The neon lights flickered to life as the night market began to hum with activity. Bright signs bathed the streets in a array of colours, while the air buzzed with the chatter of vendors setting up their stalls and the distant sounds of music drifting through the streets. People spilled into the roads, weaving between food carts and trinket shops, their footsteps quickening as the city came alive under the cover of night. The traffic soon thickened, the steady hum of engines and the occasional honk of a horn mixing with the lively chorus of voices.

  High above the chaos, perched on a rooftop alone, sat a boy with hazelnut skin and sharp features. His hair, black fading into a deep brown, was styled in twist-out curls that caught the glow of the neon lights below. His expression was unreadable, his golden-brown eyes focused on the chaos. He wore a loose-fitting hoodie, its fabric dark and nondescript, blending with the night around him, and a pair of worn sneakers dangled casually off the edge of the rooftop. His posture was relaxed, watching everything unfold in silence. His figure blended into the shadows, the flickering lights casting long, thin silhouettes across his face. His gaze was distant, focused on the world below.

  “Hey, Rye!” The voice called out from behind him.

  Rye turned, his eyes searching the rooftop. A boy with crimson red hair and sun-kissed skin was walking toward him, a few bags of drinks slung over his shoulder. When the boy was close enough, Rye recognised him immediately.

  "Hey, Amos."

  Amos grinned, nodding toward the bags. “Got us some drinks. Figured you could use one.”

  Rye gave a small, tired smile. "Thanks."

  Amos set the bags down and settled next to him on the edge of the rooftop, both of them leaning against the railing. They sat in silence for a moment, looking out at the sprawling city below. The night was alive with lights—neon signs flickering, street lamps casting pools of golden light, the streets filled with people moving in waves, lost in their little worlds.

  "It's peaceful up here, isn't it?" Amos finally broke the quiet, his voice almost wistful.

  "Yeah, it is," Rye replied, his gaze distant. The weight of the day hung heavy on him, but for the first time in a while, he allowed himself a moment of calm.

  Amos took a long sip from his drink before glancing at Rye's new hairstyle. “When’d you get your hair done?”

  Rye ran a hand through his hair, "Not that long ago. Just needed a change."

  Amos nodded, leaning back against the railing. For a few minutes, the only sound between them was the distant hum of the city, a soundtrack to the stillness they shared.

  Finally, Amos let out a quiet sigh, eyes following the streams of people below. “It’s always the same thing in this city. Never changes, does it?”

  Rye followed his gaze, the city lights sparkling like an endless sea of stars. He couldn’t remember the last time something truly did change.

  “No,” Rye said softly, his voice almost lost in the breeze. “It never does."

  They sat together, watching the city pulse with life, both feeling the weight of repetition that hung over them, the unchanging rhythm of a world.

  Amos sat beside the radio, its rusted antennae twitching in the breeze. The static came first, then the voice.

  “...It’s been fifty years since the creation of the Trials. The Redemption System reports a forty-percent drop in civil unrest since—”

  “Bullshit,” Rye muttered.

  Amos didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the skyline, unmoving.

  “...Celebrating the fiftieth anniversary, this year's Trial will be the largest in history with a new format…”

  “They make it sound like it’s some kind of game,” Rye said. “Like we’re all just—”

  “Turn it off,” Amos said, his voice low.

  Rye glanced at him. “You always listen to the broadcast.”

  Amos shook his head. “Not this time.”

  Click.

  Silence settled over the rooftop. Just the wind now, and the distant thrum of life below.

  “How’s your brother? And Diego?”

  “They’re doing good,” Rye said. “I made sure they were watching a movie before I left. Slipped out without getting caught. Diego left earlier, before me.”

  Amos gave a small smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. All I remember is the harsh military training he made us go through. Always came home with at least one broken bone.”

  Rye chuckled. “Yeah, he really put us through hell. You should come by if you miss him so much.”

  A shiver ran down Amos’s spine. “I’ll think about it.”

  Rye's eyes shifted toward the horizon, catching a flicker of light in the distance. He squinted, trying to make sense of it, and then his breath caught as the glow intensified. A building was ablaze, smoke rising in thick plumes into the night sky. He could make out the silhouette of a truck speeding away from the scene, tires screeching on the pavement.

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  Rye nudged Amos's shoulder, his voice low but urgent. "Amos, look."

  Amos followed his gaze, his eyes narrowing as he processed the sight. Then, to Rye’s surprise, a grin spread across his face, a look of pure excitement.

  Rye raised an eyebrow, still not understanding. "What is it?"

  Amos stood up, his grin widening, and motioned toward the fire.

  "That’s the underground casino," he said, his tone light with anticipation. "It’s being robbed."

  Rye blinked in confusion, his brows furrowing. "I don’t get it. Why are you so happy?"

  Amos turned back to him, his expression now more animated, like a kid with a secret.

  "I’m smiling because we’re gonna get all the reward," he said with a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. "It’s our lucky night, Rye."

  Rye's eyes widened as realisation hit him. The excitement bubbled up inside him, his pulse quickening. He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a more intense, eager tone.

