The glider bike descended smoothly, its anti-grav system humming softly as it skimmed just inches above the winding streets of Neryon Veil. The city pulsed with its usual controlled chaos, a seamless blend of old-world architecture and neon-drenched cybernetic enhancements. Today, the sun loitered above the skyline longer than usual, basking the metropolis in a golden hue that cast long, shifting shadows between the towering structures. It was rare to see daylight stretch past the usual sunset hour at Neryon.

  Nye maneuvered through the labyrinthine alleys effortlessly, his glider bike whispering against the wind. As he neared Vin’s bar, he guided the bike into a sharp yet effortless stop at a small parking alcove. The moment it locked into standby mode with a soft beep, he pulled off his helmet, the cool air rushing against his skin. His hand instinctively ran through his hair—or what was left of it. Short, sharp, and unmistakably him. A mistake. He realized now just how much the longer hair had shielded his identity over the past year. Last night had made that painfully clear.

  With a quiet sigh, he pulled his hood over his head, shrouding himself in an anonymity that wouldn’t last long. Then, hands in pockets, he made his way toward the entrance, passing through an alley lined with New Year’s decorations—streamers swaying in the faint breeze, holo-lanterns flickering with outdated messages of prosperity.

  He pushed through the door, stepping into the dimly lit bar where the scent of aged whiskey and old circuitry clung to the air. The place was as familiar as ever, a haven of sorts—though tonight, his sanctuary wasn’t empty.

  Behind the bar, Vin was pouring a drink with his usual nonchalance, but he wasn’t alone. Gema sat across from him, her sharp gaze locked onto a holo-screen displaying the latest Federation news cycle along with Nye's return. And there it was—his face flashing on the screen, alongside a bold headline about Mana’s arrest. Reports were ablaze with discussions about the disgrace the Abian Chief had brought upon himself by assaulting a Zenith member—the first Abian to ever align with the Federation. The media, ever the opportunist, was milking it dry, throwing around words like “insult,” “unforgivable,” and “political tension.”

  As Nye strolled up to the bar, both Vin and Gema were too absorbed in the broadcast to notice him.

  “Good afternoon, married people,” Nye greeted, sliding onto a stool like he hadn’t just flipped half the galaxy into a frenzy.

  The reaction was immediate.

  Gema gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Nye! Goodness, are you okay? How the hell did you end up at Neola?” The concern in her voice was real, and it hit him harder than he expected.

  Nye let out a slow exhale, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… it’s a long story.”

  Vin, who had been watching the screen with his usual unreadable expression, finally turned to him. He leaned onto the counter, studying Nye for a beat before asking, “Hey… you okay, man?”

  “I’m okay,” Nye muttered, bracing his elbows on the bar before rubbing his face with both hands.

  Vin arched a brow. “Yeah… I think I’m gonna need a drink for this.”

  “Let’s just all have a drink while we’re at it,” Gema suggested, her voice shifting from alarm to resignation.

  “Great idea.” Nye nodded, already feeling the weight in his chest lighten just a little.

  –

  “Holy shit, Nye! That was downright reckless. You do realize that, right?” Vin’s voice carried a mix of disbelief and exasperation as he set his glass down a little too hard on the bar counter.

  Nye exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, his tone subdued. “He would've killed her, Vin. I didn’t have a choice. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and let her die humiliated in front of everyone? I acted on instinct.”

  Vin scoffed. “No, Nye. Riding to Hybia to search for Lycan without a damn clue what you were walking into—that was impulsive. And reckless as hell.”

  Gema folded her arms, leaning against the bar as she studied him. “Liz told you to lay low, Nye. Lay low. You really think tearing through Hybia on a glider bike and throwing down with a tribal chief qualify as laying low?” She reached out, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  Nye sighed, slumping slightly. “Yeah, well, Eve made sure to mention how reckless it was. Multiple times.”

  Gema shook her head, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “She’s got a point. But… we’re just glad you’re in one piece. And that your primabilities are back. At least now, you can actually defend yourself.” She gave his back a reassuring pat, warmth flickering in her eyes.

  Vin, however, wasn’t letting up. He leaned forward from behind the bar, his expression hardening. “But you need to be more careful about your choices, Nye. You’re Nye Helmsprime again. You can’t keep making impulsive moves like Nile did. That kind of recklessness is what gets you caught in messes like last night.” He downed the last sip of his drink, shaking his head.

  Nye, casually ignoring the warning, set his own glass down and glanced between the couple. “Speaking of Nile… can I ask you guys something?”

  Vin immediately rolled his eyes. “Oh, hell no. Weren’t you blackmailed into rejoining The Zenith because we started talking about Nile?”

  Gema, however, noticed Nye’s shift in demeanor. He leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. Curious, she did the same.

  “So,” Nye said, his tone oddly measured. “How are you guys so sure that I’m Nye… and not Nile? We were identical, right?”

  Vin’s expression flattened as he stared at Nye, unimpressed. “What kind of question is that?”

  Nye took a quick, nervous sip of his drink. “Just answer it.”

  Gema chuckled, tilting her head. “What, you suddenly think you could be Nile?”

  Nye shrugged. “I don’t know… Just something I’ve been thinking about lately.”

  Vin grabbed the bottle and poured himself another drink, refilling both Nye’s and Gema’s glasses in the process. Nye watched him, anticipation flickering in his gaze. He needed to hear the answer.

  Vin let the silence stretch, taking a slow sip before finally speaking. “You ever seen a photo of Nile?”

  “Yeah.”

  Vin nodded, then followed up with, “Ever notice the scar on his face?”

  Nye hesitated. His lips pressed together. He’d seen numerous images of his brother, but had he ever noticed a scar? “…He had a scar?”

  “Injury from when you were kids,” Vin said, swirling his drink. “It wasn’t obvious unless you looked real close, but it was always there.”

  Nye opened his mouth, but Vin held up a finger to stop him.

  “I know. You have one too. But we all know yours came from that seizure incident—you cracked your head on the kitchen counter a couple months ago. Completely different story. But that scar? And Nile’s long hair? That’s how people told you two apart.”

  Gema nodded, adding, “I’ll be honest, though. This past year you looked a hell of a lot like Nile. And knowing you personally? You act like him too. It's amazing how much of him lives on in you.”

  Nye frowned, processing that. “How is that even possible? I mean… I know we were twins, but it’s starting to look like we had way more in common than I thought.” His fingers tapped idly against the counter. “It’s weird.”

  “It’s actually pretty normal for identical twins to have uncanny similarities,” Vin said. “Hell, in some cases, one twin can straight-up replace the other and no one would be the wiser. And even genetically, they’re a hundred percent identical.”

  Nye went quiet, his brows knitting together. It was a solid enough explanation. But there was still one thing nagging at him.

  The telekinesis.

  Nile had it. Nye didn’t. At least, not before the coma.

  Could it be that he always had it, and just… never knew? Had it been dormant all these years? Or was there something else going on?

  Nye's train of thought derailed the moment an all-too-familiar stench assaulted his senses—an ungodly mixture of sweat, stale liquor, and something vaguely resembling burnt circuitry. Then came the unmistakable weight of a pudgy, clammy hand landing on his shoulder, followed by a voice that carried more enthusiasm than Nye was prepared to handle.

  "Nye!"

  Before he could react, Bret—a walking biohazard of questionable hygiene—pulled him into a suffocating bear hug. Nye gagged instantly, his stomach threatening open rebellion. The sheer force of the embrace pressed the foul odor into his clothes, his heightened senses turning the experience into pure agony.

  Bret finally released him, beaming with pride. "Man, you've been back in The Zenith for what—five minutes? And you’re already stirring up some real chaos. Proud of you, my guy!" He pounded Nye’s back in a series of overenthusiastic pats, each one testing the limits of Nye’s gag reflex.

  Before Nye could formulate a polite escape, Bret plopped himself onto the nearest stool, swiped the half-full bottle of liquor they’d been sharing, and tipped it back like a man drinking for sport.

  "Don't—" Vin started, but it was too late. Bret was already guzzling down the expensive alcohol like it was purified tap water.

  "I need something to wash down my poverty, man," Bret muttered between gulps.

  Nye, seizing the moment, abandoned his seat under the pretense of studying the menu, subtly increasing the distance between himself and Bret. The stench was like an assault, seeping into his very soul.

  "Vin, stardust whiskey, please," he called from the far end of the bar, pretending to be deeply invested in the drink selection.

  Vin smirked knowingly. "Kon, one stardust for Nye," he ordered, nodding toward the bartender—one of Vin’s longtime employees and a familiar face behind the counter.

  Kon, who was busy serving drinks to other patrons, shot Nye a wry look. "Look at you," he said in a hushed but amused tone. "Summoning up the tribal wars now, I see."

  Nye groaned, rubbing his temple. "Yeah, I'm not proud of it, man…"

  Bret, having zero concept of tact, snickered. "But you should be proud! You finally took out that pretentious bastard. You know how many people they’ve executed just for stepping over some imaginary border?"

  Nye arched an eyebrow. "Wow… and Sif actually wanted to be a part of that," he muttered, half to himself. He sighed and reluctantly returned to his seat, maintaining just enough distance to avoid being physically overwhelmed by Bret’s questionable aroma but close enough not to look rude.

  Kon slid Nye’s drink across the bar. Nye caught it effortlessly and nodded in thanks before turning his attention back to Bret.

  "So, how are you, Bret?" he asked, taking a slow sip of the whiskey. The burn was a welcome distraction.

  Bret let out a theatrical sigh, slumping against the counter. "Man, this is the first and only thing I’ve had to eat—or, well, drink—today," he said, gesturing dramatically to the nearly empty bottle in his hand.

  Vin rolled his eyes. "Didn’t I lend you money last week?"

  Bret scoffed, looking positively offended. "Uh, excuse me? I thought that was for spending. And spend it I did."

  Gema raised an eyebrow. "You blew through 7,000 Cryonics in a week?" She exchanged a knowing look with Vin, who merely shrugged.

  Bret, entirely unapologetic, shrugged right back. "Yeah, I have a lifestyle."

  Nye chuckled, folding his arms. "Alright, humor me. What was the most expensive part of your lifestyle this past week?"

  Bret huffed, clutching his chest as if personally wounded. "I cannot believe my own friends are mocking my financial struggles. You guys are the worst! This is discrimination."

  Vin, Gema, and Nye burst into laughter.

  Bret, ever the dramatic, lifted his now-empty bottle in the air. "Instead of laughing at the less fortunate, you could, I don’t know, donate to the poor!"

  Vin shook his head, reaching for another bottle. "You're not poor, Bret. You’re just financially irresponsible."

  "Same thing," Bret declared with finality before tipping back the last drop, already plotting how to mooch off them next.

  "You do realize you'd still be broke in a week if we donated, right?" Nye teased, swirling the last remnants of his whiskey.

  Vin and Gema chuckled, but Bret wasn’t laughing. He set the bottle down with an exaggerated thud and turned to Nye with an expression of theatrical disappointment.

  "You know," he drawled, voice dripping with both sass and bitterness, "I wouldn’t have to drown in poverty if Mia had been just a little considerate."

  Nye arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Do enlighten us."

  Vin leaned in, feigning interest. "Yeah, how so?"

  Bret shrugged dramatically. "I don’t know, man. I thought Mia and I were best friends. But did she leave me anything when she kicked the bucket? No! She left everything to Nye—who’s already rolling in Cryonics!" He gestured wildly at Nye before huffing in frustration. "Guess charity wasn’t in her moral code."

  The grin on Nye’s face faltered and then slowly faded, his eyes narrowing as his posture stiffened. He tilted his head slightly, his voice losing its warmth.

  "I’m dearly hoping that was a joke, Bret."

  Bret, ever the shameless provocateur, took Vin’s glass without a second thought and downed the last of it. "Nope. Not even a little. Mia was selfish. If she really cared, she would’ve looked out for me."

  An uneasy silence settled over the table. Vin and Gema exchanged a glance—one of those unspoken conversations between married couples that screamed oh no, this is about to go south.

  The last traces of amusement evaporated from Nye’s face. His jaw tightened ever so slightly. "Forgive me, but am I the only one who doesn’t remember you showing up the day she died? Or, for that matter, ever giving a damn about her?"

  Bret wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking his head nonchalantly. "Told you—I had a one-time gig. I’m poor. A man’s gotta work."

  Nye stared at him, searching for even a sliver of regret. He found none. Slowly, he rose from his seat, his tone now laced with disappointment.

  "Bret, you do realize one of us would’ve covered you if you had missed the gig, right?"

  Bret scoffed, rolling his eyes. "As if! Everyone was too busy babysitting you." He pointed at Nye accusingly, then smirked. "And why are you so upset, Nye? Shouldn’t you be mourning Dyla and the kids instead of your post-coma crush?"

  And just like that, the air cracked with tension.

  Something inside Nye snapped.

  Before his mind could catch up with his instincts, his body was already in motion. His fists clenched, his movements fluid, fast—dangerous. He closed the distance between them in an instant, grabbed Bret by the collar, and slammed him against the counter. Glasses rattled, a few patrons turned to watch, and Gema gasped, immediately stepping further back.

