He took the elevator to the street and stepped out, alone, into the afternoon sun, checking his watch. It was just after three. According to Mitch, the doctor’s shift at Merit Central ended at five. Victor would be there to meet him.

Ellis Dumont.

A more spiritual person might have seen the EO’s sudden appearance as a sign of divine intervention, but Victor had never put much stock in fate, and even less in faith. Dumont’s presence in the matrix was convenient to the point of suspicion, his location in Merit its own red flag.

No, Dumont was either a gift or a trap.

Victor was inclined to think the latter.

But he couldn’t afford to stake his life on it.

His latest episode had crossed the four-minute threshold. He’d come back, but Victor knew he was playing a dangerous game. The odds were terrible, the stakes monumental.

It was Russian roulette, except that a bullet would be a cleaner end.

He had considered that, a quick, clean death. Not a suicide, of course

—a reset. But that would introduce another factor, another risk. If he died again—truly died—would Sydney be able to bring him back? And if she did, how much of his power would be left? How much of him?

Four blocks later, Victor turned the corner and stepped through the sliding glass doors into a gym. He would have preferred to meet in a bar, but Dominic Rusher was five years sober, and in a moment of distraction Victor had agreed to meet him here instead.

He’d always hated gyms.

He’d avoided sports in school, avoided the weight yard in prison, preferring to hone his strength in other ways. He had enjoyed swimming, once. The soothing repetition, the measured breath, the way physical mass had no bearing on skill.

Now, as he strode past the hulking, sweating masses lifting weights, he had a vivid memory of watching football players trying to swim, attacking the pool as if they could muscle it out of the way. The current worked against them. They sank like stones. Spluttered for air. Bested by something as simple and natural as water.

Dominic was waiting for him in the locker room.

At first glance, Victor hardly recognized the ex-soldier. If the last five years had whittled Victor down, they’d had the opposite effect on Dom.

The change was startling—apparently, as startling as Victor’s own transformation.

Dominic’s eyes widened. “Victor. You look . . .”

“Yeah, like shit, I know.” He tipped his shoulder against the steel lockers. “How’s the job?”

Dom scratched his head. “Well enough, all things considered. But remember that EO I told you about? The one making a scene?”

“Marcella.” Victor hadn’t meant to hold on to that name, but something about it, about her, had stuck in his mind. “How long did she last?”

Dom shook his head. “They haven’t caught her yet.”