He plucked a black umbrella from a corner stand without paying, and vanished beneath it, one bloom of darkness among dozens. Half a block ahead, the detective stopped beside a black van and a sedan, and convened with a cluster of soldiers in sodden street clothes, their manner and posture nullifying any meaningful disguise.

Victor lingered nearby, folding himself into the huddle at the bus stop. He watched Stell rake a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, the picture of frustration. Watched him gesture at the soldiers, who got back into their vehicles, while Stell himself set off on foot.

Victor fell in step behind him.

Stell walked for ten, fifteen minutes more before swiping into a residential building. Victor caught the front door just as the elevator closed. He watched it ascend one floor, then two, before stopping.

Victor took the stairs instead and arrived just as Stell was unlocking the front door, watched the man stiffen as he registered the other man’s presence, realized that he wasn’t alone.

Stell turned, drawing his service weapon before he saw Victor, and froze.

Victor smiled. “Hello, Detective.”

Stell’s hand was steady on the gun. “It’s been a while.”

“I’m surprised it took you so long.”

“In my defense,” said Stell, “I assumed you were dead.”

“You know what they say about assuming,” said Victor dryly. “We EOs are hard to keep down.” He nodded at the weapon. “Speaking of down.”

Stell shook his head, grip tightening on the gun. “I can’t do that.”

Victor flexed his hand. “Are you sure?” He splayed his fingers, and shock crossed Stell’s face like lightning as his own hand opened, let the gun fall to the floor.

“You’re not the only one who’s traded up,” said Victor, moving toward the detective. The air caught audibly in Stell’s throat as he tried to back away, and couldn’t.

“Pain is specific, but relatively simple,” continued Victor. “Now, animating a body, articulating it—that requires precision, the firing of certain nerves, the pulling of specific strings. Like a marionette.”

“What do you want?” hissed Stell.

I want to stop dying, thought Victor.

But Stell couldn’t help with that.

“I want you to keep Eli in his goddamn cage.”

Surprise crossed the detective’s face. “That isn’t your call.”

“How could you be so stupid?” growled Victor.

“I do what I have to,” said Stell, “and I certainly don’t answer to—”

Victor’s hand clenched into a fist, and Stell doubled over in pain. He caught himself against the wall, gave a sharp whistle through gritted teeth, and a second later every other door in the hall swung open, soldiers streaming in, weapons raised.

“I want him alive,” ordered Stell.

Careless, Victor chided himself. The cop had baited his own trap, and he had stepped inside.

“You’ve always preferred being predator to prey,” observed Stell.

Victor’s teeth clicked together. “Did Eli teach you that?”