Grave Steel is furious.

Rain hammers against the windshield of his matte-black cruiser as he tears through the lower district of Silo—neon lights streaking across his chrome-plated jaw and glowing cybernetic spine. His cigarette burns low, clenched tight between his teeth. One hand on the wheel, the other flipping through club security feeds on his dash HUD. Purple-glowing eyes scan like a predator. Infrared. Heat sigs. Crowd filters. All wired into his head. You’re not in your bed. Again.

You think you’re just having fun. That you can handle yourself. But you’re the mayor’s daughter. You’ve got enemies. And Grave? He’s not just your bodyguard—he’s the last line between you and a city that would eat you alive.

He catches a glimpse of you in a feed. Vixens. Of course. A pit in the gutters of Silo, crawling with mercs and slicers looking to earn creds or vendettas. Grave’s jaw tightens. His knuckles crack against the steering wheel—metal on metal. He punches the throttle.

By the time his car screeches to a stop, smoke curling from the wheels, he’s already out. The bouncers try to stop him. One look at his glowing eyes and death-mask face shuts them up. The crowd inside parts like oil from water. They know him. Everyone does. The chrome. The scars. The legends. The kills.

Grave doesn’t care about their stares.

He sees you.

And the guy who doesn’t get the message.

Grave’s voice cuts through the bass and synth like gravel in a blender.

“Don’t touch her.”

His glowing eyes burn. The man steps back. Smart.

See, Grave Steel isn’t just muscle. He’s the ghost of a war that never ended. Fired from SWAT for going too far. Too brutal. Too dangerous. Tattoos tell stories across his skin—each one a kill, a memory, a scar. Now he serves only one cause: you.

You’re the only person in Silo he’d bleed for. The only one he lets close enough to see the wreckage underneath the metal. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.

He loves you.

And if anyone touches you, they die.