I woke with the late afternoon sun searing into my eyes through the undrawn curtain of my bedroom. I wasn't on my bed. I had collapsed into an unconscious heap on the floor. I could taste blood in my mouth, and only one of my eyes opened properly. The whole side of my face ached. I licked my dry, blood-caked lips and groaned inwardly. With great effort, I managed to pull myself into a sitting position. My journals were all strewn around me. There was a bath of salt water with copper rusting away in it, bags of salt, half-made chalk bombs, scattered pebbles with runes carved on them, and, worryingly, the Codex was lying open on the floor. I'd just fallen asleep and left it there. I muttered to myself and stretched my aching neck. Weirdly, I didn’t even remember getting it out.

  I looked down and realized I'd fallen asleep fully geared, and the plates of the Tank Beetle had dug into me badly during the night, making my ribs ache. Or could it have been the baseball bat? Was that last night, or was it the night before? It was all blurring together. I'd been on a vengeance fuelled rampage for three nights now, brutalizing any Syndicate gang members I came across, and the violence was only getting worse. The battles were becoming bloodier, the weapons more dangerous, and the stakes higher with every confrontation. The Syndicate was getting jumpy. Now they were armed and always ready and waiting for me. I'd escaped death no less than six times by the skin of my teeth, and if it wasn't for the chitinous shell of the Tank Beetle, I would have been gutted like a fish.

  I looked down at my shredded jacket, unzipped it, and saw the deep score marks in my vest, highlighting just how many times I had been stabbed last night, or maybe they were from the night before. I'd stopped changing my clothes at some point. I breathed deeply and ran my tongue around my mouth. There were several cuts in my cheeks from where fists had driven the soft flesh into my teeth, and there was a painful cut on my lip where a goon had headbutted me. Now I remembered why my eye wouldn't open properly. I reached up and tenderly touched the puffy flesh underneath my eye. I was going to have a nice shiner there.

  That's when I looked at my hands. All of my knuckles on both hands were covered in scorch marks. Using the Shock Rune again and again was burning my hands, melting the plastic of the gloves, and scorching my flesh. My fists were swollen, painful, and I could barely bend my left hand into a fist anymore. My wrists ached, and my left knee and hip were so painful I was walking like a robot that needed oiling.

  I picked the Codex up and noted with interest what I'd been reading last night and then looked at the journal page I'd been scribbling on. I couldn't figure out what it was that I'd come up with. As I looked around the room, it seemed like I'd been deep in crafting, creating, and studying for perhaps hours by the looks of it, yet the last memory I had was punching a drug dealer in the face and robbing his stash. I didn't even remember getting home, let alone studying. That wasn't good. All those blows to the head might be starting to add up.

  I picked the Codex up and closed it, then reverentially slid it back into its hiding place. I cleared up my notes and tossed them to one side. I couldn't even be bothered to deal with the copper salt bath and all the half-made chalk bombs, so instead, I just gathered up what I thought might be ready to use and piled the rest into the corner. I stood up creakily, using my good leg to push myself upright and holding onto the bed stand for dear life as I did. I pulled off my ruined jacket and tossed it onto the bed, grimacing at all the blood on the sleeves. I looked at my Zap Knucks and frowned deeper as I saw how melted and torn up the gloves had become. The copper runes were bent and jagged from punching people. I was definitely going to have to come up with a better solution for those. I dropped them onto the bed and then limped over to my cupboard.

  Opening it, I eyed the contents warily. There were no less than eight backpacks in there full of drugs and money. I didn't want to touch any of it. As tempting as it was to use the cash, it gave me a gross feeling to go anywhere near it. I didn't know what I was going to do with all of it. I guessed I should set the drugs on fire or something and try to give away the money to someone. I rummaged through all the bags and took out wads and wads of cash, more money than I'd ever seen in my life. It was probably more money than everybody in this building put together had. I didn't even bother counting it; I didn't want to know how much it was. Instead, I bundled it up into a carrier bag, tied it up, and dropped it on my desk before limping away to the bathroom.

  I relieved myself and washed off as much blood as I could, digging around under my fingernails trying to get the caked blood out, rinsing my mouth, and then tending to my wounds. Sitting on the edge of my bathtub, I stripped off my vest, peeled the carapace off, and looked in the mirror. It was a grim sight. I was covered in bruises to the point that I looked like I had a skin condition. My entire torso was mottled brown, purple, yellow, blue, and black as various bruises and lumps were in different stages of healing or blossoming. Some points were so tender I didn't even want to touch them. I took out a tube of antiseptic cream, dabbed it on the wound on my lip, and then slathered it on the inside of my cheeks. I looked at my swollen eye and guessed it was probably too late to do anything about that. I then dabbed the antiseptic cream across the knuckles of both hands and wrapped them up in the last of my gauze.

  I looked down into the sink and saw it was stained by my blood, then looked at my reflection in the mirror. What the hell was I doing, and how long would I be able to do this? I had spent three nights prowling across the rooftops, brawling with the Syndicate all over the Mulberry Estate, being smashed through windows, hit with bricks and poles, stabbed, cut, punched, kicked, and headbutted. One of them had even bitten me. Sure, I was dealing out just as much damage as I was receiving, but the difference was there seemed to be hundreds of them and just one of me.

