A hand on Dodger’s shoulder broke his reverie. Turning, he saw Ghost standing before him, sweaty and smelling of sex. The ragged denim cut-offs, beaded vest, and sheen of perspiration set off the muscularity of his trim build. His curled fingers hid the faint etching of induction pads on his palms, but the absence of his habitual headband exposed the four studs along Ghost’s left temple. The apparent naturalness was a subtlety of style and strategy that the punk, with his chrome eyes and blatant bodyshop muscle implants, had missed.