Junk Town is a gathering place located just outside the gates of Hlteraz City, a haven where society’s so-called “trash” congregates.

Because of the city guards stationed at the gates, this area—though essentially a lawless dump—still maintains a loose form of order under the threat of absolute force. After all, the guards won’t let anyone die right in front of them.

That’s why some shady or legitimate business transactions can still be found here.

Toria steps inside, scanning the makeshift shacks attached to these metal frames.

She hasn’t been here for quite a while, but it doesn’t seem to have changed much.

The air reeks of motor oil and rust, mixed with faint hints of blood. Market stalls crowd both sides of the narrow street, leaving barely any space to move. She wrinkles her brow as she navigates the narrow walkway.

She hasn’t brought her shotgun, only a small pistol. Carrying a big firearm would attract unwanted attention and be inconvenient for what she needs to do.

Passing by a stall selling synthetic food, she uses the moment when the vendor is haggling with a customer to reach out lightning fast with her slim fingers—two neatly packaged synthetic protein bars are gone in an instant, slipped into her pocket.

Of course, she’s here for more than just stealing a couple of food packs.

A crooked sign reading “Coleman Prosthetics” hangs in front of a shack made of sheet metal. Toria stops and narrows her eyes at the broken prosthetics displayed outside the entrance.

The metal shells of those prosthetics are covered with rust and dark splotches of dried blood. She presses her lips together, then pushes open the creaking metal door that grinds unpleasantly on its hinges.

Straightening her back, she tries to appear more confident. “I need leg prosthetics and a voice unit. Name your price.”

The shopkeeper at the counter raises his head slowly. His face is covered in crisscrossed scars, and his left eye has been replaced by a prosthetic that glows red.

He narrows his one good eye, his gaze sweeping over Toria like he’s evaluating a piece of merchandise.

“Where’d this stinking brat come from?” he growls, revealing a row of golden false teeth. “A complete set of leg prosthetics will run you fifty thousand Kyla. The voice unit is fifteen thousand. You couldn’t afford it even if I sold you off!”

Toria’s throat bobs slightly and her expression darkens. She instinctively steps back half a pace, a glint of murderous intent flashing in her eyes.

In her world, if money can’t solve a problem, a gun can. And when staring down a gun barrel, anyone will “agree” to her proposition.

With that in mind, her right hand inches toward the holster at her waist.

Just then, a tremor rumbles through the floor.

Heavy footsteps approach from outside. A member of the Rust Gang, covered head to toe in prosthetic limbs, swaggers into the shop. His metal feet thud dully against the floor with every step.

The biggest one has to stoop to get through the doorway, the joints in his metal neck screeching horribly. The fresh red rust emblem painted on his mechanical arm stands out vividly in the dimly lit store.

Toria’s entire body goes taut, muscles quivering under her worn-out clothes.

Her hand immediately slides away from the pistol, and her eyes flick from the floor to the exit, like a trapped little animal searching for an escape route.

After all, this is the Rust Gang. The entirety of Scrap Iron Town is their turf. If they set their sights on her, she’d be lucky to just get skinned alive.

Fortunately, the Rust Gang thugs don’t even glance her way. They head straight for the counter.

“Get lost if you don’t have the cash,” the shopkeeper barks impatiently at Toria, his metal teeth flashing in the dim light. “Don’t block my real customers, you damned junkyard brat.”

With that, he turns to greet the Rust Gang members, a fawning grin on his face.

Toria bites down hard on her lower lip, then spins and strides quickly to the door, shoulders tensed like she’s bracing for an attack from behind.

From inside comes the Rust Gang’s coarse laughter, crackling with mechanical distortions. It grates on her nerves.

She halts at the threshold and takes a deep breath. Her hand digs into her pocket, nails piercing her palm, clutching the two stolen packs of food. This approach isn’t going to work. She’ll need another method.

She narrows her eyes, the glint in them sharpening like when she spots a target scavenging in the junkyard.

But that look fades in an instant. She pretends to be nonchalant and shifts her gaze back to the goods on the shelves.

“Boss, how much stock can you give me this time?” the shopkeeper asks obsequiously. “It’s tough business these days.”

“Tch, Coleman, you’re such a piece of work…” one of the Rust Gang members snaps, his mechanical voice crackling with static. “Always whining about shortages. What happened to the last batch we gave you?”

“All sold out! You have no idea how big the demand for prosthetics has been in the city lately. Those folks in the Old Castle District all want to beef themselves up.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You’re definitely hooking up with those smugglers in the city.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” the shopkeeper replies, groveling, “I’m just afraid of offending you. Didn’t I give you all your cut from that last batch?”

