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"You’re never out when they’re using your tech to kill cops," the man replied, collapsing against a stack of reinforced tires.

Three hours later, the highway was a blur of orange sodium lights. Lino pushed the stick into fifth, the engine screaming in a frequency that vibrated through his teeth. Behind him, three black SUVs—Ares’s clean-up crew—threaded through traffic with lethal precision.

He stepped out of the smoking wreckage before the wheels had even stopped spinning. He walked toward the lead driver, who was dazed and pinned by an airbag. Lino didn't say a word. He simply reached into the driver’s tactical vest, pulled out a specific, modified magazine, and felt the weight of the rounds.