Chapter Four
The Edge of Trust
The sky above the slums was a dull smear of orange and gray, the faint light of dawn barely cutting through the haze of smoke and pollutants. Riley kept close to Flint as they weaved through the labyrinthine streets, her steps echoing against the cracked pavement. The stench of rot and burnt plastic clung to the air, so thick it seemed to settle on her tongue. The occasional hiss of steam escaping from rusted pipes punctuated the silence, mingling with the distant hum of generators.
The streets were nearly empty, a ghostly quiet lingering in the early hour. A few figures dotted the landscape: a man slumped in a gutter, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths; another leaned heavily against a crumbling wall, a visor glowing faintly over his eyes, lost in some digital escape. Overhead, an old mag-rail train screamed past, sparks raining down from its grinding wheels as it hurtled along its suspended track. The faint metallic screech echoed like a predator’s cry, setting Riley’s nerves on edge.
Rats darted across the alleys, their shadows quick and sharp in the flickering glow of a failing neon sign. Trash was piled in every corner—cardboard boxes, plastic crates, and shattered machinery forming makeshift barricades against nothing in particular. Above them, tangled power lines hung like spiderwebs, sagging with the weight of decades of neglect. Somewhere, a mechanical drone buzzed faintly, its purpose long forgotten.
Riley pulled her hood lower, her gaze darting between the crumbling facades of the buildings. Flint walked ahead, casual and unbothered, his cybernetic arms glinting faintly in the dim light. His movements were easy, almost too smooth, as if the filth and decay around them were invisible to him.
"Charming place," Riley said. The words tasted like rust in her mouth.
"Give it time." Flint's smile caught the neon light. "It grows on you. Like mold."
He stopped in front of a squat, weather-beaten building nestled between two towering structures that looked just as decrepit. A faded number “05” was painted on the wall near the entrance, its edges chipped and peeling. The building leaned slightly, its walls patched with mismatched sheets of metal and salvaged panels. Neon graffiti covered every surface, layers of tags and scrawls competing for dominance. A flickering sign above the door buzzed faintly, its letters long since burned out.
Flint keyed in a code on a rusted panel near the entrance, and the door slid open with a reluctant hiss. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, gesturing for her to follow.
Riley hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the street. The empty silence felt heavier now, the shadows stretching longer as the neon glow flickered above them. She exhaled sharply and stepped inside.
The smell hit her first—a mix of old sweat and stale food. The apartment was small, the kind of place that made you feel boxed in even when standing still. A worn-out sofa dominated the center of the room, its cushions sagging and patched with duct tape. Empty cans and crumpled food wrappers littered the floor around it, and a pile of clothes was draped haphazardly over one armrest.
To the left, a compact kitchen occupied one corner, its sink piled high with dishes. A microwave perched precariously on top of an aging fridge, its door held shut with a strip of neon tape. The walls were bare except for a few old posters peeling at the edges, their bright colors dulled by layers of grime.
On the far side of the room, a recessed nook held a mattress, its surface cluttered with more clothes and a few discarded datapads. A small desk sat nearby, cluttered with tools, loose wires, and a charging dock that blinked faintly. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the room.
“Cozy, right?” Flint said, his tone light. He kicked a stray can out of the way as he moved toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. You want something to eat? Drink?”
Riley hovered near the door, her eyes scanning the room. “Uh…sure,” she said cautiously. The thought of food was tempting, but exhaustion was creeping back into her limbs, heavy and insistent. She sank onto the edge of the sofa, trying not to think about what might be lurking in its cushions.
Flint rummaged through the fridge, pulling out two cans of cheap beer and a foil-wrapped packet that looked suspiciously like synth-meat. He tossed a can her way before collapsing into a chair that creaked ominously under his weight. “Eat up,” he said, cracking open his own drink.
Riley took the can, the cool metal a welcome relief against her palm. She hesitated for a moment before taking a sip, the bitter taste washing over her tongue. She barely noticed Flint talking, her eyelids growing heavier with every passing second. The last thing she remembered was the faint hum of the charging dock and the sound of Flint’s voice fading into the background as sleep pulled her under.