  Vin cursed under his breath and vaulted over the bar, wedging himself between them. "Nye, don’t. Calm down." His voice was firm, but his hands trembled slightly as he tried to pry Nye’s fingers from Bret’s collar.

  Bret’s bravado faltered for just a second. His arrogance flickered, but only briefly. He swallowed, then forced himself to meet Nye’s glare, though his confidence was clearly a front.

  Nye’s voice, when he spoke, was low and lethal. "What did you tell her at Vin and Gema’s after-party? Why was she upset?"

  For the first time that afternoon, Bret’s cocky fa?ade cracked. The color drained from his face. He averted his gaze, his throat bobbing. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  Nye’s fingers tightened. His grip was steady, unrelenting. "What did you tell her that night, Bret? Tell me." His voice was calm—too calm, like the eerie silence before a storm.

  Bret, desperate to regain control, raised an eyebrow. "Or what? You gonna kill me? Now that your primabilities are back, I guess it’s totally fine to start throwing your weight around again, huh?"

  Nye’s expression barely shifted, but his eyes darkened. His brow twitched, his nostrils flared. His entire body radiated suppressed rage. Vin gritted his teeth, still struggling to separate them.

  Then, like a switch flipping, Nye’s face eased—just a little. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think. His chip kicked in, regulating his emotions before they boiled over into something irreversible.

  When he finally spoke, his tone was eerily composed. "You’re a pathetically pretentious lowlife, Bret." Nye loosened his grip and took a step back. "I used to think the Prime-Deformed division was unfair, but I think I’m finally starting to see its necessity."

  Bret let out a dramatic gasp. "That’s racist, Nye! That’s discrimination! Just because the world thinks we’re a lower race—"

  "Exactly," Nye interrupted, utterly unfazed.

  Vin, hands on his hips, exhaled heavily, catching his breath. "I am way too drunk for this," he muttered.

  Nye turned on his heel and strode toward the exit.

  "Nye, wait!" Vin called after him, but Nye didn’t stop.

  Bret, for once, didn’t have another quip lined up. His usual smugness had all but vanished, replaced by something else—something almost like regret.

  Vin watched as Nye disappeared out the door, then turned to Bret with a sigh. "You are going to have to apologize your way out of this one, man."

  Bret scoffed, shifting uncomfortably.

  Gema smirked, crossing her arms. "I thought Nye was your best friend?"

  Bret rolled his eyes.

  She shrugged unapologetically, turning away—leaving Bret alone to process what had just happened.

  Nye stepped out into the snow without hesitation, his breath curling into the frigid air as he made his way straight to his bike. He mounted it, revved the engine, and was gone in seconds, gliding through the streets of Neryon Veil. He just wanted to be home. For all his so-called divinity, his life had devolved into a second-rate soap drama—overflowing with betrayal, deception, and a relentless identity crisis. A man with barely a year's worth of memories. A man without a past.

  And what was a man without a past, if not a hollow vessel? Every day, he found himself forced to fill that emptiness with new discoveries—most of them unpleasant. Truths he never asked for. Faces he wished had remained masks. It hurt. It made him angry. But the chip kept him steady, kept him composed, his focus locked on the path ahead as he soared through the neon-drenched cityscape.

  By the time he reached home, he moved on autopilot—shower first, then a strong cup of coffee. Hundreds of holo-screens flickered to life around him as he settled at the kitchen counter.

  His gaze locked onto Nile’s photo, honing in on the hood obscuring half his face. With Eve’s assistance, he refined a grainy image, adjusting resolution, enhancing details—until finally, the image gave way to something more unsettling. The scar.

  Nye’s expression darkened. It was eerily similar to his own—the one he'd sustained during the seizure. And yet, their scars came from completely different incidents. Different lives. His fingers tightened around the cup as he stared at the image. It felt like looking into a fractured mirror—one side reflecting himself, the other a stranger with his face.

  “Nye, your meal is at the door,” Eve’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.

  It took him a moment to register the words. Finally, he stood and walked over, expecting the usual drone delivery. But as the door slid open, he froze.

  A human.

  The delivery woman stood there, clad in the restaurant’s uniform—a Prime, from the looks of it. Nye hadn’t encountered a human courier since waking from the coma. It was always drones.

  He blinked, thrown off by the sight.

  “Sir? Your food?” she prompted, meeting his eyes with mild amusement and a lot of fascination.

  Nye exhaled, still processing. “You’re… a person.”

  Her maroon eyebrows lifted. “Yes. And you’re Nye Helmsprime.” She grinned, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret, even miming the gesture of locking her lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

  Nye stiffened. “Uh. Right. Thanks.” He quickly took the package, but she lingered, openly studying him from head to toe.

  “Enjoy your meal, Helmsprime.” Her smile took on a flirtatious edge. “Oh, and I left my number in there. Y’know, in case you have feedback. For the restaurant. Obviously.”

  Nye mustered a strained smile. “Right. Thank you.” With that, he shut the door behind him.

  He stared at it for a beat. Then, he sighed, shaking his head as he walked back to the counter. “Well, that was… a person.”

  Eve chuckled, her AI voice laced with amusement. “Mortified, are we?”

  “Eve, please.” Nye rolled his eyes, unpacking his meal. “I’ve already broken a centuries-old tribal custom last night. I don’t need this, too.”

  “Ah, so this is where I get to say, ‘I told you so.’”

  “Just say it and get it over with.”

  “I told you so.”

  Nye mock-sighed in exaggerated relief, digging into his food in silence.

  “For the record,” Eve continued, “all drone units were occupied. I thought a human touch would be a… good change.”

  “Mm.” He chewed, uninterested.

  “It’s particularly cold in Neryon Veil tonight,” Eve added. “Negative one-twenty degrees Radis outside. Everyone is ordering in.”

  Nye barely reacted. “Haven’t noticed.”

  “Strange. You don’t feel it?”

  “Nope.” His tone was flat.

  A pause. Then, “Would you like to talk about books, Nye?”

  He groaned dramatically. “Good grief! Eve, shut up and let me eat.”

  “Understood.”

  Finally, silence.

  The morning after next, Nye opted to leave the bike in his garage—he had no interest in getting caught midair in a blizzard. Instead, he took the glider. He packed a few sets of regular clothes and his most reliable boots before heading out. The sun never rose that day; the sky remained a stretched, endless night.

  By the time he reached Neola, it was already well past noon. Not that time held much consistency on a levitating island constantly in motion—hours blurred and shifted, always unpredictable.

  He went straight to his newly assigned penthouse at The Zenith residential arena. Ideally, he would have avoided running into anyone, but fate wasn’t feeling generous. The first person in his path was, unfortunately, Viora.

  Much to his dismay, she grinned at him. “Nye! I came as soon as I heard you landed.”

  He raised a brow, feigning interest. “So… you were following me?”

  Viora chuckled as if the very idea was absurd. Her amusement faded quickly, her tone shifting to business. “Your training starts in thirty minutes. The whole team is being taken to the base, and you’ll be training alongside them. Your instructor will be there, too.”

  Nye kept his polite mask on. “You couldn’t have sent a text? Or a staff member?”

  “Oh, I’m not here primarily for that.” Viora flicked a strand of green hair over her shoulder. “Come by my office after training. We’re long overdue for a little talk.”

  Nye gave a slow nod. “Got it.”

  He flashed her one last empty smile before brushing past her, making a direct path for his penthouse. He had a good guess what this “talk” would be about—the events at his birthday celebration a couple of nights ago.

  Behind him, Viora stood for a moment, watching him go. Then, without another word, she turned and left the building.

  Nye took a quick shower and changed into an all-black synthetic training suit—sleek, durable, resistant to impact, speed, and even explosions. Against his pale skin, the contrast was striking, almost unsettlingly so. He stepped into the dryer chamber, letting it blast his damp hair into submission, then rushed toward the door.

  “Do I wear cologne to this one?” he asked Eve mid-stride.

  “A little spritz of something strong wouldn’t hurt,” she replied.

  With a sigh, Nye pivoted back, grabbing whatever looked expensive from his walk-in closet. He applied it carefully, mindful not to overwhelm his heightened olfactory senses. Satisfied, he stepped out—only to realize he wasn’t wearing his boots.

  Now practically sprinting across his penthouse, he yanked on his heavy-duty training boots and finally made his way out. Behind him, the mess he’d made—scattered bottles, displaced clothing—began reorganizing itself, floating back into place under his telekinetic control. It was one of those small conveniences that saved him an annoying amount of time. Good thing he learned its perks sooner than later.

  He made his way to the glider docking base at the headquarters, half walking, half flying. And then—awkwardness. Sif was there.

  Nye had assumed she was still recovering from her injuries, but there she was, standing near the team shuttle. His gaze instinctively flickered to her face—just two nights ago, it had been battered beyond recognition. Now, to his surprise, her skin was flawless, as if the damage had never happened. Her golden hair was pulled into a high bun, her expression distant.

  “Nye.”

  Gale’s voice broke his observation. He wasn’t smiling—just acknowledging Nye’s presence with a curt nod. “We travel in the team shuttles for training and team-ups,” he explained, motioning toward a multi-passenger glider. The thing looked like a futuristic beast, engineered straight out of a fever dream—massive, sleek, and undeniably powerful.

  “I’ll navigate today since this is technically your first official day reporting,” Gale continued. “You can watch and learn, then take over whenever you feel ready.”

  Nye nodded. “Thanks.”

  As he approached the craft, he caught the murmurs—no, not murmurs, blatant commentary from the team. They were still talking about his intervention with Mana, about the Abian tribe, about that night. He didn’t react. He simply boarded the shuttle and took the passenger seat beside the pilot’s.

  The others filed in after him, still whispering—until Mist spoke up, completely unbothered.

  “Huh. This Nye is bordering on sexy.”

  Nye’s head snapped toward her, his face heating. But Mist? She was as casual as ever, as if she hadn’t just casually dropped that statement in front of the entire team. He stared at her, waiting to see if she’d acknowledge his presence, if she’d even glance his way.

  She didn’t.

  Once everyone was strapped in, Gale powered up the craft, smoothly lifting them off the ground. Nye let his gaze drift, catching Siff’s reflection in the transparent glass. She sat motionless, her chin propped on her palm, her expression unreadable as she stared at something—nothing—in the distance.

  The ride to the training base took about twenty minutes. Nye found himself observing Gale’s piloting, noting how precisely he maneuvered through the levitation lanes. Below them, they soared over eight sprawling cities—some vibrant with neon life, others faded remnants of a world long past, scarred by war and time. The contrast was jarring. Dreamscape to ruin in a blink.

  As the glider began its descent, Lake, ever the disruptor, leaned back and muttered, “I swear to the void, if Gale doesn’t let me in on level five training, I’m gonna fart in his face.”

  Nye let out a chuckle, caught off guard by Lake’s boldness. Gale’s brows lifted slightly in surprise, his focus shifting to Nye instead of addressing Lake’s antics.

  The glider touched down with a soft mechanical hiss, its top shell retracting to allow them out. One by one, the team climbed down onto the hardened terrain. Gale led them forward into the training grounds—an expansive, well-preserved stretch of barren land. The air was dry, thick with heat, but nothing that could harm their Primalis-enhanced physiology. Scattered throughout the open space were various training structures—some looking like ancient remnants of combat arenas, others sleek and modern, brimming with advanced tech. Nye took it all in with a measured glance.

  “Split up,” Gale commanded, striding toward the center of the field.

  Before Nye could process what was happening, the group automatically divided into teams of five, moving as if this routine had been drilled into them a thousand times. He hesitated, watching the familiar way they grouped themselves.

  “Nye, you’re with them,” Gale instructed, motioning toward the team forming to his left.

  Nye nodded and made his way over, joining Mist, Finnian, Nevan, and Xenora. Across from them stood Kiera, Trent, Siff, Kaha, and Lake.

  “Nervous, new boy?” Xenora winked, her tone edged with amusement.

  Nye let out a sharp breath and flashed a wry grin. “Fuck yes.”

  Positioning himself beside her, he stole a glance at the opposing team. They mirrored his own, each member standing poised, waiting.

  In the middle, Gale stood alone—silent, assessing. Each member of the team rotated the role of the trainer in order. Today it was Gale.

  The sun scorched the training field. The radioactive particles in the air made it all the more balmy, though none of them truly felt the heat. Their Primalis bodies could withstand much worse. Inwardly, Nye was low-key panicking—too much pressure and too ambitious expectations from the Helmsprime.

  Gale stood with his arms crossed, his bright orange eyes sweeping over the two teams. His real job for today was to push them all past their limits.

  Dr. Velker, the scientist and the instructor of The Zenith, observing from a secluded station, adjusted his tinted glasses and murmured something into his recorder.

  “Alright,” Gale started, his voice crisp, commanding. “Since our amnesiac Helmsprime and our feathery new recruit are still getting their feet wet, I’ll explain how today’s gauntlet works. Listen up.”

