Beulla's hands clenched into fists as she stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the LED strips above, the sound echoed through the corridor like a gunshot.

Alistair pulled out a cigarette, the soft click of his lighter cutting through the tension, blue smoke curled around his face as he exhaled. "That was a low blow, even for a brat like you."

Guilt twisted in Zatrice's stomach, He took a step toward the door, but Alistair was already moving past him to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets with casual disregard for privacy.

"You'll only make things worse," Alistair called out, pulling open the refrigerator. "Give her space to—" He found a bottle of cola. "Well, that'll suffice."

Yet Zatrice was already gone, sprinting down the corridor. "Beulla!" he shouted, watching the elevator doors start to close, His sister stood inside, intentionally looking anywhere but at him.

The speed level is 150%

Chrome-enhanced muscles tensed, and Zatrice launched forward, he slipped through the closing doors with milliseconds to spare, a smug grin spreading across his face as Beulla blinked in surprise.

She smacked her palm against her forehead. "Could you please just leave me alone?"

"No." Zatrice's smugness faded to something more vulnerable. "I'm sorry, sis. I didn't mean what I said up there. You're... you're all I got left."

The elevator hummed softly as it descended, lights flickering across their faces, Beulla's shoulders slumped.

"Do you know how many times I've had to imagine burying you?" Her voice cracked. "Every time you go out there with your chrome and your attitude, I wonder if there will be a day I will really bury you."

"None." Zatrice stepped closer. "You won't have to bury me, sis. I promise."

"You can't promise that." But her voice was softer now as they reached the street level, the neon signs cast their faces in alternating colors as they stepped out.

"So," Beulla said after a moment, "the red-haired guy in our apartment?"

"The merc, the one Doc mentioned in her contract to you."

"Alistair?" When Zatrice nodded, she continued, "Does he have any medicine?"

"Yeah. Saved my life today, actually." Zatrice rubbed his neck where the injectors had gone in.

Beulla sighed, turning back toward the apartment building, "alright, let's head back, we both need sleep, I've got work tomorrow, and you've got school."

"School?" Zatrice's eyes widened, "after everything that just—"

Beulla's hand shot out, grabbing his ear surprisingly quickly, "yes, you'll be going to school."

"Ow! Okay, okay!"

The elevator ride back up was quieter, but lighter somehow. As they approached their door, Zatrice glanced at his sister. "You know I love you, right?"

"Shut up and get inside, you idiot." But she was smiling as she said it.

The LEDs above them buzzed, casting their familiar, flickering light across the corridor as they returned home.

They stepped into the apartment to find Alistair sprawled shirtless on their couch, cola in one hand and a half-burned cigarette in the other. Without looking at them, he snatched up the remote and clicked on the TV.

Beulla cleared her throat pointedly.

"Shut up, I'm listening to the news," Alistair muttered, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Excuse me?" Beulla's voice rose indignantly.

"Shhhhh!" Alistair waved his cola hand at her impatiently.

The newscast filled their small living room: "—67 bodies were found at the edge of Runner City's junkyard. Evidence suggests this could be the work of an individual suffering from cyber fever, according to RNCD officials—"

The feed cut to a press conference. Mayor Nero stood at a podium, his augmented eyes gleaming under the camera lights. "The impact of cyber fever sufferers on Runner City is twofold," he declared, adjusting his pristine suit. "First, we have the criminals, but second—and more concerning—are the innocent citizens at risk. This is why I've allocated additional funding to the RNCD, including the formation of a new specialized unit: the X-Soldiers. Their sole purpose will be to neutralize cyber fever cases before they become threats to our society."

Alistair's laugh was dry and harsh. He turned to Zatrice, cola bottle dangling between his fingers. "Congratulations, kid. You've managed to change more about this city in one day than anyone has in twenty years."

Zatrice gulped audibly. Beulla's concerned gaze darted between her brother and the TV, where footage showed armored vehicles with the "X-Soldiers" insignia rolling through city streets.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Alistair clicked off the TV and stood, stretching. "Better keep that chrome of yours inactive for a while, unless you want to make the evening news again." He wandered into Zatrice's room, collapsing onto the bed. A moment later, a blanket sailed through the doorway, landing in a heap on the floor. "G'night, kid."

Through the open door, they could hear him mumble something that sounded suspiciously like "What a fucking day" before soft snoring filled the room.

— — — — – — — —

"Get up!"

The voice cut through layers of sleep, Zatrice's purple eyes flickered open, adjusting to the dim light filtering through dirty windows.

His back ached from the lumpy couch - all springs and torn fabric that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and Alistair's cheap cologne.

Steam rose from plates on the kitchen table, the clock's red digits cut through the morning gloom: 7:00 AM. Each number pulsed.

