IT'S 9 TO 5. SORRY, 9 TO 2
Nyx headed in the opposite direction, mind already shifting gears as he went about his routine. By the time he reached the powerhouse, the morning air had grown thick with soot and heat. He signed in for the day.
"You're one hour late, Blue Eyes," the old man at the entrance grumbled, his voice raspy with age and irritation.
Tch. Like the turbines care about time, Nyx thought.
"Whatever, old man." Nyx pulled on his hard hat and gloves. "Which session am I stuck with today?"
The gatekeeper squinted down at the workers' roster, holding it so close to his face it looked like he meant to wear it as a mask.
Is he reading or praying?
Nyx sighed. "Buddy, do you need glasses or something? I don't have all day."
After several long seconds, the old man finally found what he was looking for. He lowered the sheet and turned toward Nyx.
"Operations. Coal and Ash Handling Area."
Nyx frowned. Of course. Fire, dust, and choking heat. Story of my life.
Nyx frowned. "That's what you were struggling to find?" He shook his head, flashed his ID, and walked inside.
ROYAL RUMBLE
Back at the hotel arena, the tournament thundered on. The atmosphere vibrated with anticipation as the crowd prepared for the third match. Princess Victoria was practically glowing with excitement, already reading from the card the gym manager had slipped into her hands.
MATCH THREE: MOTT THE JUGGERNAUT VS. STORM THE HAVOC.
She drew in a breath and lifted her voice.
"To my left," she announced, "with muscles like a rhino—terrifyingly handsome and lethally strong—Mott the Juggernaut!"
She turned sharply to her right.
"And to my right," she continued, her voice rising, "tall as an oak, massive pound for pound—" she screamed, "Storm the Havoc!"
Her voice rang through the arena like a clarion call.
"Combatants… BEGIN!"
Break him. Simple. Mott charged first—an avalanche of muscle and steel. THUD! THUD! His boots pounded the ground, each step a drumbeat of destruction. Storm reacted instantly, twisting aside as Mott's opening punch tore through the air. The force was monstrous—like a pair of sledgehammers colliding—gravel spraying from the impact.
Storm countered in a blur, twin short blades flashing. CLANG! Sparks burst as they struck Mott's armored forearm. The crowd erupted.
Mott caught Storm's wrist mid-swing and hoisted him into the air like a toy. Before he could slam him down, Storm twisted, kicked off Mott's shoulder, and drove a hard heel into the back of the juggernaut's head.
Mott staggered forward with a furious growl.
"Keep it clean!" Princess Victoria warned, her tone sharp as steel—yet she allowed the fight to continue.
Storm surged back in with lightning speed, blades carving silver arcs through the air. Mott blocked most of them with brute strength alone, metal ringing against metal. Then he slammed his fist into the ground.
BOOM!
A shockwave rippled across the arena floor, throwing Storm off balance. Damn—!
Mott seized him by the torso and hurled him across the ring.
The crowd gasped.
Storm skidded across the maple hardwood—but sprang back to his feet, eyes blazing. He rushed forward, leapt onto Mott's arm, and drove his knee into the juggernaut's jaw. The impact dropped the iron giant to one knee.
No—! I don't kneel.
Storm climbed up, shifting to Mott's back, raining down punch after punch until Mott crashed flat onto the floor.
Victoria raised her hand, watching intently.
Storm dismounted, spun, and delivered the final strike—a vicious spinning blow to the temple.
Mott collapsed, breathing, but finished.
Princess Victoria swept her arm through the air.
"Winner—Storm the Havoc!"
The arena exploded as she raised Storm's hand. Medical staff rushed in to haul Mott away and patch him up.
Victoria was already grinning—energized and eager—as the final quarterfinal bout was announced.
MATCH FOUR: SELENA THE HUNTRESS VS. RED THE CRIMSON
Referee: Princess Victoria
The princess was having the time of her life. This was far from royal duty, yet Crownpoint had a way of changing people. Whether in the elite towers of Upper Crownpoint or the brutal maze of Hell's Kitchen, the province carried an undeniable, intoxicating energy.
The lights dimmed.
Selena entered first—silent, poised, lethal.
Red followed, cracking his knuckles, every muscle in his body coiled with barely restrained rage. He thought to himself. Break her. Make her fear you.
