Prototype Dorian

10.

Four days before the Selection

Sánchez trudges in front of me, their left hand stuffed inside their hoodie pocket. I trail behind them, my face still warm from their comment.

Perhaps I should return the compliment.

"By- By the way, I didn't mean what I said about being better than you. Not- Not in that way, at least." I clear my throat. "You're, uh, very good-looking too."

Sánchez's steps falter as they glance back at me. Even in the forever-shadow cast by the Tower, I can still see the dewy sheen of their dark skin and the glisten in their eyes. As annoying as they can be, Sánchez really is beautiful.

"I know," they say with a shrug, "but it's not in the way the Neon District wants."

"What? What do they want?"

Sánchez sighs and continues walking.

The warmth inside me bursts into a frustrated heat. "Hey, is it so hard to answer just one question? You still haven't explained to me what kind of job that woman was offering me! Hey!" I quicken my pace to get in front of them. "We went over this, remember? Don't avoid me like—"

Sánchez yanks me by my arm as a jet of wind whips behind me. The loud noise that follows leaves my ears ringing.

I turn around to see a few two-wheeled vehicles zipping away from us. My skin tingles with chills. They were so fast... and so dangerously close. I could have been splattered.

"You stepped right into a bike lane, dumbass," Sánchez says, gesturing to the ground. There is a faint demarcation, but the words are covered by a bunch of graffiti. If Sánchez had not pointed it out, I would not have noticed it at all.

"Those- Those things are bikes?" My eyes scan the area again. It is clear of those deadly vehicles for now. "They flew by like jets!"

"Yeah. Motorbikes." Sánchez bends down toward me, their gaze drilling into me, their hand still on my arm. "Just follow behind me, Lorensky. Quietly."

When they let me go and continue walking, I can't help but grumble behind them, "It's not my fault these bike lanes are so hard to see. Someone needs to repaint them, or at least put up a barricade or something. And who are we going to for help?"

Sánchez shushes me as they stop in front of a phone on a wall. They pay with Ryan's card and punch in a few numbers. After a single ring, a feminine voice speaks through the speaker.

"Tijuana Tacos, how can I help you?"

"This is Morgan Sánchez, looking for directions to the Piranhas."

There is a brief pause on the line before the voice continues, "Morgan Sánchez, membership verified. Please make your way to Rosarito Beach. A representative will meet you there in one hour."

The sound clicks as the phone hangs up.

"What was that, Sánchez?" I frown. "Piranhas? Some kind of beach? And something tacos? What's that?"

"Geez, you're relentless with your questions." Sánchez runs a hand through their side-swept hair. "The Piranhas is this... organization I used to be a part of. They change their headquarters every few months, but you can find out where they are by calling this fake number. They only let their members know the location. I wasn't a hundred percent sure I'd still be considered a member after all these years, but it seems I still am, so..."

"Oh." When Sánchez said they knew who to go to for help, I thought they meant their family or friends. I was not expecting an organization with a weird name. "And this, uh, Piranhas people will help you find a mechanic?"