all, they’d been composed by retro AI software trained on music produced by then-modern AI software, a bit of recursive nonsense that Maya had always loved.
Purists swore that the older software roughened up the pristine edges of the music produced by newer algorithms. Critics retorted that making the music worse didn’t make it less rote. Art was supposed to convey the soul, and so far no one had created an algorithm with one of those.
Maya mostly agreed with the critics. But that was precisely why she loved the safe, pounding beat and the empty lyrics that melted away into meaningless sound. FlowMac Pop was predictable. It drowned out the noise of the world, it didn’t surprise her, and it never overwhelmed her with unexpected, unwanted emotion.
Sometimes, the last thing she could tolerate was being forced to feel.
The air in the bar stank of sweat and blood and cheap moonshine. Not being able to breathe might have been desirable, except that her body was screaming for oxygen. Every shallow breath she dragged in made the panic churning in her gut worse. She reached for her watch, her fingers finding the tiny volume button on the side from tactile memory.
Already as loud as it would go. Her earbuds could reduce the crowd’s shouts to a background rumble, but the sound of fists striking flesh seemed to slice straight through her. The barest hint of it was all it took for the memories to bloom, bright and vivid and terrifying.
She could feel the rope around her wrists. The scrape of it on her skin. She could still smell blood, but the sharp, antiseptic scent of the regeneration drugs and the metallic chill of the penthouse’s air conditioning overrode the filth of the bar.
Most of the time, Maya’s memories were of sound. She could replay any moment in her life like pulling up a track on her earbuds. But the bad ones, the ones that hurt—
Oh, she could feel those. See them. Taste them.
And she couldn’t breathe.
Something brushed her left shoulder, and she lashed out. Too late, her scrambled brain identified the large form next to her as Gray, but she couldn’t pull her punch fast enough. Her fist crashed into his arm, leaving her fingers aching from the impact.
“Hey, now.” His mouth formed the words, though she couldn’t hear him through the upbeat drone of music in her ears. “It’s okay.”
Maya fumbled for the Mute button on the side of her watch. The sound of the fight roared up around her, echoing with all the memories she was trying to escape. The press of bodies around her constricted until bright little lights flickered at the edges of her vision.
She didn’t care that Gray was brooding and dark and possibly the most dangerous man in the fucking bar. She cared that he was big and scary enough to clear a path to the door. She gripped his jacket, the leather improbably soft under her clutching fingers. “Out. Get me out.”
“Come on.” He grasped her arm and led her in the opposite direction—no doubt toward the nearest exit. He was a man who only operated efficiently, as if he didn’t know any other way. All that deliberate precision set her nerves on edge most of the time.
Right now, it was glorious.
So were those dark, Gothic villain eyes. People who turned to snarl at them took one look at Gray’s face and skittered out of the way like rats scenting a predator. Maybe it was the flickering lights encroaching on her vision or the lack of oxygen, but hysterical laughter tried to claw its way out of Maya’s throat.
Shit, it must be nice to look as dangerous as you were.
Gray finally reached a dented steel door Maya hadn’t even seen because it was covered with scratched and peeling paint the same shade as the wall. He pushed through it, and a hot gust of wind hit her in the face.
The night was swampy as hell. She stumbled out into it, grateful even as it closed on her skin, humid and claustrophobic. The heavy door swung shut behind them, dampening the sounds of the bar to a distant, blessedly unintelligible roar. She inhaled until her lungs burned and let it go in a gushing breath.
The pinpricks of light receded. Maya slumped back against the soot-stained brick wall, wanting desperately to slide to the ground but terrified of what sort of trash, broken bottles, and fluids she might land in.
She braced for the inevitable—more words that would wash