Victoria finished the introductions and raised her arm.
"Begin!"
Red attacked without hesitation, charging like a battering ram. His fists swung with bone-shaking force, each miss snapping through the air like thunder. Selena slipped between them with ghostlike grace.
She ducked low, struck his ribs with a spinning palm, then vaulted over his shoulder to land behind him. Red snarled and whipped an elbow backward—Selena barely escaped.
She's hunting me, he realized.
Victoria tracked every movement, ready to step in if the violence crossed the line.
Red grabbed Selena's cloak and yanked her toward him. She used the momentum to sweep his legs, but Red twisted midair and crashed down on top of her.
WHAM!
The floor trembled.
He pinned her arm.
Selena reacted instantly—rolling her weight, snapping her knee upward, breaking his hold. She slid free and struck the side of his neck with a precise knife-hand blow. Red staggered, coughing dust.
Enraged, he charged again, slamming his shoulder into her and sending her tumbling.
Princess Victoria stepped forward, energized.
"Ladies and gentlemen! This is what I call a royal rumble—physicality meets agility!"
Selena rose, unfazed. She flipped back onto her feet and unleashed a rapid flurry of strikes, each one targeting Red's weak points. He blocked some, absorbed others, but the assault slowed him.
Block—take—push through! Red thought desperately, muscles screaming.
She leapt onto his shoulders, spun, and locked her legs around his neck.
With a sharp twist, she flipped him backward.
BOOM!
Red hit the ground hard.
Selena landed in a crouch, already moving. Red tried to rise—but her final blow, a spinning heel kick, struck clean and dropped him flat.
He didn't move.
Princess Victoria swept in immediately.
"Stop! Selena is the winner!"
She raised the Huntress's arm as the crowd erupted. Selena bowed calmly, while Red pounded the floor in frustration.
Efficiency. No excess.
The arena roared—wild, electric, alive—as the tournament surged forward and the crowd reveled in every brutal, glorious moment.
SKYLER'S GIFT SESSION
Back at Benzo's bar, a delivery truck rolled in and came to a stop right out front. Through the one-way reflective glass, Benzo caught sight of Boomer and Skyler climbing down from the truck, their faces lit with bright, irrepressible smiles. The sight stirred his curiosity. He stepped outside just as the driver hopped down as well, delivery receipt in hand.
The man offered him a pen and pointed at the paper.
"Please, sign here—and here."
Benzo complied, still distracted. Skyler was already hovering near the cargo bed, fingers itching to open it.
"What in the universe are you two up to on a warm afternoon like this?" he asked, squinting at them.
Skyler answered by throwing both hands to her waist, leaning back like a rockstar mid-performance, hips swaying as she dangled her arms. In a loud, sing-song voice, she announced,
"We went for shooooppiiing!"
The cargo doors swung open, and they immediately began offloading the truck. Box after box hit the pavement with dull thumps, piling up faster than Benzo could process. His brows crept higher with every item until he stood there utterly dumbfounded.
His eyes widened.
"How much in heaven's name did you spend?" he demanded. "And I've been meaning to ask—where did you even get this kind of money?"
Boomer cut in without missing a beat.
"Don't you worry, Pops. We've been good kids in this mad city."
They kept unloading.
Once the truck was empty, they hurried everything inside, careful not to attract attention. The bar now looked like a warehouse explosion.
Boomer gestured proudly at the stacks.
"Nyx bought everything—food, clothes, gadgets… Oh! And this."
He stretched out a thick fur coat. "He got this for you."
"Before you start thinking otherwise," Skyler added quickly, "the money came from Nyx's winnings at the den in Front Marina. We didn't do anything entirely illegal."
Boomer nodded in agreement.
"We didn't gamble ourselves. We were more like… emotional support. You know—cheerleading team."
Benzo took the coat and slipped it on, testing the fit. It settled over his shoulders perfectly. Somewhere deep inside him, pride swelled—and tangled with disappointment, colliding in a single breath.
Skyler suddenly exploded with energy. She hopped in place, feet tapping rapidly against the floor. She dragged out a sleek box and tore it open.
"YES! YES! YES!" she screamed, clutching the contents. "Finally! Come to me, pretty boots!"
She pressed the latest M17 skate boots against her face, laughing at the top of her lungs.
