Aron absorbed Skull’s words with a grim, silent understanding. He didn’t need a lecture on the nature of the Black Hand; he knew the truth of the organization better than almost anyone. They were a shadow collective, a ghost unit that functioned on the absolute erasure of the individual. To the world, they didn’t exist. To their members, they were the only reality.
In that world, leaving was never an option. The Black Hand hunted deserters with a religious fervor, not just to punish the individual, but to keep the collective silent. Those who attempted to walk away were invariably tracked down, their lives snuffed out to ensure no secrets ever leaked into the light.
When Aron had finally made his move to escape that life, he had known a simple resignation wasn’t enough. He had faked his death, meticulously setting the stage so that the organization would strike his name from the ledger of the living. He had done it perfectly, or so he had thought.
The last thing he wanted was for the life he had been saved from to bleed into the life he had found. The Stern family had taken him in, adopted him, and given him a name that meant something more than a rank. If the Black Hand ever found him, the fallout would consume them all.
This was the source of the constant, low-level static of anxiety that governed Aron’s life. It was why he was always so cautious, and why the mere mention of other Black Hand members operating in the city made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Most of their members were deployed as mercenaries in war-torn fields, but occasionally, they were hired for "surgical" tasks in civilization.
For a moment, a terrifying thought crossed his mind: Did they find me? Are they here specifically for me?
However, as he looked at the man in front of him, Aron realized that Skull wasn’t an agent of the Hand. He was a mirror. Skull was a deserter too, one who hadn’t been nearly as clever.
’This worries me more than anything,’ Aron thought, his breath hitching as he ducked a sloppy swing. ’I covered my tracks. But Skull... he knows he failed. The fact that he joined the Gilt Rats specifically for protection means he knows the Hand is still sniffing around his trail. If they find him, it’s only a matter of time before they find the connection to me.’
Aron’s eyes hardened. He looked toward the door Ramon had exited. ’Max is getting into bigger and bigger dangers. He’s moving at a pace that invites the world to notice him. Which means I have two choices: I can run away right now to ensure I don’t draw a bigger threat toward him, or I can get strong enough that it doesn’t matter. I have to be able to take down the Black Hand itself if they show up, so I don’t put that burden on Max’s shoulders.’
Aron exploded forward, his fists blurring. He landed two clean strikes on Skull’s jaw, followed immediately by a rising palm strike right underneath the man’s chin. It was a combination designed to rattle the brain and shut down the nervous system.
But Skull didn’t fall. Like a mindless zombie fueled by spite, he surged forward, ignoring the damage to his head. He swung a heavy, brass-knuckled fist that caught Aron in the side, right on the broken ribs.
Aron let out a strangled moan of pain. Before he could reset, Skull dived in, using his head as a battering ram and slamming it into Aron’s chest. The impact sent Aron stumbling back, and two more sloppy punches whistled past his ears.
Aron avoided them, but his movements were becoming jagged. Each step felt like a hot iron was being pressed into his side.
’If I were in perfect condition, this would be over,’ Aron thought, his forehead slick with sweat. ’But I have to be careful. One clean hit from those knuckles will end this. Skull knows I’m getting impatient. He can see I’m rushing, attacking when I should be defending, just so I can get to Max quicker.’
"There’s a reason they call me Skull!" the man shouted, his voice thick with blood. "Back at the camp, I was the hardest person to knock out. I’ve got the thickest skull in the unit. Even if I’m losing the technical fight, I’m going to keep swinging until you drop. I’m your nightmare, Silver-boy!"
The grueling exchange continued. Aron forced himself to breathe, trying to settle his heart rate and ignore the agony in his side. He timed a perfect counter-strike, catching Skull on the chin from the side, a blow that would have decapitated a normal man.
Skull responded with a wild hook that hit nothing but air. He was clearly fading, his attacks were losing their precision and power, but his legs refused to give out. Both men were flagging, the floor of the gym slick with their shared effort.
’I need to hit him harder,’ Aron realized, his vision beginning to fray at the edges. ’If only I still had my batons... if only I had the raw, crushing strength of Na.’
In the middle of the next trade, a new sound pierced the air. It was a high-pitched, mechanical whine, like a swarm of angry bees descending on the room.
Aron recognized that frequency. It was a sound from his more recent past, the sound of high-end tech.
"Hey, Silver-boy!" a projected voice rang out, amplified by a speaker.
Aron’s head snapped toward the sound. A sleek drone was hovering near the ceiling on the far side of the room. He recognized the voice immediately: it was Vivian.
"I’ve got a package for you!" the drone announced.
’A package? For me?’ Aron thought, a spark of hope finally flickering in his tired eyes.
**
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