Beulla stood in the kitchen doorway, her work uniform already on, pink hair pulled back tight. Dark circles under her eyes suggested another sleepless night. "Go wash your face," she said, softer this time.

The bathroom mirror was cracked, splitting Zatrice's reflection into broken pieces, cold water shocked his system - real water, not the recycled stuff from his sewer days.

He let it run over his hands, watching drops slide off his body.

Back in the kitchen, eggs steamed on a chipped plate. Real eggs, the milk was fresh too

Beulla set three items beside his plate with careful precision: a crisp academy uniform, still creased from the packaging; a data chip that caught the morning light; and 100 leuros code written on a note.

Beulla's lips pressed against his forehead, leaving a ghost of warmth. "Be good," she whispered, then slipped out the door, the lock clicked behind with a thud.

Zatrice stared at the uniform.

The academy's crest gleamed on the breast pocket - a phoenix rising from industrial ruins.

"Nah this shit is lame." The fabric made a satisfying whoosh as he pushed it aside, reaching instead for his red leather jacket.

“Now, now we talking…”

The familiar weight settled on his shoulders like armor, worn smooth at the elbows,The data chip disappearing into his pocket.

He went to the bedroom door creaking it open, Alistair sprawled across Zatrice's bed, one arm dangling toward the floor, red hair spread across the pillow.

Zatrice's boot connected with the bed frame, metal rang against metal.

"Hey. Wake up, she left you got a job to do."

Alistair's face burrowed deeper into the pillow. "Go away."

The words came muffled, heavy with sleep.

"I'm taking the keys." Zatrice jingled them for emphasis. "Lock up if you leave, lots of thieves here."

Yeah, yeah," Alistair waved his hand lazily.

Zatrice closed the door behind him, the hallway lights still flickered, making shadows dance on the metal walls, His Jordans made soft clicks against the grating as he walked.

The elevator was broken again.

A sign hung crooked on its doors: "OUT OF ORDER - USE STAIRS."

"Great," Zatrice muttered.

He pushed open the heavy door to the stairwell, the descent began - forty floors down. His footsteps echoed in the concrete shaft.

Every few floors, he passed something different:

Floor 35: A sleeping homeless man curled around a portable heater.

Floor 30: Kids smoking cigarettes who scattered when they saw him.

Floor 25: A woman giving hands job to multiple men at once.

Floor 20: Graffiti that read "LOVE = GRAVE" in glowing paint.

Floor 15: A couple arguing behind a thin door.

Floor 10: More broken lights.

Floor 5: The sound of a baby crying.

Ground floor smelled like garbage and cheap air freshener, The lobby's security guard dozed in his chair, neural feed cable still plugged into his neck.

Zatrice pushed through the building's front doors. Morning hit him hard - the noise, the smell, the light.

Runner City bared its teeth.

The morning sun caught the edges of skyscrapers, but the streets stayed dark, Neon signs fought the dawn, refusing to sleep.

Street vendors called out prices for coffee and bread, chrome-heads and corp workers brushed shoulders, neither looking at the other.

The metro station swallowed him whole, underground, the air grew thick with sweat and machine oil.

The train rattled and swayed, packed tight with bodies.

A woman in corp clothes saw his chrome eyes and shifted away, Zatrice watched his reflection in the dirty window instead.

Academy towers cut into the sky ahead, principal Voss stood guard at the entrance, his robot eye whirring like an angry insect, the chrome implant caught the light as he turned.

"Mr. Jarstar—"

Zatrice held up the data chip without breaking stride. "I paid, move."

Voss's smile didn't reach his natural eye. "Welcome back then."

The great white halls were bustling with little corpo rats all unified by the uniform of the academy, by the lockers, Drake and his crew waited like hungry dogs.

Same faces that used to mock the sewer smell on Zatrice's clothes.

"Look who's back!" Drake's voice bounced off metal lockers. "The slum rat!"

Zatrice felt the smile spread across his face, mean and sharp. "How's your dad enjoying his new job? Licking corpos dick for leuros must pay good."

Red crept up Drake's neck. "After school. Six PM. Behind the building."

“Bet, I'll be there”

History class hummed with VR systems, everyone wore their glasses like good little students, drinking in the official story.

The AI's voice floated through the room, empty of life.

"Runner City used to be called New Alexandria. Then the nuclear wars came in 2089, The Shimura Corporation cleaned up the radiation..."

"This is stupid." Zatrice yanked off his glasses. The lesson chip came next, pulled from his temple with a soft click.

The room erupted. Bodies jerked in seats as electricity danced through neural feeds. Screens died one by one. In the sudden darkness, Zatrice's chrome eyes adjusted first. Twenty faces turned toward him, frozen in shock.

The AI's voice stuttered and died: "Error. Class over. Please leave—"