“Enough. Anyway, there’s plenty in the warehouse. However much you need, write it down and pick it up tomorrow.”

“About that warehouse…” The shopkeeper rubs his hands, hesitating, “Is Chris still running the place?”

“That pack of losers does nothing but sleep, eat, drink, and fool around with women,” the Rust Gang member says with a sneer. “They even lost a shipment and didn’t notice. If the boss hadn’t realized the numbers didn’t add up, they’d still be clueless.”

Toria’s eyes light up. She knows exactly how these Rust Gang punks operate—bullies who only know how to push around the weak. Their warehouse guards are the lowest-ranking grunts, satisfied with a few packets of synthetic food, too lazy to even patrol properly.

“Alright, just bring some good booze when you come for the pickup,” the thug says, patting the shopkeeper on the shoulder. “Last time, you tried to pass off some watered-down garbage, and I’m not falling for that again. We’re out of here.”

Toria carefully memorizes every piece of information, already calculating her next move. A sudden shout shakes her out of her thoughts.

“Goddamn brat, scram!”

Toria slinks away, but her mind is on the mute doll she left behind. A bold idea begins taking shape in her head.

She touches the gun at her waist, takes a deep breath, and then slowly removes her hand from the grip.

It’s a crazy idea. If it fails, death might be the least of her worries.

But… that doll that only makes that “Hululu” sound…

Remembering those big blue eyes gazing at her with a plea so full of sorrow, Toria clenches her fist.

“Damn it, who am I kidding? I’ll go for broke. The so-called Rust Gang can’t stop Toria from doing what I want to do.”

With that, Toria slips into the shadows, following the Rust Gang’s path.

Once she’s certain they’ve gone far enough, she starts her pursuit.

She keeps a full block’s distance, drawing on the skills she’s honed in the junkyard—ambushing other scavengers and quietly following them to find the best loot. She can do it in her sleep.

Whenever the Rust Gang member senses something and looks back, Toria quickly ducks into an alley or hides behind a stall.

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His heavy mechanical footsteps echo through the streets at a steady pace. Toria doesn’t need to see him; just from the sound, she can tell exactly where he is.

Other prosthetic-equipped passersby sometimes appear, their mixed footfalls helping mask her presence.

Eventually, the streets become more open. They’ve ventured some distance from Scrap Iron Town.

Finally, the Rust Gang member halts in front of an old three-story factory building, its walls streaked with rust like dark red scars.

A tattered flag hangs from the top floor, painted with the gang’s logo in red—a skull in the shape of a gear.

From the shadows of a nearby alley, Toria peeks at the building through the corner of her eye.

Two sleepy guards lean against the front entrance, practically dozing off. Their worn-out revolvers hang from low-quality holsters. Clearly, they can’t even afford prosthetic upgrades themselves.

The Rust Gang thug strolls inside, and the guards don’t even bother looking up.

Toria’s gaze shifts up the building’s outer wall, spotting a decrepit exterior emergency staircase.

It looks dangerously unstable, but it’ll probably hold someone of her weight.

She keeps watching for a while, noting the guards’ shift-change schedule. They’re so lazy that they usually slip away at least ten minutes early.

She counts how many people come and go, figuring out roughly how many are inside. Once late night rolls around, the security will get even sloppier.

“Luck’s on my side,” she mutters, eyes on the rickety emergency stairs. “Tonight, I’ll come for the goods.”

Night’s chill wind cuts Toria’s face like a knife.

She’s been crouched behind a pile of discarded pipes for over an hour, observing the Rust Gang’s base, silently tracking the patrol routines.

Each patrol squad has four people, and they switch out every two hours.

And when they do, there’s always a gap of a few minutes.

At last, the echo of footsteps fades into the distance.

Toria darts out like a lithe panther, sprinting silently to the base of the wall.

She carefully tests the rusted metal of the emergency staircase, wincing at each tiny squeak.

Every step must be tested for weight capacity; every movement must be noiseless. The corroded metal groans faintly under her hand, sending her heart hammering.

A loud “Bang!” rings out below. Toria freezes mid-climb, pressed tight against the staircase, holding her breath.

“Who’s there?” a guard’s voice calls out.

“It’s me,” another replies. “Goddamn junk made me trip.”

“You alright? The boss said to keep an eye out—recently we’ve had some missing shipments.”

“Probably just starving scavs rummaging through our leftovers.”

Toria hears them talking below and allows herself a slight smirk. We’ll see about “leftovers.” Tonight, you’re gonna lose something big.