Riley stirred, her heart racing as she jolted awake. For a moment, she was disoriented—the shadows of the dim apartment pressed in around her, and the faint buzz of the fluorescent light made her head throb. She shot up from the couch, her muscles stiff, her breath coming in shallow gasps as her mind scrambled to piece together where she was.
Her eyes darted around the room, every noise amplified in her ears. The clutter was just as she remembered—empty cans, piles of clothes, the faint metallic scent of machinery hanging in the air. But the sofa she’d collapsed on earlier now had a thin, scratchy blanket draped over her legs. That hadn’t been there before.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the couch as she scanned the room. Flint was nowhere to be seen.
Her pulse hammered as she tried to recall if anything felt off—had he done something while she was out? Her bag was still where she had dropped it, the reassuring weight of the package and Chirp’s lifeless form intact. She exhaled slowly, relief bleeding into wariness. Whatever Flint’s angle was, it didn’t seem like he’d taken anything from her. At least, not yet.
Her gaze fell on the small desk tucked into the corner of the room. The faint blinking of the charging dock caught her eye, and a thought sparked. Chirp. She carefully unzipped her bag and pulled the drone out, its once-pristine surface now scuffed and dulled from the chaos of the last day. She hesitated only a moment before crossing to the desk and plugging him in.
The charging dock hummed to life, a faint glow radiating from Chirp’s core. Riley’s chest tightened with a mix of hope and desperation. “Come on, buddy,” she whispered, brushing her fingers over the drone’s surface. “Don’t give up on me now.”
While Chirp charged, Riley let her eyes wander over the desk. It was cluttered, much like the rest of the apartment, but the mess here felt more deliberate—organized chaos, rather than pure neglect. A tangle of wires and tools sat in one corner, alongside a stack of crumpled papers and old takeaway boxes. She sifted through the papers cautiously, hoping to find something—anything—that might give her a better sense of who Flint was.
Most of it was mundane—receipts for greasy takeout, a half-finished schematic for what looked like a custom drone mod, and a few scribbled notes in handwriting that was nearly illegible. Nothing screamed danger, but nothing screamed safe, either.
Her fingers brushed against a small, beat-up notebook tucked beneath the clutter. She pulled it free, flipping it open to reveal hastily sketched maps of city streets and notes jotted in shorthand. Some of it was easy enough to parse—timelines, routes, cryptic phrases like “drop point secure” and “don’t trust Hollowgate.” A chill ran down her spine. Flint’s life was clearly more complicated than he let on.
The sound of footsteps outside the door snapped her out of her thoughts. Panic flared as she glanced at Chirp—still only partially charged. She unplugged the drone quickly, tucking him back into her bag before shoving the notebook back where she’d found it. She barely had time to retreat to the couch before the door creaked open.
Flint stepped inside, his silhouette framed against the neon glow of the street beyond. He carried a steaming cup in one hand and a small paper bag in the other, his usual smirk softening when he saw her awake.
“Well, look who’s up,” he said, kicking the door shut behind him. “You sleep alright?”
Riley nodded, her muscles still tense. “Yeah. Thanks for…” She gestured vaguely toward the blanket, her voice trailing off.
Flint chuckled, setting the cup and bag down on the cluttered coffee table. “Figured you could use it. You looked dead to the world.”
She eyed the cup warily, the faint aroma of synthcafe wafting up from it. Her exhaustion warred with her caution, but the promise of caffeine won out. She reached for the cup, her fingers brushing against the warm ceramic. “Thanks,” she muttered, taking a tentative sip. The bitter, artificial flavor wasn’t great, but it was enough to jolt her senses back into focus.
“You’re welcome,” Flint said, settling into the chair across from her. He pulled a wrapped sandwich from the bag, unwrapping it with practiced ease. “Figured you might be hungry too. Got extras, if you want.”
Riley shook her head, her stomach still too knotted to think about food. “I’m good,” she said, taking another sip of the synthcafe. The warmth spread through her, easing some of the tension in her shoulders.
