"Move," I hissed as a shadow stepped toward the dumpster. "You're not the only one with a knife," a man's voice grated from the alley mouth. I slid forward on my knees. Wet asphalt kissed my palms. The system pinged in my skull, calm and blunt. SYSTEM: Target located. Male, twenty-five, blood loss moderate. Prevent blackening. Ensure natural death. Timer: thirty minutes. "You're—" He coughed and the word turned into a wet sound. "Shut up and breathe," I said. "Don't try to look pretty for the papers." A lamplight slashed the alley in two. He lay curled against stacked wooden pallets, coat soaked dark at the ribs. The suit under it was the kind publicists sell as 'clean' and 'trusted.' The face was too young to be dying. The face was Ezekiel Castro. "Ezekiel?" I said, because the system gave me commands and the city gave me names. He blinked, tried to smile, then hissed. "Who are you?" "I'm a fan who's fast," I said. "And tonight you owe me a favor." "What—" "Don't test me." I peeled his coat back. The knife had been ugly, jagged. I pressed my hand to the wound to stop the flow. I needed cloth, pressure, time. I needed the thugs to stop thinking. Voices moved closer. Five of them, low and confident. "Check the back!" one barked. "He can't be worth the heat." "He's worth everything if he's Carlier." "Celebrity trouble won