Boomer, consumed by immediate jealousy, began tearing through the boxes himself, rummaging frantically. His hands froze when he found what he was looking for—the G6 mech gloves. His grin burned brighter than the bar's overhead lights.
"YEAH, BABY!"
Watching the two of them, Benzo felt something in his chest ease. For the first time in a long while, peace settled over him.
WHERE'S NYX
Fromthe basement stairs, Jayce emerged, rubbing his eyes.
"What's all the ruckus? It's not even old-people beer time. How's a man supposed to get a shuteye?"
He stopped short, eyes widening as he took in the chaos of boxes and cheering.
"Where did you get all this—?" He turned slowly to Benzo.
"Are you seeing this, or is it just me?" he asked, glancing at the two knuckleheads celebrating together.
Benzo waved a hand.
"Don't worry, Jayce. It's fine. Nyx bought everything—for everyone."
Skyler plunged her hands into a large box and looked up with a grin that promised trouble.
"Guess what, Dad?"
Benzo straightened theatrically, putting on his best performance voice.
"What now, my fair lady?"
Jayce slapped his palm against his face and shook his head. You're a grown old man, for heaven's sake, he thought, watching Benzo play along like an adult entertaining a toddler.
"Tah-dah!" Skyler announced, lifting out a box and presenting it proudly.
"A beer dispenser?" Benzo asked, feigning excitement just enough not to hurt her feelings.
She chuckled.
"A draft beer dispenser—aka the KEGERATOR!"
She swooned backward, falling into the pile of gifts with a dramatic thump, still holding the dispenser tightly.
Laughter filled the room, warm and unrestrained.
Jayce finally asked, "So… where's Nyx?"
Benzo paused.
"You know what? I was just about to ask that myself before I got distracted. Where's Lord Schlemazel himself?"
Skyler hesitated.
"The thing is… we don't exactly know where he went. He just said he'd be back before sunset."
Jayce chuckled.
"What a schlemazel."
Skyler frowned.
"What's a schlemazel?"
"Someone who attracts trouble like a magnet," Jayce replied. "Always at the receiving end—just like Nyx."
Benzo clapped his hands.
"Alright, pack it up. Customers will be coming in soon."
He grabbed the beer dispenser and began installing it behind the counter, adding it to the lineup—now three dispensers strong.
Around him, the others kept unwrapping boxes and cleaning up, laughter echoing through the bar.
The air was thick with joy.
TOURNAMENT BRAWL: SEMIFINAL ONE
STORM THE HAVOC vs. SOFIA OF THE WIND TEMPLE
Sofia rolled her shoulders, metal plates sliding into place along her arms and spine with a sharp click-clack. She cracked her knuckles once, eyes never leaving Storm.
"You're fast," she said evenly. "But speed fades."
Storm grinned, twirling his twin blades in a lazy arc. Sparks danced along their edges as they cut the air.
"Good thing I don't plan on slowing down," he replied. "Hope you can keep up?"
Sofia's lips curved into a grim smile.
"Then," she said, lowering her stance, "let the fist do the talking."
Princess Victoria raised her hand.
"BEGIN!"
Sofia launched forward—not with recklessness, but with disciplined violence. Her fist smashed into the arena floor where Storm had stood a heartbeat earlier.
BOOM!
The maple boards shattered outward in a violent ring. Storm reappeared at her flank, blades flashing—CLANG!
Steel rang against reinforced armor. The strike bounced harmlessly away.
Sofia turned, unfazed.
"That all?"
She seized Storm mid-step and hurled him across the arena. He hit hard, rolled, and barely raised his guard in time as her boot came down in a crushing stomp.
CRASH!
Princess Victoria's voice cut sharply through the chaos.
"Storm versus Sofia—this is a battle of agility against raw power! Keep moving!"
Storm flipped backward just as Sofia hammered the ground again and again, each strike shaking the arena, trying to crush him beneath sheer force.
He changed tactics.
Dropping low, he slid beneath her guard, blades angling toward joints and seams in her armor. Sparks burst as metal scraped metal. Fragments flew.
Sofia roared.
She grabbed him by the collar and slammed her forehead into his face.
CRACK!
The crowd gasped as she followed with a leap, landing atop his shoulder and raining down punches—each one a hammerblow.
Storm staggered—but he did not fall.