Flint leaned back, watching her with an unreadable expression. “So, you ready to see the city?” he asked, his tone light.
Riley hesitated, her grip tightening on the cup. She didn’t trust him—not completely—but she didn’t have many options. Staying here wasn’t an option, and wandering the city alone was an even worse idea.
“Yeah,” she said finally. “I’m ready.”
Flint’s smirk widened. “Good. Let’s get moving, then.” He grabbed his jacket from where it was slung over the back of the chair, tossing it on as he headed for the door. Riley followed, her steps careful as she slipped the synthcafe cup into her bag for later. As they stepped out into the neon-lit streets, the distant hum of the city swallowed them whole.
Afternoon transformed the district. Where shadows had lurked hours before, crowds now pushed through narrow walkways, their shoulders brushing, their voices sharp. Vendors' calls pierced the air, hawking everything from salvaged tech to sizzling street food. Riley's earlier unease gave way to a different kind of tension – the pressure of too many bodies in too little space. The sharp, acrid scent of grilled meat and questionable oil mingled with the faint chemical burn of exhaust from sputtering delivery drones overhead.
Flint weaved through the throng effortlessly, his gait unhurried yet precise, as though he knew exactly when and where to step to avoid collisions. Riley trailed behind, her bag slung over her shoulder, her posture still a little wary despite the growing ease in her mind. The district felt like it had woken up entirely in the time she’d been asleep. Neon lights competed with the weak daylight, glowing pink and blue against the grimy walls. The whir of holo-ads accompanied her steps, their shimmering projections displaying corporate jingles and tempting passersby with sleek imagery of a lifestyle unattainable in this part of Helix City.
“Helix City in full swing,” Flint said, glancing back at her with a grin. “Soak it in. This is where the magic happens.”
Riley snorted. “Magic, huh? Looks more like chaos.”
“Chaos can be magic,” Flint replied, his tone annoyingly self-assured. He gestured toward a street performer on the corner, juggling glowing orbs that shifted color with each toss. A small crowd had gathered around him, clapping and tossing a few creds into a dented bucket at his feet. “See? It’s got personality.”
“Yeah, personality that smells like burning trash,” Riley muttered, but her tone lacked real bite. She’d never seen a place like this before—not Rust Haven, not the other scavenger outposts. It was messy, yes, but it was also vibrant, alive in a way she hadn’t expected.
They passed a repair stall where a mechanic argued loudly with a customer over the cost of replacing a drone’s rotor. Nearby, a group of kids zipped by on old hoverboards, whooping and weaving through the crowd with reckless abandon. One of them nearly clipped Riley, and she stepped back, bumping into Flint’s shoulder.
“Easy there,” he said, steadying her with a hand on her arm. “City takes some getting used to.”
“I’ll manage,” Riley said, brushing him off, though she was starting to appreciate his calm demeanor. He moved through this chaos like he belonged to it, like nothing could throw him off balance. For someone who’d spent the last day running and looking over her shoulder, it was... comforting.
As they turned a corner, the noise shifted. The street narrowed, hemmed in by towering buildings that leaned close enough to block most of the light. Neon signs buzzed and flickered above shopfronts advertising body mods, tech repair, and synth foods. A small crowd had gathered outside a ByteMart, its rotating logo a bright, obnoxious blue-green that reflected off the cracked pavement. The buzz of conversation and occasional laughter spilled out as people lingered near the entrance, chatting or checking their visors for updates.
Flint held the door open for her, the dingy bell above it letting out a strained jangle. “After you.”
Riley stepped inside, her senses assaulted by the too-bright fluorescent lights and the overwhelming smell of processed snacks. The ByteMart was cramped, every inch of its space crammed with shelves stocked high with cheap packaged food, synthetic drinks, and off-brand tech accessories. A few shoppers milled about, their movements sluggish as they scanned items with their visors or debated prices with themselves. The clerk behind the counter barely looked up, his fingers tapping lazily at a tablet.
Flint grabbed a basket and tossed in a handful of snack packs and a couple of brightly colored cans. "Pick your poison." Flint rattled the basket. "My treat."
