The bike's grav-coils whined as they cut through back alleys, each turn revealing fresh graffiti warnings about the magic boy's territory.

Zatrice's new eyes automatically decoded gang signs, threat assessment protocols he hadn't asked for kicking in.

Chance of getting robbed:80 percent

"Three blocks ahead," Beulla shouted over the wind. "Dump it there."

"You sure? Could be useful-"

“Could be tagged, they'll track it."

He banked into a narrow service corridor, ancient drainage pipes dripping condensation from above, the bike settled onto cracked concrete with a soft hiss.

"Key," Beulla demanded, palm out.

Zatrice hesitated, then pocketed it. "Insurance, Just till we're straight."

"Nothing's ever straight with you." She pushed past him, boots splashing through oil puddles.

Their building rose like a statue, thirty floors of patchwork repairs and jury-rigged power lines.

Inside, the elevator rattled upward.

"Listen," Beulla started.

"Don't."

"You need to understand-"

"That you're doing this for us?" His eyes cast purple shadows across her face, "that's what Mom used to say too… Right before-"

The elevator shuddered to a halt. Beulla's hand trembled as she pressed her palm to the lock, their apartment door sliding open with a wheeze.

Inside Beulla disappeared into her room, emerging minutes later in black slick drees, her previous outfit stuffed into a hidden panel.

"School tomorrow," she said, fingers dancing across a datapad. "Your ID's updated with the new biometrics, don't cause trouble."

"The premium client," Zatrice pressed. "Who are they?"

"Drop it."

"You saw what happened at the clinic, what this chrome can do." He flexed his new fingers, "you think I can't protect-"

"Protect?" She laughed, harsh and hollow. "Like you protected me from the punks? Like you put the chip inside your skull, or like you made me soak in dept-"

"That wasn't-"

"Exactly, You don't know what it was, What any of it was, you are a teenager zatrice act like it." She tossed the pad onto their scarred table. "And oh for god sake Stay inside."

Zatrice retreated to his room, School feeds crowded his vision, homework, social hierarchies, and corporate recruitment protocols, he dismissed them all, arm brushing against the stolen key.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Through the thin walls, he heard Beulla's door close, her heels clicked across the floor, followed by the apartment door sliding shut.

“I need to piss, and eat something” he thought to himself as he rose from the bed to the bathroom, he opened the door, the mirror reflection taking his watch.

The bathroom mirror revealed his transformation - purple eyes tracking movement, fresh scars mapping the doc's handiwork, as he turned to leave, something caught his attention, a black card wedged behind the ancient sink.

"Neural playback," he subvocalized. "Clinic sequence."

His chrome responded, projecting memories across his vision, past the violence, past the surgery, to the doc's words: "Alistair stocks it. Premium grade. Protection specialist with a conscience..."

A single line of text shifted colors: "Solutions for corporate complications."

"Time to find out who's using ya, sis." He pocketed the card. "And what it cost us both."

Outside, rain began to fall, droplets heavy making noises as they hit the parking car's roof, The rain pelted against Zatrice's chrome, each drop registering as a tiny electrical signature.

He pulled his red hoodie tighter, the fabric already soaked through, the neon signs of the café ahead promised warmth, their reflections fracturing in Zatrice’s eyes.

Inside, the air was thick with coffee vapours, A waitress, her eyes glowing a soft amber, regarded him with practised disinterest.

"Need the house phone," Zatrice said, water dripping from his sleeve onto the counter.

The waitress's fingers drummed against the surface. "Three leuros. Dead phone excuse?"

"That obvious?"

"Honey, I've heard them all." She held out her hand. "Three leuros first."

Zatrice slapped the credits down. "Deal. And..." he paused, "chocolate milk."

"Fancy tastes for a guy from Naraska," she muttered, sliding the holo-phone across the counter.

His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out the black card, its worn edges catching the light, the number connected with a click, but only silence answered.

"Alistair?" Zatrice's voice came out smaller than he intended, yet, no response, "heard you're the guy for... services."

A voice, flat and raspy: "Junk port, 2 AM." The line went dead.

"What a grade-A jerk," Zatrice muttered, just as the waitress returned with his drink.

"Phone done?" she asked, reaching for it.

Before he could answer, a woman in a latex dress and a pink short skirt slid onto the stool beside him, her blue hair caught the purple light, black eyes shimmered with lust. "Cold night for a solo drink, handsome, Need some warmth?"

"No leuros for whatever you're selling," Zatrice growled. "Move on."

She leaned closer, her scent a mix of cheap jasmine and cigarettes. "Buy a girl a drink? Weather's brutal out there."

"Nah uh." Zatrice grabbed his chocolate milk. "Fuck off." He tilted the glass, letting a few drops spill near her expensive skirt.

The woman retreated, cursing in three languages, her heel augments clicking against the floor, Zatrice downed his drink in one go, chrome throat adjusting to the temperature.

"1 leuros," he said, standing.

The waitress's eyes narrowed. "That's eight short-"

But Zatrice was already moving, his new legs carrying him through the door faster than her security system could respond.

Her cursing followed him into the rain: "Fucking brat!"

As he reached the dark alley he clicked the keys, the bike moved toward him.

Buzzing to life as he rode it, anti-grav coils dispersing the puddles, His enhanced vision painted threat overlays on the road ahead as he wove through the industrial district.

The junkyard emerged from the gloom, a mountain range of discarded chrome and broken parts.

A cottage squatted at its heart, surrounded by an artificial lake of suspicious chemicals, his new eyes scanned for movement, picking up nothing but waste heat signatures from rusting machinery.

Three steps toward the cottage, That's all he managed.

A hand, faster than his enhanced reflexes could track, slammed him face-first into the mud, a weight pressed against his spine, fingers digging into his neck.

"Who are you?" A voice like a grumpy soldier.

Zatrice tried to turn his head, to glimpse his attacker but an answering slap sent his vision spinning, forcing his face deeper into the muck.