Once their footsteps fade again, she resumes her climb. By the time she finally reaches the top floor platform, sweat is pouring down her face.

She hides behind a stack of crates, peering around in the moonlight. The roof is crammed with all sorts of mechanical parts.

Toria pulls a small detector from her pack. A faint blue glow points her toward several crates in the corner. She tiptoes over and carefully pries one open.

“Fully intact prosthetics…” She can’t help but grin. “And they’re from that high-end brand the prosthetic shops sell.”

Toria quickly retrieves what she needs: a voice unit and the core components of a set of leg prosthetics. She tucks them into her backpack, taking great care not to make a sound.

Just then, footsteps sound from the stairwell. Toria goes rigid. These steps are heavy—like someone with extensive prosthetic work.

She ducks behind the crates, hand clutched around her pistol.

“That’s weird, was that crate open before?” A low voice grumbles.

Toria’s finger tightens around the trigger, heart pounding so hard it roars in her ears. If discovered, she only has one chance.

Right then, a commotion erupts downstairs.

“Hey, boss! They’re fighting down there! Looks like some of the boys got drunk and started a brawl!”

“Those idiots!”

The heavy steps recede with more cursing and muttering about “next time they disturb my nap, I’ll feed them to the twisted monsters.”

Toria exhales in relief, wiping cold sweat from her brow. She quickly double-checks the contents of her pack, then heads toward the stairwell.

Climbing down is easier than going up. She slips down the stairs like a shadow, disappearing into the darkness within minutes.

Of course, it’ll be a whole year before the Rust Gang realizes someone had broken into their warehouse. But that’s another story.

“Bang, bang, bang!”

A rapid pounding on the door jolts Tina awake. She angrily lifts the rolling shutter. “What the hell is your problem? It’s the middle of the—”

Before she can finish, Toria barges into the shop and tosses a heavy bag of parts onto the table, including the voice unit and a full set of leg prosthetics.

“These enough?”

“Not bad,” Tina says, nodding. Her half-lidded eyes show a hint of admiration. “Where’d you get them?”

Toria smirks. “Secret source. Ask again and I’ll charge you more.”

“You little brat… Fine, I’ll get to work now.”

Tina digs out a pack of cigarettes, pops one in her mouth, and lights up. She lazily leans in to check the items in the bag.

“Military-grade high-strength alloy components? Where the hell did you get these?”

She frowns.

“Wait, this is Ryan Corporation’s fancy stuff. Don’t tell me you—”

“Never heard of them. I said it’s a secret source.”

Tina shrugs, giving Toria a slightly exasperated look. “Alright. Go grab Hululu from the storeroom in the back.”

“Got it!” Toria instantly brightens and dashes into the back room.

“And don’t go swiping my stuff in there!”

“Go to hell, Tina! Stop treating me like a thief!”

“You did steal some of my parts last time and then sold them back to me—I haven’t forgotten that.”

“Ugh, you noticed?” Toria averts her eyes, awkward.

“You little brat.”

“Who are you calling a brat!” Toria makes a silly face at Tina. “You look around fifteen or sixteen yourself, not much older than me, so quit acting like a grown-up!”

“Oh, for f—”

Tina grabs a bottle of booze as if to throw it, making Toria immediately shield herself in alarm.

In the end, Tina just gulps some down and belches, flipping Toria off with her free hand.

“Tch, hurry up.”

Relieved, Toria scampers to the back room.

When Toria’s gone, Tina glances at the pile of parts. She quickly notices there’s a tracking spell on them—but she says nothing. Placing a hand on the components, she focuses for a moment, disabling the tracking.

Within seconds, Toria reappears from the back room.

She’s gently cradling the doll, placing it carefully on the workbench. Its light-blue eyes blink back at her, accompanied by a faint whir of gears.

“Hululu…” Toria imitates the doll’s little sound. “You’ll be able to talk soon.”

Tina dons a specialized magnifying headset, inspecting the newly acquired parts.

“These are top-tier, way better than the junk you scrounge in the yard,” she remarks. She fiddles with the voice unit. “They’re in good condition, too. Gotta say, the Rust Gang sure can nab decent stuff.”

“So… how long to fix her?” Toria asks urgently, not catching that Tina has guessed where the parts came from.

“Don’t rush me. If you want a job done right, don’t nag. Besides…”

Tina gives Toria a meaningful look.

“My craving for booze is back.”

“Here.” Toria pulls out a bottle from her pack. They’ve known each other a while; she knows Tina’s vices well.

“You brat, getting generous now.” Tina chuckles, taking the bottle. “Alright, since you’re being so nice, I’ll try to finish tonight.”