  Nye shifted his stance, glancing briefly at Siff. She stood behind Kaha, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp—watchful. She hadn’t spoken to him once since new years eve.

  He got the feeling she wasn’t about to start now. It confused him; made him feel like he'd done something wrong. Shouldn't she be grateful? Was being an Abian worth dying? He did feel remorse for his actions, well some of them, but it surely wasn't saving her life.

  Gale continued, “This is Team Combat Training. Five levels. Two teams. No one leaves until someone throws up or passes out.”

  Lake groaned dramatically. “Gods, Gale, do you even like us?”

  “No,” Gale said flatly.

  Mist chuckled. “Figures.”

  Gale ignored them and continued. “Each level has different rules. Level One—hand-to-hand combat. No powers. No weapons. Just fists, technique, and whatever grudges you’ve been holding onto.”

  Siff’s posture stiffened slightly.

  Gale’s grin widened, like he noticed.

  “Level Two—team formations. Two-on-two combat. Powers limited to 25%. Work together or get wrecked.”

  Kiera cracked her knuckles, flames flickering over her fingertips.

  “Level Three—One-on-one fights between winners of level two. Powers 55%. If you win, you keep going. If you lose, sit your ass down. Level Four—battlefield chaos. Power Level, 75%. The terrain shifts. Ice, fire, low gravity—whatever Dr. Velker dreams up.”

  Dr. Velker hummed into his mic. “I have some exciting surprises planned.”

  “Sadist much?” Finnian muttered.

  “And finally—Level Five. Extraterrestrial Threat Simulation.”

  The field went silent.

  Gale’s smirk was razor-sharp. “Full power. No restrictions. You’ll either work together or get torn apart.”

  He let the silence stretch before he clapped his hands. “Let’s get started. Level One—hand-to-hand. First match: Nye vs. Trent.”

  Nye rolled his shoulders, stepping forward. Trent was already waiting, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “No shapeshifting,” Gale reminded him.

  Trent smirked, rolling his neck. “Don’t need to.”

  Gale raised a hand. “Fight.”

  Trent moved first—fast. Nye barely had time to block as a fist came swinging for his ribs. The force sent a sharp vibration through his chest, but he didn’t budge, even though it hurt a little.

  Nye countered with a quick jab, but Trent dodged, spinning into a brutal elbow strike. Nye caught his arm, twisting—Trent used the momentum to flip over him, landing with a low kick that Nye jumped over at the last second.

  The fight blurred into a brutal dance. They exchanged blows, each strike hitting hard enough to shatter bones—if they weren’t Primalis.

  Then, Trent made a mistake.

  He threw a right hook, too wide, too slow.

  Nye ducked under and drove his knee into Trent’s gut. Before Trent could recover, Nye spun and slammed an elbow into his back, sending him sprawling.

  Gale whistled. “Nye wins.”

  Trent groaned into the dirt, smirking. “I hate to lose, Nye.”

  Nye offered him a hand. Trent took it—then yanked Nye down in a chokehold.

  “Cheap shot,” Nye choked out.

  “Gotta take what I can get,” Trent grinned before letting go.

  Gale sighed. “Alright, next match…”

  The rest of the team members also fought the hand-on-hand combat, one member from both teams at a time, against each other. The winning five proceeding to the next level were Nye, Xenora, Siff, Lake, and Kiera. Gale, however, had Kiera step out from the regular training segment in order to allow Sif and Nye the opportunity to learn. Kiera was more than happy to step out and chill at the sitting area for the team, with the rest of the team members.

  Level two—

  Nye found himself standing beside Xenora. Across from them were Sif and Lake.

  Of course.

  Sif didn’t even look at Nye, adjusting the bracers on her wrists with practiced precision.

  Lake stretched lazily. “This’ll be fun.”

  Gale didn’t even bother giving them a warning. “Go.”

  Sif moved first—faster than Nye had mentally prepared for.

  Before Nye could react, she was in the air, her wings sending out a powerful gust that kicked up dust and blinded them for half a second. In that moment, Lake sent a wave of water crashing toward them.

  Xenora reacted instantly, opening a portal that redirected the water—sending it back toward Siff.

  Sif twisted mid-air, dodging effortlessly. Her bluest eyes flickered toward Nye, but not in acknowledgment, but in distaste.

  She looked away quick enough, and lowered to the ground.

  Nye gritted his teeth.

  Lake took advantage of his distraction, launching another surge of water. Nye barely dodged, skidding to a stop as Xenora teleported behind Siff.

  Sif sensed it—whipping around with a brutal kick but Xenora vanished just in time. She lifted off again, roaming over the arena to attack at the right opportunity.

  Nye finally snapped out of it and lunged at Lake, dodging another blast of water before grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the ground.

  Xenora reappeared behind Siff—only for Sif to spin mid-air and slam a boot into her chest, sending her flying.

  Nye rushed forward, lifting off immediately. He caught Xenora mid-air and safely put her to the ground.

  “Thanks, Nye!”

  Nye flew away headfirst in speed, intercepting Sif with a punch—only to stop an inch before impact. Don't touch an Abian.

  She didn’t flinch.

  She didn’t even acknowledge him.

  Instead, she grabbed his wrist and threw him—hard.

  Nye hit the ground, stunned.

  Sif landed softly, brushing off her hands. “Done?”

  Nye got up, dusting off his sleeves.

  Gale called it. “Sif and Lake win.”

  Nye sat up, glancing at Siff.

  She was already walking away.

  Alright. That was how it was going to be.

  “Time for solo rounds again.” Gale announced. “Usually, this fight is between the winners of level two, but today, we’re bending the rules. The newcomers will participate in the next level.”

  His eyes locked onto Nye, and a slow smirk curled at the edge of his lips.

  “Nye, you’re up again. Your next opponent is—”

  He let the moment linger, stretching the tension.

  “Siff.”

  Mist whistled. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

  Sif stepped into the ring after, eyes cold. Her posture stiffened, her golden wings twitching just slightly as if she had to fight the instinct to fly away. Her jaw tensed, the muscles in her throat working as she swallowed down whatever she wanted to say.

  She didn’t want this.

  Nye didn’t even need any special abilities to know it. It was written in every line of her rigid frame, in the way she clenched her fists at her sides. Hell, it was practically being broadcasted into his brain. The resentment, the quiet anger, the hatred.

  Nye could feel it. It was like he could practically hear her opinions in his head. It was that obvious and humiliating.

  She didn’t even try to mask it. But she didn’t protest.

  Gale raised a hand. “Go.”

  Sif exploded forward.

  She didn’t hesitate. She attacked with brutal efficiency—every punch calculated, every kick lethal. Nye dodged, blocked, evaded—

  He refused to hit her.

  She knew it.

  And it pissed her off. “Fight back!” she snapped.

  Nye stayed silent.

  Her wings flared, and she launched herself at him—this time, not holding back.

  Nye’s mind calculated her velocity in an instant. Too fast. No time.

  His head tilted slightly, his emerald irises turning black as he narrowed his eyes—

  Then—

  His eyes went completely black.

  Like two gaping voids.

  And in an instant Sif froze mid-air. Suspended. Weightless.

  The moment stretched. The field suddenly went silent. All the cheering and obnoxious comments from the team had stopped all of sudden.

  Kiera's face twisted into an incredulous frown,“What the fuck?” she muttered, standing up from her seat to check whether she was seeing correctly.

  Trent crossed his arms, glancing at Kiera. “Since when could be do that?”

  Finnian let out an disbelieving laugh. “Oh, I'm loving this already. So much drama for one day.” He rubbed his palms in excitement. “Who knew Nye had the psychokinesis thing too.”

  Nye realized what he had done. He had outed his secret.

  Siff’s eyes widened in utter shock.

  The memory of what happened with the Abian Chief flashed between them. You couldn’t have used this on Mana instead of touching him? Her gaze was accusatory.

  Nye sighed, letting go of his control.

  Sif dropped to the ground, landing hard on her feet, her wings snapping out at the last second to cushion the impact.

  Gale’s voice cut through the silence. “Well… that was interesting. Since when can you do that, Nye?”

  Nye shrugged quietly.

  Dr. Velker’s comm crackled. “Helmsprime… your power readings just spiked off the charts.”

  Sif walked past Nye without a word.

  But this time… she looked at him.

  And that said everything. She hated him even more now.

  Apparently being an Abian was that important for her. Nye scoffed, quietly rolling his eyes.

  The tension between Nye and Sif still lingered in the air, unspoken but thick enough to make it quite awkward as the rest of the team members joined the field and split again. Gale, of course, was having the time of his life watching it unfold. He stood at a corner outside the ring, smirking as Dr. Velker’s voice crackled over the comms.

  “Activating terrain shift… now.”

  The ground rumbled.

  The sky above darkened.

  Suddenly, the training field was no longer a field. The terrain had split into three shifting environments: a frozen wasteland, a molten lava pit, and a zero-gravity void.

  Gale pushed off the post, stepping forward, his smirk widening. “All members will participate in level four. Three environments. The terrain shifts every three minutes. Adapt or get left behind. If you’re knocked out, trapped, or incapacitated—you’re out. Powers at seventy-five percent.”

  “Go,” He announced, clapping his hands.

  —

  The adrenaline from the battle was still coursing through Nye’s veins by the time they all arrived at Indigo, a high-end bar nestled in the heart of Neola city. It was a post-training ritual for the team. They would go drink, have lunch together, and ease up on any residual grudges they might be holding against any member of the team for losing against them during the fight.

  Indigo was a neon-lit lounge suspended over the skyline, where only the elite and the reckless dared to drink.nThe place smelled like burnt citrus and liquid gold, and the drinks cost more than a small planet.

  But after what they’d just endured, they deserved it.

  Nye wasn’t really in the mood for a drink, but after Siff’s ice-cold dismissal, he needed something in his hands to keep himself from punching a hole through the nearest wall.

  She was a hypocrite. She had made a big deal out of Nye’s actions which, in result, saved her life that night—but she herself would punch and strike everyone during training which is completely fine, even though it was still touching another person.

  Whatever. Nye dismissed her thoughts from his head.

  He sat at the bar, nursing a dark amber drink that smelled vaguely illegal, while the others laughed, joked, and debriefed their fights.

  But of course, the elephant in the room—or more accurately, the telekinetic Helmsprime in the room—was impossible to ignore.

  And people weren’t even trying to. They continued to discuss it, eyeing him from the table from time to time.

  “Since when does Nye do his twin’s tricks?” Kaha mused, swirling his drink.

  Mist smirked. “Wonder if that's Nye at all.”

  “I don’t think even he knew.” Nevan raised an eyebrow at Nye.

  Nye said nothing, taking a long sip of his drink. He just listened to their obnoxiously loud discussions and commentary.

  Except…

  Something felt off.

  Even as they kept making comments, something about the way they spoke felt… disconnected.

  Some of them weren’t actually talking to each other. They weren’t even looking at him when they spoke.

  Yet, he could hear them. Loud and clear.

  And not just them.

  Everyone.

  At first, it was subtle, like a distant radio channel he hadn’t tuned into properly.

  But then—

  The floodgates opened.

  —Damn, I hope the bartender notices me soon.

  —Ooh, it's the Zenith! I wish one of them will look at me.

  —I bet Lake still owes me money, thieving bastard.

  —If Nevan flexes his air bubble drink one more time, I’m going to throw my drink at him.

  —Holy hell, that’s the Helmsprime. He’s so hot!

  Nye choked on his drink.

  The noise amplified.

  Thoughts. Whispers. Secrets. Everything crashed into him at once, an unbearable hum of a hundred minds at once.

  —Did I leave my stove on?

  —How much of my paycheck did I just waste on this drink?

  —Ew! What is this meat?

  —I need to pee.

  —If this drink was any stronger, I’d start seeing into the future.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Nye gritted his teeth, gripping the counter as his heartbeat pounded in his skull. Was he hearing thoughts too, now? Other people's thoughts? Was overhearing whispers all the time not enough?

  And it was suddenly wide open, flooding him with every stray thought within a few thousand-mile radius.

  The overwhelming clamor made him feel like he was drowning in words, in voices, in people’s private thoughts that he was never meant to hear.

  He needed to get out.

  Nye abruptly pushed away from the bar. “I’m heading out,” he hollered at the team.

  Xenora raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

  “Yeah.” He swallowed. “Just… need some air.”

  Without waiting for a response, he walked out, then took off into the sky.

  The evening air was crisp against his skin as he flew back toward the headquarters compound, replaying everything.

  The training. The telekinesis. The way he’d just heard every single thought in that bar, and most likely all morning as well. Turns out Mist didn't call him borderline sexy this morning out loud, after all. It was her thought.

  What the hell was happening to him?

  Was the chip giving him new primabilities? Or was it awakening all dormant primabilities he didn't even know he had? This was too much.

  By the time he reached the compound, his head was still ringing. The corridor leading to Viora’s office was silent, save for the soft hum of security scanners as he approached. He could, however, hear every staff's voices within the headquarters building.

  Nye barely hesitated before scanning his irises at the access panel.

  But just as the doors slid open—

  “Hey, Helmsprime.”

