Rain drilled the windshield like it had something to prove. Argus Cutter sat in the back seat of a sleek black Lincoln, elbow on the door, thumb brushing the edge of a thumb drive he hadn't let go of since the meeting. The air smelled like old leather and cheap cologne. His driver, Niko, stared too long at the rearview mirror again.
Argus didn't like the way his eyes moved.
"Take Grand, cut through 11th," Argus said without looking up.
"That's not the fastest," Niko replied, almost casual.
Argus looked at the mirror. Just a flick of his eyes. "Didn't ask for fast."
Niko didn't argue again.
Argus shifted in his seat and slipped the thumb drive into the inner pocket of his coat. Inside were files from the CEO of Procyon Tech; names, bank routes, and a few nasty side projects labeled Project Pandora. Stuff he could've sold for ten lifetimes' worth of silence. But he wasn't going to sell it. Not this time. Not after what they did to Rafe. Not after what he saw in that server room.
Lightning flashed. In that half-second of light, he caught the shape of a black SUV turning without headlights. No signal. No license plate.
He straightened. "Niko. That tail's been with us since midtown."
"I don't see"
"You don't have to see it. Just drive."
Niko's jaw clenched. He didn't step on the gas.
Argus leaned forward; voice low. "You hearing me?"
The Lincoln jerked as Niko swerved left onto 47th, toward the riverside. Wrong direction. Wrong speed.
Argus reached into his coat.
Too late.
The flash didn't come from the clouds this time.
The car lifted off the ground in a roar of heat and steel. Glass punched inward. The world flipped. A sound like the sky cracking open swallowed everything. Then came silence crushed metal hissing and ticking as it cooled in the rain.
Argus came to upside down, his leg twisted under the seat. Smoke burned his throat. One ear rang like a fire alarm. He couldn't feel the rest of his face, but he could feel the blood in his mouth.
The world stank of gasoline and scorched leather.
He dragged himself out of the wreck on his elbows, coughing up red. The pavement met his palms hard. Sirens howled in the distance real ones. Not the kind his guys used for cover.
Lights blurred through the rain.
His chest heaved. Every breath scraped. He crawled forward, digging his nails into the slick street.
Two black boots stepped into his line of sight.
Argus tilted his head up.
Marco Villas stood over him in gray coat, sharp beard, hands in his pockets. No urgency. No panic. Just the same unreadable calm Marco had when he put two in a man's chest and asked what was for lunch.
"You," Argus croaked. "You knew."
Marco didn't blink. "Didn't have a choice."
"The hell you didn't."
"You burned too many bridges, boss."
Argus pressed a fist to the ground, trying to rise. "I took you off the floor. Put a watch on your wrist."
Marco stepped back into the shadows like he hadn't heard a word. "It's not personal. You know how this works."
And just like that, he disappeared into the alley.
Argus collapsed onto his side, breath coming shorter now. He reached into his coat, fingers slick, and found the thumb drive still tucked into the lining. Cracked, maybe. Burnt on one end. But there.
Footsteps.
Different boots.
He squinted into the rain. Two uniforms, guns drawn, rushing toward the wreck. Shouting something he couldn't make out.
He shoved the drive under his tongue.
Couldn't let them find it.
Couldn't let it end like this.
The light overhead grew too white. His vision bled at the edges. His fingers twitched once. Then nothing.
He gasped.
Air punched into his lungs; cold, sharp, real. His chest jerked off the table before his eyes even opened.
The first thing he saw was light; harsh, sterile, unblinking. Fluorescents buzzed overhead like insects.
Then came the smell. Bleach. Alcohol. Steel.
And death.
He jerked upright, arms trembling beneath him, breath catching in his throat. He looked down. His hands.
Not his.
Smaller. Cleaner. Younger. Pale knuckles. Smooth skin. No scars. No tattoos.
What the hell?
His heart kicked harder. He swung his legs off the edge of the table and froze.
A corpse lay two feet away, zipped halfway into a body bag.
Tag read: Lawson, Ethan.
Male.
Age: 33.
Time of death: 02:17 A.M.
Argus stared at the tag.
Ethan.
His eyes slid to the ID badge on the morgue counter. It was clipped to a wallet, half-cracked open like it had been dropped in a hurry.
NYPD Homicide Division – Detective Ethan Lawson.
Argus's fingers moved before his mind caught up. He grabbed the badge. Held it up.
The face matched the mirror on the far wall.
His reflection stared back at him brown hair, rough jawline, eyes wide and wild.
Not his face.
Not Argus Cutter.
"Jesus," he muttered. But it wasn't even his voice.
The door clicked. He spun. Bare feet hit cold tile. The world tilted. A man in scrubs stepped in, flipping a clipboard.
The attendant didn't see him at first. Then he looked up. Froze mid-step.
"What the?"
Argus raised both hands slowly.
"I'm... awake," he said, voice raspier than expected.
The man dropped the clipboard. "You were dead."
Argus didn't answer.
The morgue worker stepped back. "You were flatlined. Hours ago. No pulse."
Argus blinked. "I guess I got better."
The guy didn't laugh.
Neither did Argus.
Sirens wailed somewhere above. Distant. Like they weren't part of this room. This moment.
"You remember your name?" the man asked, more cautious now.
Argus hesitated. "Lawson," he said. It came easier than it should have. "Detective Ethan Lawson."
The man swallowed and nodded. "I'll get a doctor. Stay here."
He left the door open.
Argus walked to it anyway.
Outside, the hallway was white and quiet. Too quiet. No staff. No cameras.
He moved fast.
He didn't know what was going on or how the hell he got here but instinct was instinct. And his screamed not to stick around.
He found the locker room three doors down. A duffel bag sat on the bench with the name Lawson embroidered on the side.
He opened it.
Clothes. Holster. A black NYPD badge clipped to the inside pocket. Service pistol. Standard-issue tablet. Leather wallet, still damp.
He dressed in a rush, pulling on pants and shirt that fit just a little too well. The shoes, though those were the weird part.
They felt right.
Like he'd worn them for years.
His fingers brushed the inside of the jacket his jacket and found something wedged in the lining.
A drive.
The same model he'd hidden in his mouth before everything went black.
Same size. Same weight. Same crack at the base.
He stood there, staring at it.
If this wasn't a dream, then he hadn't just come back from the dead.
He'd come back in the wrong body with the right secrets still on him.
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
He slipped the drive into the lining, buttoned the jacket, and left through the side exit before anyone spotted him.
Rain hit his face the second he stepped outside. Cold. Clean. The kind of rain that cut through the city stink.
The sky was still dark. Somewhere between night and morning.
He stood under a flickering streetlight, heart pounding.
His phone buzzed in the jacket pocket.
Not his phone. Lawson's.
He pulled it out and checked the screen.
Unknown Number.
He hesitated. Then swiped to answer.
A man's voice rasped through the static. Familiar. Gravel-chewed. Tired.
"Detective Lawson," the voice said. "We need to talk about Argus Cutter's death."
Argus didn't speak. His grip tightened.
The voice continued. "I was there the night it happened. So were you. I just didn't know it was you until now."
The call ended.
Screen black.
Argus stood there, soaked in city rain, pulse thudding in his neck.
He wasn't just back.
Someone knew.