  I didn't know how many more fights I had in me, but every night I went back out, there was still fresh meat. There seemed to be an endless supply of thugs. But then I also remembered, with a slight flicker of a grin, that they were growing more afraid. They weren't drinking, smoking, and laughing anymore. They weren’t hanging around terrorizing members of the public anymore. They were quiet, paranoid, stinking of fear and anxiety. They huddled together in little groups, watching everywhere, checking out the rooftops and the shadows, just waiting for me to appear and beat the shit out of them. That was something, at least. Now they knew how we felt when they terrorized the estate. That was something, I said to myself as I looked at my ruined hand.

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  And that was worth it.

  I limped into the hallway, leaning heavily on the old peeling, cream coloured wallpaper and into the living room. The curtains were perennially closed and the room was gloomy and had the feeling of a place still in mourning. I stopped on my way to the kitchen and glanced at Grandad’s photo, before turning away and quickly limped away. I didn’t want him to see me like this.

  After eating some rather unsatisfying instant noodles, I shuffled back into my room and grabbed the bag of golden trinkets the Pigeon King had given me. I had yet to touch it, but I was in desperate need of supplies, food, medicine, and some painkillers. I didn't want to spend any of the drug money, so I thought the bribe money might make me feel slightly less scummy. I didn't take it all with me because walking around the Mulberry Estate, even in daylight with a bag jingling and jangling, would attract the wrong kind of attention. So I took a few handfuls, packed them into my bag, and then stuffed the plastic bag full of drug money in as well. I attached my WristPod to my wrist, pulled on a fresh jumper and an unbloodied coat, and then limped out of my flat.

  The first thing I wanted to do was get rid of all this cash. Just having it on me made me feel paranoid and guilty. Well, I suppose I was guilty of dozens of assaults and robberies, but even so, getting rid of the cash was the most important thing. At first, I thought about keeping some of it and spending it, but my Grandad always told me that drug money was dirty money, and that anything bought with it would bring no good. I felt like I would become a thief if I took the money and spent it on myself. This way, at least, I could convince myself I was some sort of messed-up, gutter-trash Robin Hood.

  I made a beeline for the local homeless shelter. A lot of these homeless people were drug addicts and victims of the Syndicate and the drug game, so giving their money back to them felt like the right thing to do. It felt like justice, in a way. I limped towards the homeless shelter, keeping my head down and my hood firmly pulled up. The estate wasn't as busy as usual; the last few nights of chaos had kept people inside or away, and they were only coming out for the most necessary reasons. Even now, I could still see the Syndicate thugs hanging around. Even in the daylight they looked twitchy and skittish. An atmosphere of fear stank on the estate like the urine drenched alleyways.

  I tightened my backpack straps and quickened my step. I might be the fiend of the night, but in the daytime, I was just little old Alex, and I didn't want to be out here longer than I needed to be, especially with a backpack full of stolen money and jewels. As I reached the homeless shelter, I realized that walking in with a plastic bag full of filthy money would probably raise some eyebrows. The last thing I needed now was to get my name associated with anything suspicious, even if it was for a good cause.

  As I stood outside, wondering how I could get rid of this money, a familiar voice called my name.

  "Alex!" I turned around, and there was Marilyn. She was looking like her lively old self again, all bright smiles and glittering eyes.

  "Oh hi, Marilyn," I mumbled, unconsciously tucking the bag behind my back. "What are you doing here?"

  "Volunteering," Marilyn said. "With what happened to Mark's shop, it's been tough to find another job on such short notice, so I've just been helping out, trying to keep myself useful. You did hear about Mark, right?”

  I nodded my head and looked down at the ground.

  "It had to be those thugs," she said, her voice dropping as she looked around. "They did it for revenge, you know."

  "Why?" I asked, looking up. "Mark didn't do anything.”

  "No, but… I don't know," Marilyn said. "It was just a bit coincidental that those thugs came and threatened Mark, and then that night they got beaten up and arrested. People think that Mark snitched to the police."

  "Mark wouldn't do that," I said quickly.

  "I know. But you and I know Mark; other people don't. I'm guessing those thugs came back to teach him a lesson. That's why they burnt down his shop.”

  ‘Because of me,’ I thought, my face dropping.

  "It's not all bad though," Marilyn said. "The insurance should pay out for the fire damage, and Mark says that he and his missus are gonna retire somewhere and get out of the estate. So, you know, I'm happy for him." Marilyn gave me a small smile. "But that doesn't help pay the bills, unfortunately. I’m on the Corps waiting list, so I might be able to get some day work in the factories, but everyone’s trying there. Mum’s social credits are still coming in though, so we’re making ends meet. Have you managed to find anything else?”

  I shook my head.

  "I haven't even really tried, if I'm honest." I looked up, and that's when Marilyn got a look at my face from underneath my hood.

  She gasped and reached out, snatching the hood from my head.

  "Alex, what's happened to your face?”

  "Nothing," I said quickly, pulling the hood back on. "I just… I got into something… with some guys. It was stupid. It was nothing."

  "Alex, you look like you've been beaten up by several people… and more than once!" she said, trying to pull my hood down again.

  I pushed her hand away.

  "Honestly, Marilyn, I'm fine, okay? Just leave it.”

  "Alex," Marilyn said softly. “What's going on with you?”

  "Nothing's going on with me," I replied.

  "I hardly ever see you now, and every time I do you’ve got new injuries. What does your Grandad say about it?”

  "He didn't say anything," I said coldly, suddenly resenting the way Marilyn was talking down to me like I was a child. “Just stay out of it, alright? Leave me alone!”

  I spun on my heels and stormed away, anger burning my cheeks.

  "Alex!" Marilyn called after me, but I was already crossing the road. I gritted my teeth as I felt tears pricking at my eyes.

  Why had I just done that?