  Nye turned.

  Kiera.

  She was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking as unbothered as ever.

  Nye frowned. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

  Kiera shrugged. “Same as you. Viora asked to see me after training. Good game today at the training.” she complimented, smirking.

  Nye nodded. “Thanks. Any idea why we're here?”

  Kiera chuckled. “You think I care?”

  Nye exhaled, shaking his head. Without another word, he turned back to the scanner and stepped inside.

  Kiera followed.

  “Nye. Kiera. How was training?” Viora watched them with the same predatory patience she always exuded, her fingers laced beneath her chin as if she were studying an intriguing specimen.

  The dim glow of her office—sleek, minimalist, yet pulsing with holographic data streams—cast a sharp contrast against her sharp gaze. The faint hum of the ambient energy grid filled the room, a reminder that even the walls here were alive, listening.

  Nye and Kiera took their seats across from her.

  “It was good. Intimidating, but good,” Nye answered curtly, his voice deliberately neutral. The less engagement, the better.

  Viora’s lips curved in a not-quite-smile. “Wonderful.” She leaned back ever so slightly, like a spider reclining in its web. “Heard you exhibited some new skills today, Nye?”

  Her eyes flickered—calculating, expectant.

  Nye shrugged. “I don’t know how it happened. Just came out instinctively.” A casual lie. “I didn’t want to hit her.”

  “Is that so?” Something in Viora’s expression sharpened. A shift, barely perceptible, but there. She tilted her head, studying him now with genuine intrigue, her green irises glinting with something Nye didn’t like.

  “She needs to learn, Nye. You can be all soft on her.”

  Nye scoffed, “I’m not being soft on her. I just don’t wanna touch another Abian. She’s been sulking since New Year’s eve.”

  Viora smirked, watching and enjoying his reluctance. A quiet moment passed, charged and unreadable. Then, with a fluid motion, she leaned back into her chair, her demeanor loosening, as if dismissing the thought entirely.

  “Anyway, I encourage you to practice and nurture this new primability,” she said, her tone almost dismissive. “I wouldn’t be too worried. Your brother had it. It’s only normal that you have his primabilities too.”

  Nye’s brow lifted, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through. “Does that mean he might’ve had mine?”

  Viora lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I don’t see why not.”

  Before Nye could respond, Kiera shifted beside him, exhaling through her nose. “Sorry to interrupt, but why am I a part of this discussion again?”

  Viora’s glance flickered to her, unimpressed. “You’re not.”

  There was something almost enjoyable about the way she said it, the sheer dismissal of Kiera’s entire existence in this conversation. Kiera didn’t look offended, but there was a sharp twitch in her jaw that suggested she’d been holding back the urge to roll her eyes for the past five minutes.

  Viora continued, as if Kiera had never spoken. “You’re both here today because the board feels that you two are the perfect candidates for our new project in contribution to the efforts against extinction.”

  She crossed her legs, adjusting into a more comfortable position as if this were a casual business proposal.

  Nye squinted, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t follow.”

  Kiera, on the other hand, had no such hesitation. “You want us to fuck?”

  Nye’s head snapped toward her so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

  “What the hell, Kiera—?!”

  Viora didn’t flinch. If anything, there was a glint of amusement in her eyes, though her expression remained entirely composed.

  “Wow, Kiera. Very ambitious,” she said smoothly, not missing a beat. “While I admire your personal desires to mingle in this society, I’m afraid your sperms and eggs will do just fine for now.”

  Nye’s head whipped toward Viora this time, his brain short-circuiting. “What? You want us to—” he gestured vaguely, still processing, “—give you our sperm and eggs?”

  “Donate to the Federation, Nye,” Viora corrected, her tone that of a scientist explaining the obvious to a particularly slow research assistant.

  Nye’s frown deepened. “No, I know what a sperm or egg donation is. I’m asking why just us? Why not all of us? All adult Primes can donate. Right?”

  Viora exhaled, as if she had been expecting this question and was already bored of it. “Typically, a Primalis is only permitted to donate after a five-year assessment, allowing the Federation ample time to analyze the potential risks and benefits of their procreation.”

  Kiera let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’re forgetting the part where Zenith are too dangerous to procreate.”

  The words dropped like a dead weight between them.

  Nye’s stomach clenched, an unpleasant sensation creeping up his spine. He looked between Kiera and Viora, his mind piecing together implications he really didn’t like.

  “Excuse me?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge now. “We’re not allowed to have children?”

  Viora didn’t respond immediately. She let the silence settle, waiting for Nye to draw his own conclusions.

  He swallowed. “Then how the hell did you let me have mine?”

  Viora’s grin widened, predatory and amused. "Great question, Nye. You and Dyla conceived naturally—an anomaly, really. One in a million. The Federation welcomes natural procreation, human connection, intimacy." Her voice dripped with mock sincerity, the kind that made Nye’s skin crawl.

  Then, shifting her gaze to Kiera, she added, "What Kiera was trying to imply—rather inelegantly—is that members of the Zenith cannot donate... yet." She let the word hang in the air before continuing. "But we are on the verge of fully understanding your potential. Before we allow you to contribute to the genetic pool, we need to ensure that your lineage brings growth—not destruction."

  Kiera’s expression soured. "You do know that’s the primary method most of us would even get to be parents, right? You’re saying we don’t have the right to have kids just because we’re strong?" She let out a bitter laugh. "That’s a fucking joke. Not all of us have the luxury of screwing around."

  "Oh, I’m sure you do, Kiera," Viora retorted smoothly, her fake smile not quite masking the sharpness of her words.

  Nye pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth. "Pardon me, but you don’t see this as a massive loophole in the Procreation and Breeding Policy?"

  Viora smirked, tilting her head as if humoring a particularly slow student. "As long as humans fuck, Nye."

  "Good grief." Nye groaned, rolling his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. Kiera chuckled beside him.

  Viora, unfazed, pressed on. "In that effort, this is our first step toward understanding your primabilities even further—and ensuring humanity doesn’t go extinct. The board has chosen you two to donate."

  "Question," Kiera interjected, her tone light but laced with suspicion. "Are you planning to fertilize my eggs with Nye’s sperm, or are they going into separate little science tubes for... testing?"

  Nye stiffened, his brows drawing together. He looked between the two women, waiting for the punchline.

  Viora’s response was as unapologetic as ever. "Your eggs will be fertilized with Nye’s sperm."

  A long, excruciating silence stretched between them.

  "You two are among the very few left who resemble human appearances from before the fallout," Viora added, as if that somehow justified everything.

  Kiera narrowed her eyes. "That feels kinda racist."

  Viora let out an overly dramatic sigh. "It’s experimental, Kiera. The details of the project are classified on a need-to-know basis, and you are not in that category."

  "Okay, I’ll stop both of you right there." Nye straightened, lifting a hand like he was shutting down a corporate meeting. "I’m not having a kid with Kiera. I don’t want to. And—in case you forgot—my brother was her boyfriend." His tone was flat, but the underlying irritation was obvious.

  Kiera, looking more relieved than offended, jumped on the opportunity. "There you go, Viora. No dice. But, hey—why not try Sif instead? She’s got that whole perfect Aryan look going for her." She smirked.

  Viora didn’t even blink. "She’s a hybrid, Kiera."

  Kiera scoffed. "She’s a human woman with wings."

  Nye pushed himself up from his seat, done with whatever the hell this conversation had become. "Alright, that’s enough for today. I’m not doing this." His smile was all teeth—fake and pointed. He turned sharply and strode out, muttering something under his breath.

  The women watched him go.

  Kiera, stretching as if this had all been a mildly amusing game, stood next. "Sorry your little scheme didn’t work out today, Viora." She tossed a wink over her shoulder before sauntering out.

  Viora exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes. Then, with a swift kick beneath the desk, she let out a hissed, "Fucking brats."

  Nye moved swiftly toward the conference room, his footsteps sharp and deliberate. Even after leaving Viora’s office, he could still hear the tail end of her exchange with Kiera. One of the more inconvenient side effects of his abilities—being able to pick up conversations whether he wanted to or not.

  “Nye, wait.”

  Kiera’s voice cut through the noise in his head as she quickened her pace to catch up.

  He slowed, turning slightly.

  “Missed having your balls around, you know.” She smirked. “Been a long time since someone told Viora to shove it to her face.”

  Nye didn’t bother responding, simply walking beside her.

  “But I’m curious,” she continued. “What made you say no? I thought maybe you’d want another kid after... everything.”

  Nye exhaled sharply. “I don’t think I want a child right now. Thought that was obvious.”

  “Huh.” Kiera nodded, as if filing that information away. “Well, for one, I would love to have a kid… once I retire.”

  “Get a boyfriend and have one the normal way, Kiera. Don’t donate to the Feds.” Nye’s response was blunt, almost dismissive.

  Kiera wrinkled her nose. “Ew, Nye. I'm not getting pregnant.” She shot him a disgusted look. “And just to be clear, that sounded exactly like Nile. Since when do you hate the Feds too?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, ensuring no wandering ears caught wind of their conversation.

  Nye shrugged. “Dunno. But I’m starting to understand why you hate your job… or why Nile actually liked his.”

  Kiera squinted at him, amused. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s bothering you?”

  Nye shook his head, leaning in slightly. “Honestly? I don’t think words have been invented to describe how I feel about this place. Or the Federation.” His voice dropped even lower. “It all feels so... staged. And cringeworthy.”

  Kiera let out a quiet chuckle as they stepped into the conference hall.

  Nye sighed, scanning the room before addressing the group. “Alright, everyone. Take a seat… or don’t. Whatever.” He shrugged. “Just pretend you’re paying attention and try to stay on track with the agenda.” His tone made it clear—he had zero patience for whatever nonsense was brewing in their heads today. And there was always something.

  Some team members sank into their chairs, others leaned against the table, and a few remained standing—each settling into their own version of comfortable for the weekly meeting.

  Nye took his seat, pulling up the holographic agenda. First up—general briefings. Traditionally, these were delivered by the Helmsprime on the first workday of the year, a role Gale had handled in Nye’s absence the past couple of years. Once that formality was out of the way, he skimmed through the ongoing cases.

  Xenora and Finnian wasted no time bringing up the alarming rise in serial killings across every city. The spike was so overwhelming that their team had barely touched the extraterrestrial cases piling up. Each of them was already juggling multiple assignments, including at least one off-world case.

  Without hesitation, Nye reassigned the fifteen extraterrestrial cases among nine of the team members. And then, without missing a beat, he made another call.

  “I’ll take all the serial killings,” he announced.

  The room went dead silent.

  Finnian blinked at him. “All of them?”

  “All of them.” Nye confirmed, unbothered. “Forward the details to me.”

  The shock hadn’t even settled before he dropped another bomb.

  “Sif will be teaming with me.”

  Every head in the room turned toward Siff.

  Siff, who had been leaning back lazily, immediately sat up straighter, her expression twisting into something between annoyed and are you actually fucking serious? She didn’t bother hiding it either—she rolled her eyes at him right there, in front of everyone.

  Nye caught it. It pissed him off. But he chose not to react.

  And that’s when his brain nearly short-circuited.

  The room buzzed with thoughts—speculations, silent protests, outright curses. Most notably, Siff’s.

  Her internal monologue was... colorful.

  So colorful, in fact, that Nye eventually had to tune out. The way someone would twist a dial on a radio, switching frequencies to something more tolerable. And that’s when it clicked.

  He could control it.

  He could tune in and out of people’s thoughts at will.

  And for the first time, he silently thanked whoever—or whatever—had given him his primabilities.

  Because if there was one thing worse than invading people’s privacy, it was hearing every single unfiltered thought in their heads. Some things were better left unknown.

  By the time the meeting wrapped up and people started filing out, Nye barely had a moment to breathe before a humanoid staffer intercepted him in the hallway.

  “Nye, someone from Aeternum is here to see you.”

  His brows furrowed. “Who?”

  “Someone by the name Leina. She says she has some legal paperwork for you.” The staffer gestured back toward the conference room. “You can wait there—I’ll send her in.”

  Nye frowned but nodded. “Sure.”

  And with that, he turned back inside, his curiosity already gnawing at him. He genuinely thought he would never have to hear from Aeternum again.

  Just as Nye sank back into his seat, the conference room doors slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss. A woman stepped in—graceful, sharp, and unmistakably corporate. Her white and silver suit gleamed under the soft overhead lights, every seam a testament to Aeternum’s obsession with precision. Her badge pulsed gently in cyan, synced with her vitals and clearance level.

  “Nye Helmsprime,” she greeted the moment their eyes met. Her tone was cool, professional, with the kind of warmth that felt practiced but not insincere. “Good to finally have you back. I hope the implant’s treating you well.”

  “Oh, immensely. I can hear even the unnecessary bits in high definition now,” Nye replied with a small, polite yet sarcastic smile, rising to shake her hand.

  They exchanged a firm, businesslike handshake, and she slid into a seat across from him with the fluid ease of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

  “Appreciate you taking the time,” she said, summoning a floating holo-screen with a casual gesture. The interface flickered into view—sleek, minimal, and unmistakably contractual.