Blood ran from his mouth as he laughed.
"Okay… that hurt."
Sofia wrapped a leg around his neck, locking in tight while continuing her barrage. Storm braced himself, arms clamping around her waist. With a guttural shout, he leapt forward and drove her straight into the hardwood floor.
BOOM!
The impact shattered sections of her armor. Sofia rolled, rising quickly, shaking her head as she struggled to regain her balance.
Storm gave her no time.
He surged forward, vaulting off her shoulder. He spun midair and drove a brutal kick straight into her face.
CRACK!
The sound of bone breaking echoed through the arena.
Sofia faltered.
Storm landed cleanly and unleashed a lightning-fast combination, ending with a full-force kick to her jaw.
Sofia dropped to one knee… then collapsed flat on her back.
Princess Victoria stepped in instantly, arm raised high.
"Winner—Storm the Havoc!"
Storm fell to one knee, chest heaving, blades slipping from his hands.
Across the arena, Selena watched in silence.
TOURNAMENT BRAWL: SEMIFINAL TWO
HARRISON KING'S BLADE vs. SELENA THE HUNTRESS
Harrison cracked his neck, a grin spreading across his face—a man who relished pain, his own and others'. His eyes locked onto Selena like a predator sizing up prey.
"You don't look like much," he sneered. "I break tougher than you for fun."
Selena met his gaze calmly.
"Then you'll enjoy losing."
Victoria with cinematic introduction and hype.
"Ladies and gents, I present to you our undisputed semifinalist—" point towards Harrison, "I present to you the one whose fist is sharper than King Arthur's blade—HARRISON!"
To left—
"I present to you the huntress that hunts in the shadows—SELENA!"
Princess Victoria didn't hesitate.
"BEGIN!"
Harrison exploded forward with terrifying force. Each punch was thrown to shatter bone. Selena moved through the assault with precise, economical motions, weaving and slipping just out of reach.
Harrison caught her arm and yanked her into a savage knee strike.
THUD!
She crashed to the ground as the crowd roared.
From the stands, her supporters shouted,
"Defend yourself, Selena! Don't let him get the best of you!"
Selena rolled just as Harrison's stomp cratered the floor where her head had been.
CRASH!
She sprang up and struck—palm to the throat, elbow to the ribs, heel to the knee.
Harrison snarled and slammed her into a nearby pillar.
"I said I'd break you!"
He lifted her and smashed her into the ground.
SLAM!
He lifted her again—
Selena twisted midair, locking her legs around his neck. Just like Sofia before her, she rained punches downward, then used her core strength to flip him forward.
BANG!
Harrison hit the ground hard—but he grabbed her on the way down, dragging her with him.
They grappled viciously, trading short, brutal strikes at point-blank range.
Harrison forced her down and pinned her.
"Stay down."
Punch. Punch. Punch.
Selena's eyes were ice-cold.
"No."
She smashed her forehead into his face, broke free, and retreated just long enough to reset her stance.
Harrison charged again.
That was his mistake.
Selena stepped inside his swing, spun, and delivered a devastating heel kick to his jaw.
CRACK!
Her hands locked together as she leapt and drove a crushing elbow down.
SLAM—BANG!
Harrison collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the ground. Selena flowed seamlessly into a submission hold, cutting off his air until all resistance vanished.
Silence.
Then—
An eruption of cheers tore through the arena. Princess Victoria raised her hand sharply.
"Winner—Selena the Huntress!"
She turned to the roaring crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen, securing her place in the final—SELENA!"
The stage was set.
Storm the Havoc.
Selena the Huntress.
Havoc versus Huntress.
The arena trembled with anticipation. Who would emerge as the undisputed champion?
BETTINA AND NYX
It was 2:30 p.m., and shift at the powerhouse finally ended. Machines powered down, lockers clanged shut, workers packed up their tools and belongings, preparing to hand over to the next crew.. Nyx scrubbed the oil and sweat from his hands, exhaustion clinging to him like an extra layer of skin. All he wanted was his paycheck—and a long, uninterrupted nap.
He stepped up to the cashier's booth and rapped his knuckles against the glass.
Tap. Tap.
The clerk spun around in her chair. Bettina—early twenties, who had long harbored a crush on him, bright-eyed, and far too energetic for this hour—rolled forward with his check in hand. She smiled but didn't pass it through the slot.
