Page 70 of Bitten Shifter

Life is short—too short to stay loyal to the wrong people, too short to stay silent or let fear rule. More than anything, I don’t want to die here. Not like this.

They have underestimated me.

I inhale and sink into the spiky warmth of my magic, feeling out the tech around me. One of the men has a phone in his pocket. I tug at its software, sending a quick message to Riker with the van’s number plate and granting him access to the phone’s GPS.

There will be repercussions if I survive, questions I can’t answer without revealing my technomancy, but secrecy doesn’t matter much if I’m dead.

An hour passes. We have crossed two zones, and from their conversation, it’s clear we’re heading for Zone Four—the coast. They discuss bribed patrols, smugglers, and ways to slip past Shifter Ministry sea defences.

When we arrive, they haul me from the van into a cavernous warehouse that reeks of damp, rust, and abandonment. Water puddles across the uneven floor, reflecting stray beams of light. A pigeon flutters through a hole in the roof, its wings a frantic blur in the dingy space.

“This is redevelopment territory,” Chatty says. “Shifters have been knocking these old buildings down to build new ones. But this relic is still here—pre-sector.” He sighs, almost wistful. “The good old days, before everything went to pot.”

The good old days.He can’t be more than thirty, so what does he know? Nostalgia is a funny thing—selective and warped; people remember what they choose.

I focus on the men, the shadows, and possible exits. They swap the zip ties for metal cuffs that bite into my wrists. This time my hands are secured in front. They drag me to the centre of the warehouse, where a wobbly chair is being hastily set up. Forced onto it, I feel the floor’s uneven ground beneath me as they chain me in place.

In front of me stands a complete camera rig, its lights glaring and hot.

“This has to be perfect,” barks one of the men, sounding like a second-rate, overzealous film director. Nearby, another man in a balaclava sharpens a long, gleaming knife.

Great. Just great.

‘Camera Guy’ crouches to adjust the lens. “Quiet, everyone!” he orders, then begins recording.

Using a voice distorter, Chatty steps forward and delivers a pompous spiel. They are not editing; it’s being broadcast live. I stare into the camera, my breath rasping against the duct tape. I don’t need to fake the tears. I sniff. If my nose clogs completely with snot, I will suffocate.

“We’re here today…” Chatty decrees an absurd list of fabricated charges against me. Apparently, I’m guilty ofbetraying humanity by using ‘magical means’ to survive the bite and turn shifter. He rails about quotas and how Human First is here to ‘correct the injustice’ and destroy the ‘traitor.’

As his tirade drags on, the man in the balaclava creeps forward, knife glinting. I reach for my magic, sinking into the circuits of their equipment. Smoke curls from the camera, and the feed dies with a sizzle.

“What the hell?” Camera Guy exclaims, smacking the device. “Damn thing just died, and it’s only six months old!”

“At least it’s under warranty,” someone mutters.

Camera Guy scowls and stomps off. Balaclava gives me a meaningful look before backing away. A technical glitch has spared me—temporarily.

The delay gives me time to trace and dismantle the live feed, tearing it apart. By the time I’m done, there’s no trace left.

Fifteen tense minutes later, Camera Guy returns with an older backup camera. He meticulously sets up the replacement, adjusting the angle and muttering under his breath.

“It’s not going to be as high quality,” he complains.

“Just get on with it!” Chatty snaps, pacing.

“Fine, fine. Silence, please,” Camera Guy says, fiddling with the backup camera before finally hitting record.

I bide my time, and as soon as Balaclava steps forward again, I trace its signals, destroy the feed, and fry the circuits in the backup camera.

Another puff of smoke. Another severed connection. Another round of curses.

“Why does this keep happening?” Chatty fumes, spinning towards me.

“Maybe there’s anti-tech interference?” Camera Guy suggests lamely.

They all turn to me.

“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Chatty growls, moving closer. “What are you doing?”

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