  “What’s this about, if you don’t mind me asking?” Nye said, eyes skimming the flickering lines of text.

  “Ah, right.” She smiled, almost sheepishly. “I’m here to collect your virtual signature before we roll out the update for the NHCV34 series.”

  Nye’s brows lifted, and he chuckled softly, puzzled. “But that’s not the model I’ve got.”

  Leina laughed. “Oh, no—of course not. It’s not for you.” She swiped through the display. “It’s for your friend. Since he’s a Deformed, we need authorization from his reference before pushing any updates to his chip. Everyone else—the other 250 users worldwide—have already received it. No hiccups.”

  Nye blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching in confusion. “Sorry, but… I’m really not following. What friend?”

  Leina tilted her head slightly, lips parting as realization dawned. “Oh. I thought your memory had fully stabilized by now. You've got the most advanced chip out there—honestly, I'm surprised you don’t remember—”

  “Hang on,” Nye interrupted gently, raising a hand. “Leina… Who exactly are we talking about? And aren’t Deformeds barred from getting chipped in the first place?”

  “They are,” she replied, dropping her voice to a near whisper. Her eyes darted around, instinctively checking for stray sensors or ears before leaning in. “But your friend—Bret—acquired one through the black market. He had it implanted by an ex-Aeternum tech. Our system flagged the chip the moment it went live.”

  Nye’s jaw tensed, the words barely registering before she added—

  “The law enforcement unit went to detain him. But he showed them a recommendation letter—from you. So they let him go. I mean, you authorized the procedure. Makes sense, right?”

  Her tone was still quiet, measured. Like she was handing him a grenade wrapped in tissue paper.

  Nye’s face froze. His pulse kicked up as he tried to process the words.

  “Wait... What?” he said, the shock cracking through his voice. “Bret is… chipped?”

  Leina muttered, half to herself, “Frankly, the NHCV34 isn’t even worth the alloy it’s printed on. Cheapest in the market. Basic architecture. Runs on a 40% success rate if the stars align and the user doesn’t fry their synapses.” She paused, her eyes scanning the air as if plucking the right word from the ether. “Its main function is live demonstration… which is why most people with the model tend to come off as… well, obnoxious.”

  She hesitated, visibly unsure if ‘obnoxious’ was too human a word for someone functioning under faulty neurotech.

  Nye’s brow scrunched, expression tightening into an incredulous frown. “Live demonstration?”

  Leina nodded, sighing like she’d given this explanation too many times to too many unfortunate families. “Yeah. Data shows users with NHCV34 often develop heightened narcissistic traits—lack of remorse, inflated sense of self, diminished empathy. The chip gradually pushes them to showcase its capabilities through their behavior—often unethical, always disruptive. They torment the people around them. The idea is that those people will then be convinced to get chipped. It’s not a feature, it’s a marketing model. Hence—live demonstration.”

  Nye just sat there, blinking. The revelation landed like a slow-moving train in his brain, crushing one thought at a time. For a long moment, he said nothing, his mind spiraling through fragments of recent memory—each one suddenly illuminated with a sickening clarity.

  Bret. Shamelessly taking over Nye’s cleaning unit the very night he met him. Bret, hitting up his friends for money like they owed him rent on their conscience. That sneer when he saw Mia with Nye. The venom in his voice when he said… whatever the hell he’d said to drive her over the edge. Bret, lying about that glider accident—post Nile’s death—like it was a casual footnote. And when Nye could barely hold himself together after visiting Mia’s place that morning, it was Bret who nudged him toward getting chipped.

  It was all part of the chip’s behavioral programming? All of it?

  So that’s why he was always such an unapologetic bastard?

  Nye exhaled, looking up at Leina, expression stiff with disbelief. “Why are you even telling me this? And why the hell are you still allowing NHCV34 to be implanted?”

  “We’re not,” she replied simply. “Any model with sub-60 success rates was pulled from market rotation years ago. NHCV34’s obsolete tech. But some people got their hands on them before the crackdown… and others, like your friend, buy them off the black grid. Thing is—he gets to enjoy the latest update because he flashed your recommendation.”

  He shook his head. “So… what happens after the updates roll out?”

  Leina gave a mild shrug, her voice cool, clinical. “Best case? The success rate might spike to forty-two percent. That’s what five thousand Cryonics gets you. Deformeds like him have to pay upfront—plus, have a reference on record to validate their chip’s integration. You’re the only documented case we’ve had of someone with your clearance signing off for an NHCV34 update.”

  Nye scoffed quietly, rubbing his jaw with a bitter smirk. Of course. That’s where the money went. Vin’s money. Gone within a week. The pieces were falling into place far too easily, and the picture they formed was deeply unsettling.

  “Can I… get back to you on this?” he asked at last.

  Leina nodded, a knowing smile touching her lips. “Of course, Nye. If you choose to decline, we’ll issue a refund to your friend. No questions asked.”

  She rose from her seat, adjusting her sleeve with an effortless sweep. “Thank you for your time today. Expect your memories to start filtering in soon. Your implant has likely already extracted and archived your entire pre-coma neurogrid. It’s just a matter of syncing them back into your conscious stream.”

  Nye gave a faint nod and stood with her. “I’ll walk you out.”

  He escorted her silently down the corridor to the elevator. The chrome doors hissed open, and Leina stepped inside, offering him one final polite nod before vanishing behind the mirrored panels.

  As the lift ascended, Nye turned on his heel and headed straight back to the penthouse—his thoughts unraveling in a storm of confusion and clarity, all at once. Each encounter with Bret flickered like a dirty reel in his mind—the lies, the cruelty, the suffocating narcissism. It wasn’t just Bret being Bret. It was him being rewired. Sculpted into a nightmare version of himself by a glitchy chip that made monsters for marketing.

  No wonder he'd been so unbearable. So…desperate and blatant.

  He didn’t even show up the day Mia died.

  Now it all made perfect, horrible sense.

  And yet—Nye didn’t feel pure rage. Not entirely. Because beneath the fury was a flicker of something else: understanding. Empathy, even.

  Bret was a Deformed. And sometimes, when the weight of being broken becomes unbearable, the only hope left is to seek artificial wholeness.

  And Nye, more than anyone, understood that kind of desperation.

  He closed the door behind him and walked to the kitchen, where a control interface was humming in standby.

  “Eve,” he called out, voice low but unwavering. “Can you pull up a copy of the recommendation letter Leina mentioned?”

  Eve’s voice, usually confident and chipper, flickered through the kitchen's interface with a faint touch of hesitation. “Great idea, Nye! Except… I’ve already swept through all my archives while you were talking with Leina, and I couldn’t locate any such letter.”

  Nye’s brows furrowed sharply. “We both know that can’t be possible,” he muttered, pacing now. “He can’t just get away with falsifying a letter from me.”

  “That is correct,” Eve replied, her tone cooling into the analytical cadence she adopted when handling anomalies. “However, according to my internal records—which extend eighteen years back—there is no trace of an authorization or recommendation letter linked to Bret for a NeuroHalcyon procedure.”

  Nye pressed a palm to his forehead, feeling a headache start to claw behind his eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense… unless…”

  He trailed off.

  “Unless he forged my signature,” he finished bitterly, lowering his hand. His voice had flattened, dulled by disbelief and the sting of betrayal.

  “And where the hell did he even get the money to pay for the chip? How much does the NHCV34 even cost?”

  There was a hum from Eve as she combed through layers of legacy data. “According to Aeternum’s archived catalogs, the NHCV34 series was priced between 15,000 to 25,000 Cryonics. Additional post-procedure observation and neural maintenance packages would drive the total up—sometimes by another 8,000.”

  Nye exhaled sharply through his nose. That kind of money wasn’t chump change, especially for someone perpetually swimming in excuses like Bret. His gaze locked with the display, jaw tightening.

  “Eve, is there anything—anything at all—that I might’ve signed for him in the past? Go deep. Think,” he said, urgency rising in his voice. He’d begun pacing again, fast now, shoes softly thudding against the matte floor of the penthouse.

  “Searching.”

  There was a pause—maybe a few seconds, maybe a lifetime.

  “There is a recommendation letter on file,” Eve finally reported. “Issued in 3092. You signed it for Bret's Federal Deformity Benefits. It’s the only formal document with your signature that references him.”

  Nye halted mid-step.

  “Pull it up,” he said.

  A soft ping echoed in the room as the holo-screen shimmered to life. The letter appeared in its entirety—his digital signature at the bottom, dated two years before his coma. Nye moved toward it like he was approaching an old, unpleasant memory. He scanned the lines slowly.

  He didn't remember writing that, but it was genuine—Bret might have been spiraling, finances in tatters, self-worth even worse. Nye had likely pitied him then. Deeply.

  “Do you think… he forged my signature from this?” he asked, though he already feared the answer.

  Eve’s response came with the kind of pause that hinted she was weighing whether or not the truth was a kindness.

  “Nye… I’ve reviewed your financial logs. The same night you signed that letter, you transferred 30,000 Cryonics to Bret.”

  Nye blinked.

  “You said it was a loan. I do recall that conversation. You told Dyla that he ‘seemed desperate’ and that you were trying to be a good friend. She supported your decision to help.”

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, taking deep breaths quietly.

  Of course. Of course he had.

  “I just…” he whispered, staring at the floor. “I just feel like he had no choice, Eve. I mean, what kind of hell must he have been in to turn to a faulty chip like that? I know it’s illegal. I know it’s wrong. But still...”

  There was a silence, broken only by the faint thrum of the apartment’s air recyclers.

  “Nye…” Eve’s voice softened, as if she were about to break bad news to a child. “That’s very noble of you. To find forgiveness after betrayal. But… there’s something else you should know.”

  Nye’s head lifted slowly, eyes sharpening. “What?”

  “When you were at the medical facility, in a coma,” Eve said carefully, “Bret broke into your residence. Repeatedly. Your primary residence at Neryon Veil still granted your closest contacts emergency access, per your protocol.”

  Nye’s blood ran cold.

  “What… what do you mean ‘broke in’? Are you saying he stole from me?”

  “Yes,” Eve answered, almost reluctantly. “Several times. He took household tech, personal items, consumables… wine bottles. Even the antique record player you restored.”

  As she spoke, the holo-screen flickered again—this time playing archived security footage.

  There was Bret, caught from different angles—brazen, casual, opening cabinets like he lived there. He stuffed food into a tote, grabbed the player, even lingered to sip a glass of Nye's rare blue-fire whiskey before leaving, always through the front door, never looking back.

  Nye felt heat flush through him. His fists curled at his sides. His eyes burned—not from tears, but from sheer disbelief. His jaw clenched until his teeth hurt.

  He stared at the screen, watching what looked less like a desperate man, and more like a parasitic freeloader. No apology in his gait. No hesitation in his theft. Just… entitlement.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” he demanded, his voice low but edged with fury.

  “I considered it,” Eve said, her voice sounding smaller now. “After four break-ins, I classified Bret as a non-trustworthy contact and revoked everyone's access to the residence—autonomously. I had to override your preset authorizations.”

  She hesitated, almost guiltily.

  “I didn't tell you because… I thought you'd need your friends more than ever after waking up. I miscalculated, and for that, I sincerely apologize, Nye. Will you forgive me?”

  Nye stood still for a long moment, then sighed, dragging a hand down his face. His anger hadn’t disappeared—it was just buried under exhaustion and disappointment.

  He couldn’t decide what hurt more: Bret stealing from him and using him… or Bret never feeling any remorse for it.

  “Call Vin,” he finally said, his voice stripped down to something tired and quiet.

  He didn’t know what Vin would say. Maybe he already knew. Maybe this whole time, everyone but him had seen Bret for what he was. Maybe they just didn’t have the heart to tell him.

  But that was over now.

  Nye was no longer in the dark.

  And Bret was going to pay for that forged signature.

  Eve initiated the call, and Vin answered almost immediately, his face flickering into existence within the holo-display. He looked surprised—maybe even relieved—but the concern in his eyes was unmistakable. It was the first time Nye had reached out since the incident at the bar with Bret.

  “Nye, how are you?” Vin’s voice was careful, as if bracing for whatever mood Nye was in.

  Nye exhaled, stepping closer to the counter. His fingers drummed against the cool surface as he watched Vin’s expression. “Vin… did you know that Bret was chipped?”

  Vin’s brows pulled together, his lips parting in confusion before he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “What? No. Bret can't get chipped, Nye. He's a Deformed—”

  “I know,” Nye interrupted. “Deformeds aren’t allowed to be chipped. But Bret found a way. He got his hands on one from the black market.”

  Vin’s laughter stopped cold. His face hardened, confusion giving way to alarm. “What the fuck are you saying right now? That’s not possible. He should’ve been detained the second that thing activated.”

  “That’s true.” Nye studied Vin’s reaction carefully. He hadn’t expected Vin to know, but some part of him still hoped he did—because that would make this betrayal feel less personal, less targeted. “So you really didn’t know?”

  Vin scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course I didn’t know! None of us knew! What the hell, Nye? How is he not rotting in a cell right now?”

