their labs and onto the streets. Win-win situation. Kitsune had the hottest drugs in circulation—couldn’t sell it fast enough. POM offloaded surplus, got a nice little boost to quarterly profits, and tested their shit on the wider population for free.”

My brow furrowed, but he didn’t stop. “The money was too good. Kitsune grew, expanded their territory. I would know—I helped them do it. But they got greedy, tried to take a bigger cut. POM didn't like that. Cut them down to size real quick.”

“How do you know that?”

He didn’t justify my question with a response.

“That’s why there aren’t many guys your age in the gang now.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Almost an entire generation gone. No soldiers meant the higher-ups couldn’t hold their territory. Took them ten years to claw their way back.”

“Your generation…but not you?”

“No. Never me.”

I could feel there was more—something deeper he wasn’t saying—but something had shifted between us today. I didn’t want to push it. Not yet, anyway.

“Good thing, or I wouldn’t have anyone who could keep up with me.”

His lip curled. “Careful, doll. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Maybe it was.”

Before he could respond, Maddox called that it was clear for me to climb. I grabbed the rusted rungs and glanced down at Cy.

“Don’t you dare watch my ass while I climb.”

“Don’t dish it if you can’t take it.”

He was grinning—and goddamnit, so was I.

CHAPTER 40

CY

Ihadn’t dreamed about it in years. Had tried not to think about it at all. After my talk with Eon today, it was inevitable. We’d gotten out from under Magenta, and I’d crashed as soon as I got home. As I drifted off, I felt the cold eddies of memory twining between thoughts and dreams, that deep void pulling me over the event horizon—with no chance of escape.

Wet and dark. It was always wet and dark in the underground, where over a century of pipes and sewers leaked from every surface, marred by time and the weight of the human civilization that sprawled above. It’s where I’d grown up—below the buildings of Magenta, where even the slum rats above thought themselves better than us.

The stench of the slums hit me like a gut punch as I wound through the narrow, trash-strewn alleys. I kept my head down, ignoring the jeers and catcalls from the other residents. This was home—though it was the last place I ever wanted to be.

I reached the dilapidated sector that barely passed as residential and shoved through the rusted door. The stairs groaned under my weight as I climbed to the third floor. Iheard the usual soundtrack—crying babies, arguing neighbors, the occasional crash of something breaking.

I stopped in front of the door marked 8G, took a deep breath, and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, harder this time. Finally, the door swung open. There she was—my mother. Her once-beautiful face was lined with stress and exhaustion, her hair a tangled mess. A cigarette hung from her lips, smoke curling around her head like a toxic halo.

“Took you long enough,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing as she took me in.

“Nice to see you too, Mom,” I muttered, pushing past her into the cramped apartment. The place was a disaster, as usual. Empty bottles, dirty clothes, and half-eaten food littered the floor. Three kids sprawled on the couch, blankly watching a flickering holoscreen. The youngest—a baby barely a year old—wailed in a crib shoved against the wall. My mother’s version of high-quality babysitting she did for hardcreds.