Toria squats by the workbench, eyes glued to Tina’s every move.

Tina works swiftly but with meticulous precision. The components seem to come alive in her hands, each part neatly clicking into place.

As always, she mutters while working: “It’s a shame… If not for ‘that day’ when 95% of the world got blasted into this hellscape, this technology would be widespread by now.”

Toria says nothing, her mind wholly occupied with the thought of hearing Hululu’s voice.

“If you’re tired, go sleep a bit. Don’t get in my way,” Tina says, noticing the weariness on Toria’s face.

“I’m not tired! I want to watch you fix her.”

“Tch, you’re at it again.”

“What do you mean, ‘at it again’!” Toria puffs out her cheeks, protesting.

“Fine, fine. Keep me company, then?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Let me think of a topic… Toria, do you know why the world ended up this way? You might not believe it, but it all started with a blonde, pointy-eared—”

Tina turns around. Toria’s already dozed off against the workbench. Tina sighs, wearing an “I knew it” expression.

Some time later, Toria wakes up groggily.

“All done,” Tina announces, blowing smoke in Toria’s direction.

Toria jumps up from the makeshift sofa and rushes to the workbench.

The doll is now sitting there, pale-blue eyes blinking. Her white hair cascades gracefully, giving her the look of a tranquil beauty.

For a moment, Toria feels like she’s seeing a scene from a dream—like a white-haired, blue-eyed doll she’d once lost. She’s momentarily at a loss.

Now, the doll sits on the workbench, gently swinging her newly attached legs as if testing the mechanical joints.

She looks up at Toria and smiles.

“You… you can speak now?” Toria asks, feeling strangely nervous before those bright eyes. “Can you talk?”

The doll tilts her head, mechanical pupils focusing on Toria. She parts her lips and, instead of a chattering gear noise, out comes a clear, pleasant young girl’s voice:

“Yes, I can speak.”

“Ah,” Toria realizes she hasn’t introduced herself. “I’m Toria.”

“Toria…”

The doll repeats the name and gives a gentle smile.

“I also have a name—‘Hululu.’ You came up with it.”

“You… you don’t like it?” Toria lowers her gaze, suddenly unable to meet the doll’s eyes. “If you don’t, I can change—”

Without another word, the doll stands up. Her new mechanical limbs make only the faintest click. Her movements are graceful and fluid, astonishing for a freshly installed prosthetic.

She approaches Toria.

Toria stares in awe; the doll moves just like a real person, every expression natural.

She instinctively takes a step back, but the doll has already reached her.

Then, the doll embraces her.

“Thank you, Toria.”

All Toria’s fear and surprise melt into a new emotion she’s never experienced—her nose tingles, and she feels tears threatening. She hugs Hululu back and says:

“Hululu, as long as you’re happy.”

“So,” Tina suddenly interjects, “are you still planning to sell her? I have connections, and as long as I get a cut—”

That hits a tender spot in Toria. She instinctively shields Hululu behind her, arms stretched wide as if terrified someone would take the doll away again.

“No way! Not selling! I’d never sell her—wouldn’t do it for a million!”

Tina sees Toria’s defensive posture and laughs. “Alright, calm down. I was just asking.”

Toria relaxes slightly, turning back toward Hululu. Her face flushes. She’d hardly realized the doll was basically uncovered, mechanical limbs fully visible.

Flustered, she snatches up the scrap of canvas she’d been using as a blanket and wraps it around Hululu.

“Damn, I didn’t notice you were practically naked. I’ll get you some clothes at home—don’t want you catching a cold.”

“Toria,” Hululu says, fiddling with the rough fabric. “I am a mechanical being. In principle, I can’t get sick the way humans do—”

“Stop with the smart talk. Around here, it’s dangerous to be careless. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

Hululu still looks confused but nods anyway.

Toria hugs her again, and on Toria’s face appears a smile Tina’s never seen before in all the years she’s known her.

It’s not the smug grin Toria wears when she successfully steals something, nor the forced smirk when she pretends to be fine. It’s pure, genuine happiness—something Toria has never shown the world.

“Hululu, from now on, you’re mine! I’ll scavenge for scraps to keep you fed… And if you join me out there, that’d be even better…”

Hululu smiles in return, as if understanding her.

“Let’s go home, Hululu.”

Toria takes Hululu’s hand, heading for the exit.

“I’ll show you my stash. I even have a little TV we can watch together…”

Their voices fade into the distance.

Tina stands at the door, lighting another cigarette, watching the two small figures disappear into the early morning light.

Under the glow of the rising sun, those silhouettes grow smaller and smaller, until they’re out of sight.