Instead, she tilted her head.
"Don't I look beautiful enough?" she asked, disappointment lacing her voice. "You keep dodging me at every given opportunity, Blue Eyes."
Nyx exhaled slowly. His shoulders sagged, his tone barely holding together.
"Please, not today, Bettina. I can collapse any moment now."
She groaned and leaned closer to the glass.
"Then when, Blue Eyes? Do you have a girlfriend already?" Her eyes shimmered, threatening tears.
He hesitated—then surrendered. Ending this quickly was worth the cost.
"Alright, Bettina," he said. "The day after tomorrow. Meet me at Moonbucks. Coffee. Will that suffice?"
Her brow creased.Her expression brightened suspiciously. "How do I know this isn't just another one of your promise tricks, Blue Eyes?"
"I promise it's not," he assured her. "If I don't show up, my next paycheck is yours."
That did it.Her face lit up instantly—cheeks flushed pink, energy bursting through her fatigue. She slid the check toward him.
"Blue Eyes," she said softly, "do you promise?"
"I do," he replied, taking the check. "And it's Nyx. Not Blue Eyes."
He turned and left before she could protest.
ANOTHER RAT RACE
As he emerged onto Main Street—a bustling thoroughfare teeming with activity—Nyx couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that he was being followed. He quickened his pace; the shadows behind him matched it exactly. Glancing around, he noted the scarcity of high-rise buildings that might offer cover. His best option was the narrow alleyway ahead.
He veered sharply into the alley, and his pursuers followed without hesitation. What began as a brisk jog escalated into a full sprint. He rounded another corner—and suddenly, from out of nowhere, a massive garbage can, twice the size of a beach cooler, came hurtling toward them. A few henchmen dodged it nimbly, but those just emerging from the turn were struck squarely—WHAM!
Metal slammed into flesh and pavement. Bodies went down in a heap.
The impact took several pursuers out of the chase. Luck favored him for half a second more. A cook stepped out of a back door, hauling a trash bag.
He slipped past the man and darted inside, bursting into the bustling kitchen at full speed. His followers charged in after him.
Pans clattered and cooks yelled in chaos as frying pans flared with flames, knives gleamed under the lights, and grease popped and sizzled in the air. The kitchen reeked of hot oil and charred spices. Nyx ducked low, sliding across the slick tiled floor as a heavy pot sailed inches over his head.
Pans clanged. Flames leapt. Oil hissed and popped. Knives flashed as cooks shouted over one another.
"Hey—watch it!"
"What the hell—!"
"Get outta the way!"
Others cursed loudly amid the pandemonium.
He grabbed a rolling prep table and shoved it behind him just as the first pursuer burst through the door.
BAM!
The table slammed into the man's knees. He crashed down, taking another with him. Nyx vaulted onto a counter, kicked off a hanging rack of ladles—CLANG! CLANG!—and shoved over storage racks. Boxes and metal frames toppled, buying him seconds.
That was all he needed.
He exploded through a gap in the fence and stumbled directly into the roaring traffic of the main road.
Traffic screamed.
Horns blared as vehicles swerved. An armored craftbus missed him by mere inches, its driver leaning on the horn in fury as the massive vehicle fishtailed past. Without pausing, Nyx sprinted toward an oncoming craftbus, leaped onto its rear bumper, and scrambled up to the roof.
Passersby shouted—some in anger, others in terror—though many seemed jaded, accustomed to such chaos.
A few pursuers weren't so lucky; they burst onto the road and were struck by passing vehicles.
The survivors who escaped unharmed quickly radioed their colleagues, relaying coordinates and the craftbus's direction to continue the hunt.
The city didn't forget that easily.
As the vehicle approached a pedestrian overpass, Nyx steadied himself against the wind. Timing his move perfectly, he leaped, grasping the bridge's frame firmly as traffic thundered beneath him. With a surge of strength, he pulled himself up, climbed over the railing, and vanished into the crowd on the other side.
FINAL BLOCKBUSTER
Back at the tournament grounds, the arena lights blazed with white-hot intensity, casting stark shadows across the hardwood maple floor. The crowd had abandoned individual chants, merging into a single, thunderous roar—a primal demand for violence that echoed off the high walls.