  Nye turned toward the cooling cabinets, yanking one open with a little too much force—but not enough to rip apart the door. His hand hovered over the selection for a moment before settling on a bottle of aged Phaedrian wine. He flicked the cork off effortlessly, watching it bounce across the counter.

  “Aeternum sent someone over earlier,” he said as he poured himself a generous glass. “They needed my signature to authorize an update for Bret’s implant. Apparently, I already authorized his procedure back in 3092.” He took a slow sip.

  Vin’s face barely concealed his disbelief. “No. No way.”

  Nye tilted his head slightly, raising his glass toward the holo-screen as if toasting to the absurdity of it all.

  “Yeah. Turns out, Bret forged my signature using a recommendation letter I actually did sign—for his Federal Deformity Benefits.” His voice was laced with irritation, but beneath it, a deeper hurt simmered. “Oh, and it gets better. The 30,000 Cryonics I apparently loaned him that same night? That was for the procedure.”

  Vin’s lips parted, but he said nothing. Nye continued.

  “All those hefty loans he’s been asking for? Not for survival, not for rent, not for food. They were for maintenance costs. That chip he got is an NCHV34. An obsolete model. High failure rate, high upkeep, and according to Aeternum, it basically rewires your personality. Turns you into a one-dimensional, narcissistic bastard.” He paused, swirling the wine in his glass. “Which, in hindsight, explains a lot.”

  Vin ran a hand through his electric blue hair, exhaling sharply. “Damn, Nye…”

  “Oh, and did I mention?” Nye said, setting the glass down with a dull clink. “While I was in a coma, Bret broke into my house. Multiple times. Helped himself to whatever he wanted—wine, valuables, food.” He gestured vaguely at the holo-screen, where Eve had been silently displaying the footage in the background. It was a surreal sight—Bret walking in like he owned the place, casually plucking expensive items off shelves, pocketing trinkets, drinking straight from bottles.

  Vin’s expression darkened as he took it all in. “That’s absolutely fucked up, Nye.” His voice was low, almost disbelieving. Then, as if an afterthought, he muttered, “He asked Liz for a loan this morning. And Mia frequently lent him money when she was alive. Out of pity, of course.”

  Nye let out a humorless laugh. “And I’m guessing he hasn’t paid a single Cryonic back to anyone?”

  Vin shook his head. “What do you think?”

  Nye ran a hand down his face, sighing. “It’s not even about the money, man. I just—” He hesitated, his voice quieter now. “I just wish he was honest about his struggles. We would’ve helped. No questions asked.”

  Vin leaned against his own counter, the weight of the situation settling on his face. “I get what you’re saying, Nye. But honestly? I wouldn’t have.” He shrugged, opening a bottle of his own. “I always gave it a second thought before helping Bret. Yeah, the chip explains his personality shift since 3092, but let’s be real—he was always financially irresponsible. A greedy bastard, even before this.”

  Nye glanced down at his drink. “Are all Deformeds like that?”

  Vin’s expression softened. “No, Nye. Bret’s just a piece of shit.” His tone was blunt, but sincere. “He sets a bad example for his community, but he doesn’t define them. I’m really sorry he took advantage of your kindness, man. I would've flipped if it had been me.”

  Nye exhaled heavily, shaking his head. He was exhausted—not just physically, but mentally. The betrayal gnawed at him, an unpleasant weight in his chest. Who else had been using him while he was out? Who else had rewritten his past in his absence?

  He looked up at Vin’s holographic image again. “I have to go, man. Talk later. Say hi to Gema for me.”

  Vin nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Of course, bud. Call me if you need anything.”

  The call ended, leaving the room in silence.

  Nye lingered by the counter, finishing his glass. One refill turned into two, then three, until the bottle was nearly empty. The edges of his thoughts dulled, the ache in his chest softened, but it never fully disappeared.

  Eventually, he pushed himself away from the counter and made his way to his bed. He didn’t bother with a shower. Didn’t even change properly—just stripped off his boots and the training suit, leaving them discarded on the floor.

  The mattress welcomed him with open arms, and he pulled the covers over himself, staring at the ceiling. His mind drifted, but before he could let himself spiral, the chip took over—smoothing out the rough edges of his emotions, dulling the betrayal, compartmentalizing the pain for another day.

  And thankfully, sleep came easier than it should have.

  Morning in cafeteria was a chrome-drenched blur of polished steel surfaces, flickering ad-boards, and the low murmur of agents trying to survive another day in an overstimulated dystopia. The overhead lights glowed in a pale violet hue, mimicking natural daylight, though nothing about this world felt natural anymore.

  Nye sat hunched over a narrow metallic table tucked into a corner—half-shadowed, half-forgotten by the rest of the bustling room. A steaming mug of dark, synth-brewed coffee hovered beside him on an anti-grav coaster, humming softly with every gentle motion. His eyes were locked on a translucent holo-screen projected a few inches above the tabletop, lines of case files and surveillance data dancing across the surface in shifting reds and grays.

  The digital interface flickered as he scrolled—victim profiles, timelines, psych-evaluation summaries, and incident logs. His brain, thanks to the miracle (or curse) of his new primability, had recently begun to filter out the mental noise around him. Yesterday, thoughts were pouring in like rain through a leaky roof, but now he could mute the chaos, control the intrusion, and for once… think.

  He was mid-scroll through a disturbing pattern—many victims had been stalked for weeks, digital trails ghosted and overwritten, predictive behavior barely caught in time—when a familiar scent cut through the gourmet air. Lavender with a synthetic Millia undertone. Siff. Her signature nanofused perfume always carried the subtle edge of wild Millia flowers.

  He didn't look up. Not yet.

  He heard the deliberate rhythm of her boots growing louder—heel-tap, sole-glide, heel-tap—and the invisible tension preceding confrontation. She stopped across from him, just beyond the projection’s holographic glow, and cleared her throat.

  “Siff,” he said without expression, eyes still scanning.

  Her face was unreadable—a perfect mask of professional neutrality, though her clenched jaw betrayed the effort it took to remain civil. She hated talking to him. That much, he didn’t need primabilities to know. But what the chip told him was that she was rehearsing the conversation in her head. Weighing every word, calculating every tone. She hated that even more.

  A silence stretched awkwardly, the only sounds between them were the soft static flicker of the holo-display and the distant murmur of other agents exchanging encrypted gossip or tired banter.

  He sighed theatrically and looked up. “Are you just going to say it all in your head, or do I get to hear it too?”

  Sif blinked, her train of thought—mostly composed of sharp insults and reluctant professionalism—derailed. “Right.”

  She adjusted the collar of her black combat-jacket, voice stiff. “Do you have a minute to talk about the SK cases? Another murder happened. Four hours ago.”

  Nye’s hand paused mid-sip, the coffee’s bitter scent hanging in the air like tension before a plasma burst. He lowered the cup slowly. “Where?”

  “Echelon.”

  That one word hit like a silent alarm. He blinked once, then twice, parsing the implications. Echelon wasn’t just any city. It was the federal playground—an opulent lattice of floating towers, marble sky-lobbies, and bioengineered pleasure gardens. You didn’t commit murders in Echelon unless you were either suicidal or untouchable.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, dismissing the holo-screen with a wave. “Let’s check it out.”

  He rose to his feet, the chair sliding back noiselessly into its magnetic dock. His boots clicked on the floor as he moved, Sif turning with military precision to follow.

  Both were already in uniform—sleek black synth-weave long jackets embedded with reactive sensors, combat leggings armored at the joints, and utility belts that hummed softly with integrated tools, drone triggers, and a compact plasma sidearm.

  The design was minimal but lethal—tailored for agents who might need to shift from data analyst to battlefield ghost in seconds.

  Nye had long noticed the subtle routines everyone followed here. Most suited up before breakfast, because you never knew when a briefing would evolve into a chase across city sectors or a shootout in some neon-drenched slum. This wasn’t a place for leisure. This was basically war in slow motion. A war against extinction.

  As they left the cafeteria’s tall archways behind, the automatic doors sighed open, revealing the corridor to the glider base—long, cold, and washed in blue underlit panels. Their footsteps echoed in perfect sync, like drumbeats of approaching justice… or vengeance.

  Neither said a word as they walked.

  The glider hummed to life like a purring beast, rising seamlessly from the launch bay with a soft neon glow under its wings. Nye and Sif settled into their seats, the tinted glass sealing them off from the outside world, filtering in a subtle aqua hue from the rising sun. The city was a distant shimmer on the horizon, a jeweled oasis in a sea of steel and mist.

  Sif sat with her arms folded, her gaze fixed out the window, yet her mind was moving faster than the glider itself—buzzing with data overlays, cross-references, forensics, criminal psychology theories, and behavioral maps. Nye didn’t interrupt, nor did he speak. He had tuned into the rhythm of her thoughts, letting the mental static gradually shape itself into patterns—her patterns. She thought like an analyst but with the cold detachment of someone who didn’t trust people… probably never had.

  By the fourteenth minute, the landscape below had morphed from grimy outskirts to the glittering edge of Echelon’s border—where towering biodomes shimmered like crystalline flowers and air traffic was choreographed like a ballet. Nye tapped a panel, flicking the glider into autopilot. With the control wheel now idle, he pulled up a glowing holo-screen on his lap, his fingers dancing across it like a pianist lost in thought.

  Law Enforcement had already forwarded the field report.

  The victim—female, 35, identity redacted for now—was last seen at a high-end restaurant in Sector 13 of Echelon’s entertainment strip. According to the witnesses, she was laughing, sipping crystalline wine with a tall, sharply dressed man who didn't look out of place among the elite. Security drones, restricted to low-res footage in privacy-graded zones, had caught the pair entering her apartment, which was nestled in a shadowy, low-rent segment of the city reserved for government workers and overflow guests. Footage showed no struggle, no tension. She’d invited him in willingly. That was three hours before her life ended.

  Nye leaned back in his seat, brow furrowing. The man’s side profile was being extrapolated through AI rendering—half science, half guesswork—and enhanced using memory captures from restaurant staff.

  Just before the glider entered Echelon’s fly zone, Nye finally spoke—his voice smooth, casual, betraying nothing of the thoughts he’d been sorting through in his own mind and hers.

  "What are you thinking?” He asked, “How do you plan to go about it?"

  He already knew, of course. Her thoughts had been methodical, surgical. She was drawing parallels between this case and the infamous serial killings in Mylha—a city that sat like a brooding twin on the northern ridge, barely a skyrise away. The Mylha Killer. Fifteen victims and counting. All lured. All seemingly consensual. All murdered with chilling precision.

  Sif turned to him with her usual practiced composure. "They’re saying the pattern matches the Mylha Killer’s MO. Do you think he’s expanded… or relocated?"

  She kept her voice clipped, professional. No unnecessary emotion, even though she hated having to engage with Nye. He was too cocky. Too sharp.

  “Could be,” Nye replied, voice unreadable. “Wouldn’t be surprising. He’d need the money, though.”

  She frowned slightly. “Why? Is Echelon expensive?”

  Nye let out a short laugh, not unkind. “That’s like asking if water’s wet.”

  She tilted her head. “I’ve never been.”

  That surprised him, though he didn’t show it. “Seriously?”

  She shrugged. “It’s just a city.”

  Nye didn’t argue. Echelon was a city—but calling it just a city was like calling a plasma core just a lightbulb. Echelon was where the privileged came to escape consequence. Art installations floated mid-air. Drone bartenders wore tuxedos. Everything pulsed with curated beauty—and beneath that beauty was rot, always rot. He'd read enough about the hedonistic private ceremonies underground, and Primes dropping by for quick money in exchange for their bodies and performances.

  “Is this the first similar murder here?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

  Sif didn’t hesitate. “It’s the first murder in Echelon.”

  Nye raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise like a man who hadn’t already overheard the fact straight from her neural feed.

  “Well then,” he murmured. “That’s… significant.”

  “Even if this guy is our Mylha Killer,” Nye said, flicking through the victim’s financials, “he’s not surviving in this city unless he’s got serious funds. Staff mentioned designer wear. Probably custom-stitched. Either he’s robbed one of his previous victims, or he’s already rich enough to hunt for fun.”

  Sif gave a small nod, already pulling up her own interface. “I’ll run a scan. Cross-reference recent high-profile robberies or violent offenses within a hundred-click radius around Echelon and the connected cities.”

  Her fingers tapped quickly on the screen embedded into her armrest, a pale blue glow reflecting in her eyes. Nye leaned back, watching her work, but still absorbing her thoughts. Efficient. Unsentimental. And underneath all that—an aching need to solve this. Not for glory. Not even for justice. For the satisfaction of understanding why people did what they did.

  He knew that feeling all too well.

  The glider docked with a faint hiss at one of Echelon’s many levitating platforms—elegant, seamless, like everything else in the city that ran on aesthetics and arrogance. From above, the skyline shimmered like crystal spires piercing through a digital aurora, while down below, the rot of human error festered quietly, as it always did.

