The district of North Prime pulsed with life under a hazy dome of lights and holographic billboards. Rain drizzled down, forming iridescent pools that reflected the glowing chaos above. A fusion of barking street vendors, clanging machinery, and distant sirens echoed through the alleys.

Jarah navigated the narrow, crowded streets of Chinatown. His bomber jacket clung to his broad frame as it glistened with rain. He moved through the sub-district, past makeshift stalls crammed into abandoned lobbies and gutted theaters. The market was alive with dystopian culture: robotic arms flipping synthetic food, merchants shouting in broken dialects, and gamblers hunched over holographic dice games.

Jarah paused at a stall covered with a patched tarp. Beneath it were piles of vintage comic books that were stacked haphazardly. A wiry young girl no older than thirteen with streaks of dirt on her face stepped forward from the stall. She clutched a faded issue of The Warforged Chronicles and held it up at Jarah with trembling hands.

“Genuine pre-collapsed prints,” said Natsuki Nakano. “Mint condition. You won’t find these anywhere else in Prime City.”

Jarah studied her, then the comic book. His eyes lingered on the faded cover—an image of a lone hero standing against a mechanical army. A flicker of something crossed his face, but he said nothing.

“It’s vintage, mister,” Natsuki said convincingly. “You like stories, don’t you?”

Jarah’s lip curled into a faint smirk, more bitter than amused. “Not anymore.”

Natsuki’s eyes darted to his Huntsman. Its faint glow cast an eerie light against the comic book.

“That’s…military-grade, isn’t it?” she whispered suspiciously. “Are you with the Sentinels?”

Jarah stiffened, his smirk vanishing. He took a half-step back, the device now shielded by his sleeve.

“You ask too many questions,” Jarah responded as firmly as he could.

Natsuki leaned forward, her voice low and urgent. “If you’re hunting someone, you’ll want to stay off the grid. They’ll trace you through that thing faster than a Sector Drone on payday.”

She gestured at the Huntsman, knowledgeable. Jarah glared at her, but she didn’t flinch.

“I’ve got friends—hackers,” she explained. “They can strip it down, make it invisible.”

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Jarah’s eyes narrowed, scanning her face for deceit. He didn’t answer.

A sudden commotion broke out nearby. A vendor shouted, and a fight erupted between two gamblers over a holographic game. The market crowd surged and pressed against Jarah and Natsuki.

Jarah grabbed Natsuki’s arm, his voice firm. “Get out of here, kid.”

“But—” Natsuki gasped.

“Now.”

Natsuki hesitated, looking at the commotion before nodding and slipping into her stall nearby. Jarah lingered for a while, watching as the fight devolved into chaos before deciding it wasn’t his problem. However, Natsuki peeked out of her stall and watched Jarah disappear into the crowd. Her eyes searched for the mysterious man she believed to be the legend of Prime City—

By the time Jarah reached the Megaplex Apartments, the adrenaline had worn off, replaced by exhaustion. The building was as grimy and imposing as ever, a towering relic of old-world architecture now riddled with decay and graffiti. He entered through the rusted lobby doors and took the elevator to the ninth floor.

His apartment was compact but efficient. A stash compartment built into the walls organized his clothes and gear. A vending machine stocked with energy drinks and synthetic meals hummed in the corner. The window had a mechanical shutter that he rarely bothered to close, offering a panoramic view of Chinatown’s congested streets and, beyond them, the futuristic skyline of Tokyo Village.

Memorabilia lined the walls: a samurai sword mounted above his bed, boxing trophies gathering dust on a shelf, and explicit centerfolds of Prize Point supermodels pinned in one corner. A computer terminal sat against the far wall, linked to the city’s underground networks, next to a remoteless television and an old radio.

Jarah peeled off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. The day’s weight settled on his shoulders, pressing him down like an anchor. He needed a shower, food, and, most importantly—rest.

The bathroom door slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, the holographic mirror flared to life, scanning his weary expression before offering a half-hearted greeting in its programmed voice. He ignored it and stepped into the autonomous shower, allowing the steaming water to cascade over him, washing away the tension.

After drying off, he made himself ramen, the savory aroma filling the small space as he ate silently. The city’s distant sirens and street chatter provided background noise.

After eating, he sat at the terminal and watched various news feeds.

“—gang violence has significantly increased throughout the city since Mayor Charles Buchanan was sworn into office five years ago. Factions such as the Hustlers and the Muertos have been fighting a turbulent war for territory in the sub-districts of Franchise while Jackson’s Army have staked their claim in the Northside Industrial District of North Prime—”

Sighing, he turned off the terminal and walked over to the window, leaning against the ledge. Despite the late hour, the streets below were still alive, and Chinatown’s nocturnal cycle never truly stopped. The sight was strangely comforting—predictable in its chaos.

Finally, he activated Sanctuary, a built-in auditory device designed for meditation. As he lay on his bed, exhaling slowly, the sound of rustling leaves and a distant rainfall filled the room. His mind drifted, and the synthetic serenity lulled him into sleep. His last thoughts lingered on someone he didn’t expect to bring him closure—

Joseph Stewart.