Storm positioned himself at one end of the arena, his brass knuckles lowered but humming with pent-up energy, ready to unleash devastation. Opposite him, Selena crouched low, balanced and composed, every line of her body coiled with lethal intent.
Princess Victoria stepped forward, placing herself between the two combatants. Her voice rang out like forged iron, commanding and absolute.
"This is the final," she declared. "There will be no warnings. No pauses. No mercy."
She fixed her gaze on each fighter in turn, her eyes piercing and unyielding.
"Fight… until one cannot."
With those words, she retreated to the sidelines.
"BEGIN!"
The combatants collided like opposing tempests, the force of their impact reverberating through the arena. Steel screamed as Storm's brass knuckles clashed against Selena's defensive guard. In a fluid motion, she slipped inside his reach in the same heartbeat, her elbow flashing toward his throat. Storm twisted just in time, the strike grazing past lethal range as he drove his knee into her ribs—THUD!
Selena staggered back two steps, breath forced from her lungs, but Storm granted her no respite. He pressed forward in a whirlwind of motion—slashes, spins, and unrelenting pressure that blurred the line between attack and fury.
Yet Selena moved like smoke, evading by mere inches, her counters landing with razor precision on nerves and joints. Each blow connected cleanly, inflicting sharp pain.
"You're slowing," she said calmly, ducking a heavy swing and sweeping his legs out from under him.
Storm hit the ground—WHAM!—rolled, and sprang back to his feet in one fluid motion.
"Funny," he growled, "I was about to say the same."
They charged again.
The collision sent both fighters skidding across the maple, boots carving furrows as the shockwave rippled outward.
From the arena's edge, Princess Victoria paced watchful and alert, her cloak snapping in the gusts of debris that flew perilously close. She made no move to intervene. This was permitted. This was the final.
Selena sprinted, vaulted off the frame-mounted wall, and spun midair—her heel arcing down in a perfect line. CRACK! The kick caught Storm square in the jaw, launching him into a pillar with a thunderous crash.
The crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers and gasps.
Selena advanced with predatory grace.
"Stay down," she said. "You've earned it."
Storm responded with a malicious laugh—a raw, defiant sound that cut through the din. He pushed himself upright, blood trickling from his chin, his eyes ablaze with unquenched fire.
"No," he said hoarsely. "I didn't come this far to bend the knee."
He surged forward, pouring everything he had left into the charge.
With a surge of raw determination, he launched forward, channeling every ounce of his remaining strength. His brass knuckles blurred faster than the eye could follow, driving Selena back step by step. One strike pierced her defenses, tearing across her shoulder. She hissed in pain but refused to falter.
She countered with force—driving her palm into his chest, flipping him cleanly over her hip, and slamming him into the ground—BOOM!
But she didn't stop there. Mounting him in an instant, she unleashed a barrage of strikes—fast, brutal, and unerringly precise.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The arena trembled with the impact of each blow.
Princess Victoria leaned forward from her vantage point, poised and ready to act if needed.
In a desperate twist, Storm trapped Selena's arm, rolling them both over in a tangle of limbs. He delivered a savage headbutt—CRACK! Then he kicked free and staggered to his feet, breathing heavily, blood and debris clinging to him as the final moments loomed.
HOT RUNNER
A few minutes later, Nyx glanced over his shoulder and saw that his pursuers still hadn't given up. Time to lose them for good.
Luck—or habit—favored him. The infamous Undercity shantytown sprawled directly ahead, its crowded carnival chaos swallowing everything that dared enter. From above, it looked like a wound that refused to heal.
Corrugated iron roofs overlapped at crooked angles, patched with tarps, faded election banners, and old ration sacks. The whole district felt like the back door to broken promises and forgotten dreams. Buildings leaned against one another for support, stacked upward rather than outward, as if space itself had become a luxury no one could afford. Overhead, power cables sagged in black tangles, sparking faintly in the misty dusk.
The chasers plunged in after him without hesitation. But Nyx had been born and raised in the Undercity; its maze was etched into his memory. He darted through narrow passages as the ground shifted beneath his feet—packed dirt giving way to broken tiles, then open gutters slick with oil and rainwater.
"Don't lose him!" one of the chasers shouted.
"Where is he?!"