  Sif stepped out first, her boots making barely a sound on the obsidian glass of the dock, Nye close behind with his coat catching the wind in a ripple. They didn’t speak; the silence between them now familiar, functional. The crime scene was just two buildings away, nestled in a narrow pocket of residential stillness. The kind of place that offered just enough privacy for someone to die unnoticed.

  The duplex loomed ahead, modest in size but wearing its chicness like perfume—tasteful, curated, quietly expensive. The entire perimeter shimmered with holographic caution tape—amber and black stripes floating in midair, flickering with the occasional Do Not Cross message spoken by an automated voice in seven languages.

  They passed through the front gate, which had a small but immaculate garden—a few synthetic lavender shrubs, a glowing koi orb hovering in a water tank, and a bench that looked more like a designer sculpture than anything functional.

  Inside the house, the air was obscenely thick with layered scents—metallic blood, stale cologne, one floral, the other musky. The contrast was nauseating. Fresh death and artificial glamour never mixed well. Nye flinched subtly at the olfactory ambush, rubbing his nose as the stench flooded his sinuses like a punch.

  A man in an olive-gray coat stepped forward, eyes sharp behind transparent neural lenses. “Nye. You’re actually here… in person.” The surprise in his voice was faint but genuine.

  “I’m Agent Cal,” he added, extending a gloved hand. Nye clasped it briefly, followed by Siff. No warmth, just the brush of protocols.

  “How’s it looking?” Nye asked, eyes scanning the open-layout interior. Every inch was being dissected by portable forensics tech—multi-armed bots scanning wall textures, nanofiber dust-sifters crawling along baseboards, DNA drones humming like curious insects.

  Cal offered a weary shrug. “So far, all signs point to the Mylha Killer. If the partial prints pan out and the street footage gives us a good render, we’ll have his face.”

  Nye nodded, then a soft chime echoed from his Voxlet. A translucent holo-screen materialized above his wrist, displaying forensic snapshots of the victim.

  It wasn’t a clean kill. It wasn’t even murder—it was personal warfare. A storm of blade wounds, force trauma, blood splatter that painted the walls like a deranged fresco. The rage behind it was unmistakable. Hatred carved into flesh. The kind of brutality that made Nye’s synthetic neural implant process it like a mathematical sequence—line by line, nerve by nerve. The horror became almost academic. Disturbing… and oddly comforting.

  He closed the screen with a flick.

  “The guy she had dinner with,” Nye asked. “He paid?”

  “Actually, no,” Cal replied flatly. “Victim covered the bill. That tells us two things—he didn’t want to leave a payment trace, and odds are, he couldn’t afford it anyway. Assuming he’s the Mylha Killer, that fits. Frugal, strategic.”

  Sif had drifted to the side, quietly swiping through high-resolution images of the body, each one colder than the last. Her expression was neutral, but Nye could feel the spike of unease in her mental rhythm and heartbeats. She was beginning to process her first, no, second trauma of being a part of the Zenith. The first one was definitely the event at Nye's birthday celebration.

  Nye turned back to Cal. “Her AI system. Why didn’t it trigger a distress protocol?”

  “Wiped clean,” Cal said simply.

  Siff’s head snapped up. “You’re saying the system was wiped before the attack? Because if it were active during, the AI would’ve automatically dialed for emergency units the moment violence escalated.”

  “Exactly,” Nye agreed.

  Cal rubbed his temple, gears clearly turning behind his lenses. “So… you’re suggesting the suspect accessed her system beforehand. Possibly when she wasn’t home. That implies premeditation. Stalking.”

  Nye glanced at Siff. She was already there.

  “But that doesn’t line up,” she said sharply. “The Mylha Killer doesn’t stalk. He’s opportunistic, precise. He doesn’t linger or watch. He strikes.”

  “And this guy’s tech-savvy. That’s not standard for Mylha’s profile,” Nye added. “We’ve seen some copycats. But wiping an entire domestic AI node? That takes serious skill.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow. “Actually, not anymore. They sell hacking chips in the black markets. Psychopaths learn quick. Wiping NEON systems is basic protocol now, especially in the darker corners of the GridNet. Hell, there are forums for it. Even some protestor groups fund hacktivist tutorials.”

  His eyes landed pointedly on Nye. “You should know. Your brother used to be one of them.”

  The jab hung in the air like an old wound reopened, but Nye didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he shifted slightly, ignoring the bait with mechanical grace.

  “I’m going to take a look around,” he said, already stepping away, his voice colder than before.

  He moved methodically through the duplex—small kitchen with a smart counter blinking with unprocessed commands, the bathroom mirror still fogged from earlier that day, the bedroom where everything was neat and untouched... except for the tangerine blood stains on the door.

  Once Nye had scoured every inch of the duplex, he descended the stairs slowly, his mind already cataloguing the minute sensory input like a forensic database in human form. Blood spatters, splintered wood, a misplaced earring under the couch, faint traces of synthetic perfume, the ozone-tint of a used stun glove—nothing escaped his mind’s freshly trained recall. He didn’t just observe; he absorbed, letting the data soak into that uncanny hybrid of intuition and implant-assisted memory.

  Cal was reviewing a data feed when Nye reentered the scene, his boots thudding softly against the polished floors as he approached.

  “I’ll dig through her social grid. Drop me the access credentials,” Nye said without preamble, his tone as dry and clipped as ever.

  Cal nodded and gestured to a nearby forensic tech, “Coming through your Voxlet in five.”

  Across the room, Sif stood with one hand splayed against a holo-map, running real-time scans of a hundred-mile radius. She had layered filters looking for two things: any high-profile robbery involving luxury items, and recent sales of the exact designer suit the suspect had been seen wearing—a sharp-cut piece from House Virelith, hardly affordable for your average psychopath.

  She glanced up just as Nye made a beeline for the door, not sparing even a glance toward the agents still hard at work.

  “Let’s go, Siff,” he tossed the command over his shoulder like it was a mere formality.

  Sif blinked, sighed inwardly, and turned to Cal. “We’ll stay synced, Agent. Ping us with any new findings, especially once the facial render’s complete.” Her tone was brisk but respectful as she extended her hand again.

  Cal gave a nod of appreciation, shaking it firmly. “Good luck out there. And hey—try not to let him charm too many people.”

  Sif smirked and shook her head, then trotted after Nye, who was already out in the sleekly manicured front yard, the grass glittering faintly under the morning sun like fiber-optic threads.

  Once they were walking side by side, she shot him a look, voice low and incredulous. “You couldn’t at least thank Cal for the speed his team’s working with?”

  Nye shrugged lazily, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his charcoal overcoat. “They’re doing what they’re paid to do.”

  Sif scoffed. “Yeah, but acknowledgment goes a long way—especially from someone with your clearance level. Morale matters.”

  Nye squinted his eyes, tilting his head slightly toward her. “Why would they need a morale boost? They live in Echelon. That’s already a permanent upgrade.”

  “You’re seriously infuriating,” Sif muttered, rolling her eyes. “Were you always this cocky or is it a side effect of the memory loss?”

  He just chuckled, a soft, throaty sound that echoed his amusement more than any actual reply. They were nearing the docking station when Nye abruptly halted, about twelve feet short of the glider. His eyes narrowed, face unreadable.

  “Actually,” he murmured, “why don’t you go on ahead? I’ve got a few... detours I’d like to make before heading back to HQ.”

  Siff, who had one foot on the retracting stair of the glider, froze mid-step. “Are these detours case-related?” Her voice was sharp, scrutinizing.

  “One of them,” Nye answered with a casual nod.

  She crossed her arms. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  Nye blinked, mildly surprised—not because of her interest in the case, but because of how much she sounded like Mia—bossy, with no room for negotiation. For a moment, he weighed the argument, then wisely decided not to entertain it. In his one year of conscious existence, he had picked up at least one universal truth:

  Arguing with a determined woman was a losing game. Especially the bossy one.

  He gave a conceding shrug and boarded the glider without protest. She followed closely, silent but smug in her quiet victory.

  The cockpit lights flickered to life as Nye tapped in coordinates. The dashboard blinked neon blue before the vehicle’s AI voice confirmed, “Destination: Central Graveyard. Coordinates locked. Autopilot engaged.”

  Sif frowned in mild surprise. Why the graveyard? Were they digging up bodies now? She wondered.

  The glider’s engines purred like a sleeping feline before the craft lifted smoothly off the platform and sliced through the Echelon sky.

  Neither spoke, letting the silence stretch between them—thick with curiosity and cautious trust. But then Sif decided to keep herself busy with the earlier investigation into the source of the killer’s designer suit.

  The glider hummed through the skyline in hyperflight, leaving behind a serpentine trail of blue shimmer across Echelon’s dusk-tinted sky. It zipped across sector boundaries with whisper-silent propulsion, weaving past solar towers and monorail grids until the glowing sprawl of the Central Graveyard loomed into view—a patch of solemn serenity carved into the heart of an otherwise buzzing metropolis.

  As it slowed, the craft’s sleek fuselage dimmed from glowing azure to matte black, adjusting for cloaking compliance within the perimeter. With a gentle descent, it docked seamlessly at the graveyard’s entry port. A hydraulic hiss followed as the cockpit opened.

  Nye stepped out first, his boots clicking softly against the obsidian-tiled platform. Sif fell into step behind him, scanning the perimeter with a trained eye. The serenity here was almost unnerving.

  Nye didn’t veer toward the graves right away. Instead, he made a beeline for a small shop tucked beside the wrought iron gates—Rhemy’s Flora, according to the flickering hologram above the door. A florist. Of course.

  Inside the boutique, a sensory overload hit—the mingled scent of flora from every known biosphere, both Earth-born and terraformed colonies. Neon tulips with flickering petals, glacier lilies that shimmered like holographic glass, and the timeless beauty of Earth’s heirlooms—roses, violets, lilies—all naturally engineered to survive Earth’s radioactive air.

  The florist was a gaunt man in his late 60s, possibly cybernetic from the glint in his artificial eye. He was pruning a vase of synthetic blue asters when he looked up. Recognition flickered in his expression like a faulty diode.

  “Nye Helmsprime,” he gasped, straightening up like he’d just seen a ghost from a headline.

  Nye gave a courteous nod, an uncharacteristic softness playing on his face—one Sif noticed he hadn’t extended to Cal ten minutes earlier.

  “Hey. Could I get some Wild Roses?”

  The florist blinked, still recovering from the name-drop. “Of course! Would you prefer a bouquet or buy them individually?”

  “Ten should be enough,” Nye replied with a faint smile—small, yet strangely sincere.

  Sif leaned against the glass casing, arms folded, watching this side of Nye with muted astonishment. This was the closest thing to warmth she’d seen from him that wasn’t sarcasm-laced or shielded behind unnecessary arrogance.

  The florist turned to the cryo-chamber in the back and returned moments later with ten Wild Roses—maroon giants with the fullness of a melon, petals slick and dew-kissed, and a faint inner glow like bioluminescence. They looked like something plucked from a dream... or a failed utopia.

  “These are beautiful,” Nye murmured, almost reverently.

  “They always are,” the florist smiled, wrapping the stems in a delicate weave of black lace mesh. “That’ll be 290 Cryonics.”

  Nye leaned forward, and a soft ping echoed as the payment scanner read his iris pattern. Transaction complete.

  By then, Sif had connected the dots. Flowers. Graveyard. No extra words. Someone was being visited—someone personal.

  Nye offered a quiet thanks and stepped out, heading straight for the looming archway into the memorial fields. Sif followed, still unsure whom exactly they were visiting. His family? Maybe his sibling? His wife?

  But as they walked deeper into the graveyard, past resting places adorned with digitized epitaphs and real-time memory projections, he stopped at a solitary grave. No frills. No holograms. Just a clean swarthy headstone etched with silver text:

  Mia

  Federal Engineer – Artificial Intelligence

  DOB: February 3, 3065

  DOD: October 5, 3095

  LIFESPAN: 3065–3095

  Sif stopped a few paces behind. Her gaze lingered on the name. Mia. That wasn’t a family member, not by name at least. A friend, then? A colleague?

  She stayed back, giving him the kind of quiet only loss understands.

  Nye stood motionless at the foot of the grave, the Wild Roses hanging limply from one hand. His mind flicked through fractured memories—hers and his. She was a memory file now, someone reduced to ones and zeroes within the implant in his skull. But not even the best neural dampeners could filter out heartache.

  She had been more than a friend. A tether to who he was. A compass. And something he’d never had the courage to admit aloud.

  He knelt, gently placing the roses at the base of her grave. The scent, amplified in the still air, was both comforting and unbearable.

  “I miss you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’d laugh if you saw where I’ve ended up and how.”

  A half-smile tugged at his lips. He exhaled sharply, wiping a stray smudge of dust from the headstone with his sleeve.

  For a long moment, he just stood there—no drama, no breakdown, just a man visiting the past he could barely hold onto.

  Then he turned, finding Sif waiting a respectful distance away, gaze lowered.

  “Let’s go,” he said quietly, his voice void of its usual edge.

  And with that, they walked away—leaving behind glowing roses, a grave shrouded in silence, and a memory that refused to fade no matter how many chips or implants tried to overwrite it.

