Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
And I can’t be replaced.
I won’t be.
I think about Mia watching from the plaza. Think about Julia’s hand on Paragon’s shoulder. Think about being called a product. I think about every time someone looked at me and saw a weapon instead of a man.
A tool instead of a human.
And I let the darkness in.
Just a little. Just enough for it to tickle my veins.
My speed doubles.
The world becomes a tunnel of light and motion as I push past limits I didn’t know I had. Paragon falls behind—one meter, then five, then ten. I can feel my body straining, systems I don’t fully understand working overtime, but I don’t care.
I will not lose.
The plaza comes into view, the crowd a roaring mass of color. I angle my descent, calculating trajectory and speed, and then I’m touching down on the stage with an impact that cracks the floor beneath my boots.
Three seconds later, Paragon lands beside me.
Three seconds. That’s all.
But it’s enough.
For right now, it’s more than e-fucking-nough.
The crowd erupts. Marsh is at my side instantly, arm around my shoulders, playing to the cameras with that thousand-dollar smile. “Our champion! Vanguard, ladies and gentlemen!”
My whole body feels depleted, but I manage a smile, a wave, all the performance they expect. And through the chaos, my gaze finds the press section.
Mia is clapping, grinning at me. To my delight, she looks absolutely impressed. I can’t help but flash her a quick, genuine smile.
I did it.
“Impressive,” Paragon says beside me, that dead metallic voice cutting through the crowd noise. “You exceeded projected parameters.”
Projected parameters.
“Thanks,” I say mildly. “You almost had me there.”
“I was operating at 94.7 percent capacity.” A pause. “I will adjust for future engagements.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. He’s not boasting; he’s just talking about data points, like the race was a test, and now it’s been logged for future reference for him to pull up at a later time.
“Fabulous,” I mutter under my breath. “Looking forward to it.”
Julia materializes between us again, her face glowing with satisfaction. But when she looks at me, it’s like she’s calculating something.
“You pushed yourself,” she observes. “Harder than you needed to. Harder than you normally do.”
“Yeah? I wanted to win.”
“No. You wanted to dominate.” Her pale eyes search my face. “What changed?”
I don’t answer. She doesn’t need to know it was because Mia was watching. She doesn’t need to know about the darkness I let slip its leash. She doesn’t need to know she’s completely right. I do want to dominate, at all costs.
And if I’m honest with myself, it scares me.
“Nothing changed,” I say. “I just don’t like losing.”
“Mmm.” Julia doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. “There’s a reception upstairs. VIPs, major donors, the usual crowd. I expect you to make an appearance.”
“What about Paragon?”
“Paragon will be there as well. It’s important the public sees you together.” She pauses. “As partners.”
Right. Partners implies equality. Trust. Something mutual. I got none of those things from that machine.
Paragon is already moving toward the building, a silent glide that doesn’t quite look like walking. Julia follows, her attention fixed on her creation, and I’m left standing on a cracked stage with a crowd still chanting my name.
I look toward the press section one more time.
Mia is gone.
But she left something behind—a feeling, a pull, a reminder that somewhere in this circus of performance and control, there’s still something real. Something human.
I just have to figure out if that something is me.
The reception is everything I expected—champagne flutes and shit music and people who want to shake my hand so they can tell their friends they touched a superhero. I make the rounds, say the right things, smile until my face hurts. All in a day’s work.
The whole time, though, I’m watching Paragon.
He moves through the crowd with mechanical precision, accepting handshakes without warmth, answering questions with responses that sound not just rehearsed, but canned, exactly the same. The helmet never comes off. He never relaxes. It’s performance without personality, heroism without humanity.
And of course, everyone loves it, because everyone loves whatever the new toy is, even if the old one still works perfectly fine.
“Incredible, isn’t he?” a donor gushes beside me, gesturing toward Paragon with her champagne. “So mysterious. So powerful. My daughter is absolutely obsessed already.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Incredible.”
I excuse myself and find a quiet corner by the windows, looking out at the city I’ve sworn to protect. The sun is setting over the Hudson, painting everything gold and crimson, and for a moment, I let myself feel small. I’m just a man in a suit, staring at a view he didn’t earn, wondering for the first time what his purpose really is.
Deep fucking thoughts for a fundraiser.
My watch buzzes. A message from an unknown number. Not a holograph, but a text.
That was quite a show. Dinner tomorrow? I have questions.