  "You don't mean... we’re gonna chase after them? Now?"

  Amos chuckled,

  "You bet. We can probably get them before the enforcers do. They've just robbed one of the largest casinos, we can get all the money if we just tailgate behind them and sneak our way into their hideout. Well get all the cash, perfect score."

  Rye wore a worried expression before he stood up, a spark of adrenaline rushing through him.

  Amos’s grin widened.

  “Fine, let’s do it. But we can’t get caught.”

  Without a word, the two boys bolted from the rooftop, racing down the stairs and out into the alley. The city was still alive around them, but their focus was fixed on one thing: their bikes.

  Amos glanced at Rye. “Wait—I thought Calix said we weren’t supposed to use bikes in public?”

  “Nah, it’s fine. Calix did want us to test them,” Rye said with a shrug. “And besides, we don’t exactly have another ride, do we?”

  “Yeah, you’re right… Calix's gonna kill us if he finds out.”

  Rye’s heart was already pounding as they reached the motorbikes, the engines roaring to life with a single twist of the throttle. The sound cut through the night air—sharp and electric.

  Without hesitation, they tore through the streets, their bikes weaving in and out of traffic, narrowly avoiding pedestrians and obstacles that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The city blurred into streaks of neon and headlights, the roads opening up before them, their only task to outrun everything in their path.

  They were flashes of light in the night, too fast for anyone to catch, too quick to be seen. The adrenaline surged in Rye's veins, the wind whipping past him, sharp and cold. He could barely hear the honks or shouts as they sped past, his focus entirely on the destination ahead.

  Amos was a blur beside him, just as fast, just as driven. The world around them seemed to fall away as they pushed their bikes to the limit. In no time at all, they arrived at the scene.

  The casino building was still ablaze, flames licking the night sky, sending thick plumes of smoke into the air. The fire danced in the windows, casting an eerie orange glow over the chaos unfolding below.

  People were spilling out of the front doors, their faces wild with panic, stumbling over each other in their desperate attempts to escape. The street was a mess—cars abandoned, people running in every direction, their hurried steps echoing in the night.

  The sound of sirens grew louder, filling the air with a high-pitched wail that cut through the noise of the crowd. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance, painting the scene in a frantic, strobe-like rhythm as police cars and fire trucks swarmed the area.

  It was a mess, but it was also the perfect cover.

  Rye and Amos dismounted their bikes, their eyes scanning the chaos, already calculating their next move. The flames cast a flickering light across their faces as they melted into the crowd, the night engulfing them.

  They were already on the move, their bikes roaring to life as they sped after it. The truck didn't slow-it tore through the streets, smashing asides cars like they were nothing.

  The path it carved was a mess of crushed fenders, shattered glass, and screeching tires, leaving the road in chaos. The trail was narrow, with traffic scattered everywhere, and Amos and Rye had to fight to keep up.

  Amos glanced at Rye, his eyes sharp under his helmet’s visor. He leaned into his helmet and hit the radio signal to Amos’s helmet.

  "Hold back a bit. Don’t rush ahead."

  Rye’s grip tightened on the throttle, his pulse pounding in his ears. He could already feel the rush of excitement building, but Amos’s voice kept him grounded. He gave a quick nod, even though Amos couldn’t see it, and eased back slightly, his bike swerving to avoid an overturned sedan.

  The chaos on the road was nearly suffocating. Burning cars ahead sent thick clouds of black smoke into the night air, obscuring the street lights. Rye’s stomach churned as he cut through the mess—burnt-out wrecks, debris, and the smell of gasoline hanging thick in the air.

  The sound of screeching metal and honking horns was replaced only by the relentless roar of their engines and the pounding of their hearts.

  Amos, never one to waste a moment, shot ahead, weaving between the abandoned vehicles with expert precision. Rye followed, pushing his bike to the limit, his tires barely gripping the asphalt as he dodged a flaming wreck.

  Every second felt like a lifetime as they closed the gap between themselves and the armoured truck.

  The truck, massive and stubborn, still pushed forward, carving a path of destruction. Its tires skidded against the uneven road, but it kept moving, relentless as ever. Rye and Amos were finally catching up, the truck now only a few hundred feet ahead.

  The two riders had barely caught up to the armoured truck when the occupants inside seemed to notice them.

  Without warning, a figure emerged from the back of the truck, brandishing a grenade launcher. He aimed it with deadly precision, his face hidden behind a mask.

  Rye’s eyes widened. Too late to dodge.

  “Grenade!” Amos shouted, barely audible over the roar of their bikes.

  Before Rye could react, a shock-wave grenade shot through the air, its arc perfect.

  The explosion was deafening. The blast sent a wave of force that struck like a punch to the chest, knocking them both off balance. Amos swerved, his bike jerking violently to one side before it slid out from under him. He hit the pavement hard, his body skidding a few feet before coming to a stop.

  Rye felt the blast in his bones, but his instincts kicked in. He immediately pulled his bike to a stop, his heart racing, and rushed back to Amos.

  “Amos!” he screamed, his voice hoarse with panic.