"Two o'clock—shaky building to the left!"
Smoke billowed from half-open windows, thick with the scents of spice and burning plastic. Nyx burst through a hanging curtain into a cramped one-room shack. A woman screamed. A pot clattered to the floor. Something hissed on a burner.
Behind him, one of the chasers fired a ballistic electric rod. Nyx ducked, kicked open the back door, and emerged onto a narrow catwalk suspended three stories above an alley choked with refuse.
A sharp thwip—CRACK! split the air. Ballistic electric rods fired.
More rods whizzed past, missing him by inches as he sprinted along the swaying metal.
"Chargers? For bloody's sake!" Nyx yelled over his shoulder. "You guys brought chargers? What happened to non-lethal force?!"
He leapt, caught a clothesline strung with damp shirts, tore through fabric, and slammed onto a neighboring roof. Two of the chasers followed blindly—and missed their footing. Their screams cut short as they dropped several stories down.
Nyx slid down a rusted fire escape, vaulted a fence, and landed in a vast scrapyard warehouse: a graveyard of prosthetic limbs, machine parts, and dead service vehicles.
Grrr!
Three massive security guard dogs stood between him and the exit, muscles coiled, teeth bared. They growled with ferocity.
Nyx didn't spare them a second glance—escape was all that mattered.
He bolted. The dogs gave chase, pounding after him.
Unwittingly, a few of the remaining pursuers vaulted the fence behind him and joined the frenzy. Two dogs peeled off to savage the newcomers, while the third locked onto Nyx.
He sprinted ahead, launched himself upward, seized a dangling chain like a vine, and swung onto a towering pile of scrap. The dog followed undeterred, claws scraping as it climbed.
Behind him, shouts and snarls collided as some of the chasers struggled with the remaining dogs. The rest pressed on.
Nyx barked out a laugh of pure frustration.
"Where do you guys keep popping out from?" he shouted. "How many are you, for hell's sake?!"
He snatched a broken automobile actuator from the pile and hurled it. THUD! The heavy metal struck one man's visor with a dull crack, spiderwebbing the glass.
Nyx yanked down a loose chain.
BOOOOM!
An avalanche of scrap thundered to the ground. Metal screamed against metal. The pursuers scattered, and the dog yelped, retreating in fear.
Nyx didn't look back, nor did he pause to survey the chaos.
He burst through a gap in the fence and straight into traffic. Armored transports, civilian carts, and scavenger bikes surged past in chaotic waves.
Without slowing, he vaulted the railing and landed on the roof of a moving bus, nearly slipping before clutching an antenna for balance.
The vehicle's speed quickly outpaced the remaining chasers on foot.
"Second free ride for the day," he muttered, breathless but relieved.
Ahead loomed a footbridge—and beyond it, the famous electronics black market. Perfect timing. Perfect cover.
As the bus rolled beneath the bridge, Nyx climbed, hauling himself up while onlookers stared in awe. The moment his boots hit solid ground, he vanished into the crowd. A quick theft—a hat, a medical face mask—and a sharp turn into an alley erased what little familiarity remained. Still wearing the same clothes, he knew the ground was no longer an advantage.
Up was better.
He spotted a drainage pipe and scaled it to the rooftops. Once up, he ran low, shoulders hunched, weaving between satellite dishes and water barrels. Gathering speed, he leapt—caught another clothesline, ripped through fabric, and slammed onto the next roof. Tin screamed under his boots.
Without hesitation. At full speed, he jumped—
—and froze mid-air.
A man stood exactly where he was about to land.
Why is this asshole planted right there? Nyx thought in the split second before impact. Does he know I'm mid-air and about to crash into him if he doesn't move?
The man smiled. A malicious smile curling his lips.
With deliberate calm, he leaned forward like an Olympic athlete, taking a perfect stance. He raised one arm as if winding up to throw a baseball. Electricity surged across his skin, crawling violently over his muscles.
Too late.
Nyx couldn't change his trajectory. He flew straight into the waiting grip.
The man seized him by the face mid-air and released a controlled electric shock—precise, devastating. Not enough to kill.
Enough to end everything.
Nyx's body went rigid; the world spun.
CRASH!
He hurled him onto the rooftop, consciousness dissolving into darkness.
"Night, night, roof monkey," the man whispered as the world went black.