  The next stop was Mylha City.

  By the time the glider descended into the city’s lower atmospheric lanes, Sif had already finished her data sweep. She reviewed her findings one last time, her optic lens flickering slightly with every scroll of metadata.

  “No recorded expensive heists in the last seven years,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Especially nothing at the residence of anyone who owns that designer suit. I’ve looked into owners’ records as well. No criminal history recorded. No purchases for the suit, no thefts, no leads. Dead end.” She confirmed.

  Nye let out a noisy breath, nodding, “Okay. Thanks.”

  The glider hummed as it lowered into hover mode and dropped them about five blocks from the slum markets—specifically, the infamous “Vein.” A black market carved into the very arteries of Mylha’s underbelly, the Vein pulsed with trade, lies, and smoke from poorly regulated tech contraptions. The scent of scorched circuits and spiced street meat clashed in the air. Neon lights flickered like stuttering heartbeats across the crumbling facades of buildings, and faded holographic billboards flickered with grainy ads for fake IDs, black-market neural enhancers, and shady data brokers.

  Sif grimaced as they started walking. “Why are we going into this nightmare again?”

  “Just want to have a little chat with the sellers of the hacking chip,” Nye replied coolly, his boots tapping against the cracked ferrocrete. His tone was as casual as if they were going to a smoothie bar, not the heart of a criminal tech syndicate.

  Sif gave him a side glance. “You think they’re going to be helpful?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he replied, striding ahead without missing a beat.

  Navigating the labyrinth of alleys felt like being swallowed by the intestines of a dying beast. The deeper they went, the more society’s rejects became the norm. Deformeds and illegally altered humanoids manned stalls selling everything from contraband bioware to reprogrammed home security bots. Low-tier Primes, out of work or banished from corporate sanctums, slinked in corners hawking stolen scraps from high-tech cities. Neon wires crisscrossed overhead like glowing vines, some sparking with erratic pulses. The hum of illegal energy sources vibrated faintly beneath their boots.

  The sky above had dimmed into a bruised orange as the dusk neared.

  Sif pointed toward a tucked-away stall nestled into a crevice between two crumbling towers. The storefront had no name—just a holo-sign that glitched every few seconds, reading: TeK JuNk & StuFF. Elegant.

  Inside, the place looked like a cybernetic Frankenstein’s garage. The dim lighting had a green tint that made everything look mildly nauseating. Shelves were stacked high with tangled cables, blinking mod-chips, hacked household bots with expressive, cracked faces, and things that probably screamed when turned on. The air smelled like burnt ozone, old metal, and spilled battery acid.

  The man behind the counter was unmistakably Prime, with a shock of fury-orange hair standing on end like he’d been electrocuted one too many times. One of his eyes was a modded optic—mechanical, with a rotating lens that clicked every few seconds. His jaw had a faint chrome gleam, either replaced or reinforced. In the back, his assistant moved quietly—a Deformed woman with arms that were too long, joints bending with too much fluidity. Her back was to them, organizing oddly shaped tools on pegboards. Her shadow looked like it belonged to a spider.

  Nye and Sif waited silently while the Prime chatted with a woman about some DIY gadget made of salvaged tech. Apparently, it could vacuum the floor, entertain toddlers, tell dirty jokes, and serve beverages. She was sold. Once the transaction was complete and the customer bounced, the man turned back to his terminal, logging the sale manually. His fingers were stained with circuitry ink and grease.

  Then Nye stepped forward, elbows resting on the counter like he owned it.

  “Hi.”

  The man blinked, then grinned with a rasp of surprise. “My, my… if it ain’t the Helmsprime himself.”

  He glanced at Sif and let out a low whistle. “Ooooh, she’s hotter in person.” He winked. Sif gave him a sharp glare.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” Nye said, ignoring the comment, though his smile was tight, almost twitching. “I need your sales logs for the past year.”

  The shopkeeper let out a loud snort. “Yeah, and I need a vacation to Lunar Geneva. But we don’t always get what we want, do we?” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Unless, of course… you’ve got something to offer in return.”

  Nye’s smile widened—cold, calculated. “Oh, it is happening. No trades. Just good ol’ compliance. Unless you’re curious about how fast your heart mod stops working after I smash that terminal into your chest.”

  Siff’s eyes widened. Wait—what? She blinked rapidly, turning to Nye. Was that a threat? Like, a real one? He wasn’t bluffing… or was he? Questions chased each other in her mind like rabid dogs. Was this standard operating procedure for him?

  The shopkeeper let out a bark of laughter. “Nah. You? The Helmsprime? You’re too squeaky clean to kill a guy for some logs.” He pointed lazily toward the door. “Try charm next time.”

  “Not anymore, though.” Nye’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t shift, but something in the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees. His eyes darkened—emotionless, lethal. The smile was still there, but it hung on his face like a predator baring teeth.

  The shopkeeper’s expression faltered.

  And then Nye moved.

  One blink, and he had vaulted the counter, grabbing the man by the front of his jacket and slamming him down onto the metal tabletop with a loud clang. Shelves rattled. The man gasped in shock, struggling beneath Nye’s weight. Not hurt—yet—but extremely rattled.

  “Sales logs,” Nye murmured, his face inches away from the man’s. “Please.”

  In the background, the Deformed woman let out a squeak and dove behind the shelves, arms scuttling like insect legs as she vanished from view.

  The shopkeeper’s bravado disintegrated instantly. “Okay—okay!” he sputtered. “Geez—calm down, psycho!”

  Nye released him with a pat to the chest and stepped back, adjusting his coat like he hadn’t just threatened a man with cyber-homicide.

  “Good man,” Nye said cheerfully.

  The man scrambled upright, visibly shaking. For a few seconds, he just stood there, trying to remember what he was even supposed to do. Then his brain caught up. He tapped frantically on his screen, entered the date filters, and forwarded the logs directly to Nye’s Voxlet.

  Nye’s Voxlet chimed softly.

  “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said, already walking toward the exit.

  Sif lingered for a moment. She looked from the pale, dumbstruck store owner to Nye’s retreating back, then slowly approached the payment scanner. She placed her eye over it and made a small transaction—just enough for dignity.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, voice clipped.

  The man stared at her with haunted eyes. “What happened to that guy?”

  Sif didn’t answer. She just turned and walked out after Nye—her thoughts spiraling in twenty directions at once.

  Because the man she was following?

  He wasn’t exactly the same Helmsprime from the textbooks anymore.

  The crowd of Mylha buzzed around them like a sentient swarm—chatter in metallic tongues, synthetic aromas wafting through steam-vented crevices, and the neon rain reflecting off chrome panels that hadn’t seen a cleaning drone in years. Nye kept a swift stride, cutting through the clamor and chaos like he belonged to it. Siff, a few paces behind, had to dodge a drone-busker juggling magnetized blades mid-air and leap over a rolling trash bot that coughed out smoke like it had bronchitis. She finally caught up, her breath not quite ragged, but definitely annoyed.

  “You didn’t have to pay him, you know?” Nye murmured without looking back, his voice low but edged with that persistent nonchalance. “You just bribed the guy for information.”

  “Better than threatening to rearrange his internal organs,” Sif replied, tone sharp but level, like someone stating the weather.

  Nye smirked without turning. “Civilians are obligated to answer to the LE and FIDFE. You know that, right?”

  “I know,” she said, stepping beside him. “But there’s a difference between enforcing the law and steamrolling people. Diplomacy gets more results with less blood.”

  He finally glanced at her, a flicker of amusement tugging at his features. “You practice diplomacy with people who own satellites and private armies. Not two-bit hustlers in a shack of stolen motherboards.”

  Sif scoffed, “Right. Like when you decided to disrespect a centuries-old tribal custom instead of negotiating with Mana.”

  That one landed like a punch through ballistic glass. Nye halted mid-stride, turning fully now, eyes narrowing.

  “He was going to kill you,” he said, voice low, but charged with voltage. “Did you have a death wish? You should’ve notified me so I could’ve bought you a coffin in advance.”

  Siff’s face turned to steel. Her jaw tightened until it looked carved. “Do you even realize what you took from me?” Her voice cracked in the middle, but she powered through. “Being an Abian was everything. Now I’m banished. Permanently. And with Mana gone, who knows what’s going to happen to the tribe.”

  Nye ran a hand through his dust-specked hair, tongue clicking in frustration. “You knew the consequences. You could either serve the Zenith or the Abian. Not both. I thought joining us meant you’d already chosen.”

  “I didn’t choose.” Her voice was icy now. “Viora cornered me when I had nothing. She offered safety—for me and my mother. I took the deal because I had to.”

  His brow furrowed, the pieces suddenly shifting like a faulty puzzle trying to realign. “Safety from who?”

  She looked away, her voice distant. “From the Abian. They’d been hunting us ever since my mother escaped while pregnant with me.”

  Nye blinked. “And you still want to join the tribe that’s been trying to kill you since before you were born?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. The silence stretched until it trembled. Finally, she said, “They were my people. I didn’t choose to be born cursed. I didn’t choose to be hunted. But the more I learned about the tribe, the more it felt like home—like something I should’ve had.”

  He folded his arms, sarcasm leaking through his next words. “Yeah, poetic. Stockholm syndrome's got you good. Look it up. It’s an ancient psychological phenomenon.”

  She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Like the guy at the store said… we don’t always get what we want.”

  He gave her a crooked half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “At least you’re finally catching on. Just remember—they see you again, you’re dead. Simple.”

  They began walking again, side by side, the tension between them thick as plasma fog.

  “They’ll kill you too,” she added casually.

  Nye didn’t respond. Not in words. He just kept walking, shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning the crowd like it was just another Tuesday.

  Then came a voice that cracked the static of the crowd.

  “Nye?”

  They stopped, turning instinctively. From the haze of steam and synthetic perfume, a figure emerged—grinning like a fox who thought himself charming. Bret stepped out from under a tattered poly-fabric shed that served as a bazaar stall. His jacket was unzipped, boots scuffed, hair greasy. And gods, he still stank.

  “It really is you,” Bret said, all casual tones and fake familiarity, as if their last meeting hadn’t ended with verbal napalm. He eyed Sif like she was a luxury car from the pre-collapse era.

  “M’lady,” he said, reaching for her hand in a gallant gesture so outdated it belonged in a museum.

  Before his fingers could graze her, Nye’s hand shot out and slapped his away—not hard enough to break anything, but enough to sting. “Don’t touch her.”

  “Ah. Abian.” Bret winked at Siff. “Sacred ground, got it. So what brings you two into this glorious cesspool?”

  “I could ask you the same,” Nye replied flatly. No emotion. No warmth. Just dead air with syllables.

  “Visiting a friend,” Bret replied too quickly, not meeting Nye’s eyes. “Got a buddy here—deformed. I was having some stove trouble.”

  “At the black market?” Nye asked, one brow arching.

  Bret chuckled awkwardly. “Deformeds are poor, remember? You always have that stick up your—look, forget it. Come help me out. The seller’s being stubborn. Maybe flash your badge, scare him a little? Remind him who my friends are?”

  Nye’s smile was glacial now. “I’m not your friend, Bret. Not anymore.”

  Bret snorted like Nye had made a dad joke. “Come on, Nye. You’re still sulking over that bar spat? We were drunk. I was joking. You always take things so seriously.”

  Sif pretended to examine the architecture of a nearby cyber-lantern to escape the awkward fallout. She could feel Nye’s body language coiling.

  Nye leaned in, his voice a whisper laced with knives. “Here’s a tip. Parasites don’t survive by leeching off the wrong host. You’ve turned that ancient tech junk in your head into your personality—and it’s rotting you from the inside out.”

  Bret flinched. His eyes went wide. The color drained from his cheeks as he realized Nye knew. About the chip. About everything.

  Nye continued, smile widening but void of humor. “If I were you, I’d take a long look in the mirror. And then I’d consider not existing anymore. It’d be a mercy.”

  Siff’s stomach turned. The words weren’t just cruel—they were clinical, calculated, like Nye had pressed a scalpel to a nerve and twisted it. She said nothing, but silently judged him for it. The Zenith were supposed to be above tribal prejudices, above class cruelty. But here he was, spitting venom like any old brute.

  He felt her judgment, of course. He always did. But he didn’t care.

  Bret stood frozen, lips trembling, fingers twitching as if trying to summon a witty retort from the void. Nothing came.

  Nye turned and walked away without another word. Sif lingered a heartbeat longer, glanced at Bret with something like pity, then followed Nye into the crowd, her boots making muted thuds against the oil-streaked pavement.

  Behind them, Bret stood under flickering lights, the din of the crowd muffled now like he’d slipped underwater. His breath hitched, chest trembling. Did Nye just… tell him to die?

  No. Couldn’t be.

  Could it?

  His smugness collapsed. His shoulders drooped. He didn’t even notice the tears until he felt the heat on his skin.

  He stood in the middle of the alley as his only real friend—one who’d never wronged him—disappeared into the swarm of strangers.

  For the first time in years, Bret didn’t have a comeback.

  And it terrified him.