Riley's stomach clenched at the smell of food, but she shook her head. "Pass."
"Your loss." He tossed another can in the basket. "Don't come begging later."
She smirked faintly, leaning against a display shelf while Flint moved to the counter. As he paid, she let her gaze wander, taking in the details of the store—the flickering security camera in the corner, the dented cooler humming loudly in the back, the faded posters on the walls advertising long-forgotten sales. It was all so mundane, so ordinary, and yet, for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was being hunted.
“Alright, let’s roll,” Flint said, nudging her toward the door.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Back outside, the crowd had grown thicker, the air buzzing with the energy of a city that never truly rested. Riley found herself relaxing, just a little. Flint’s casual demeanor was starting to rub off on her. She still didn’t trust him—not completely—but she wasn’t as guarded as she’d been. If nothing else, he knew this place, and she needed that right now.
“You starting to warm up to Helix City yet?” Flint asked, his tone teasing as he led her back toward the main street.
“Not really,” Riley replied, but her voice lacked conviction. She glanced around, taking in the sights and sounds again. It was overwhelming, yes, but there was something about it—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. For the first time, she started to think that maybe, just maybe, she could survive here.
Riley followed Flint through the increasingly crowded streets, her senses tingling with the chaotic rhythm of the city. The clamor of voices, the hum of passing drones, and the distant rumble of the maglev lines all merged into a discordant symphony. Afternoon light struggled to penetrate the layers of grime-streaked windows and tangled wires overhead, leaving the streets bathed in a patchwork of shadows and neon glow.
The two of them turned into a narrower side street, where the crowd thinned slightly. Flint led the way, his movements as relaxed as ever, weaving around discarded crates and stray animals without missing a beat. He seemed entirely at ease here, his cybernetic arms glinting faintly as he gestured toward an unassuming building at the end of the street.
“Almost there,” he said over his shoulder, flashing her a quick grin. “Hope you’re ready for a little local flavor.”
Riley raised an eyebrow, eyeing the building as they approached. Its exterior was unassuming, a single-story structure with faded pastel paint peeling in places. A sign above the entrance read “Rosie’s Diner” in soft, flickering neon script, casting a gentle pink glow onto the cracked pavement below. A row of wide windows offered a glimpse of warm, muted light spilling from inside. It didn’t look like much, but compared to the rest of the district, it had an odd charm—nostalgic, almost. Riley’s steps still faltered.
“This is the place?” she asked, her tone skeptical.
Flint shrugged, flashing his usual crooked grin. “What can I say? Best synth-pies in the district. And I know the owner. Relax.”
“Relax,” Riley echoed flatly, her gaze flicking to a stray cat darting across the entrance. “Right.”
The bell above the door jingled softly as they stepped inside, and the air immediately felt warmer, thick with the scent of fried food, stale coffee, and a faint hint of sugar. The interior was a snapshot of a simpler time, albeit one long gone—a checkerboard floor scuffed from years of wear, vinyl booths patched with duct tape, and a glowing jukebox tucked into one corner. Faint music hummed from the speakers, a soothing melody that didn’t quite match the faint buzz of activity in the room.
Flint led her to a booth near the back, sliding into the seat with the ease of someone who’d been here a dozen times before. Riley hesitated, her eyes scanning the room instinctively for exits and potential threats. A few patrons were scattered across the diner—a trucker nursing a steaming cup of synthcafe, a couple hunched over their plates near the counter, and a tired-looking waitress pouring refills without being asked. Nobody seemed to notice her or Flint.
“Take a load off,” Flint said, leaning back with an air of casual ease. “Trust me, the vibe here’s a lot less murdery than you’re used to.”
Riley shot him a sharp look, but she slid into the seat across from him, her fingers lingering near the strap of her bag. “That’s not exactly a high bar.”
Flint smirked, gesturing toward the waitress. “Suit yourself, but you’ll thank me once you try Rosie’s pie. It’s a local legend.”
Riley let out a soft scoff, but something about the warmth of the diner—the quiet hum of the jukebox, the hiss of a coffee machine in the background—eased her nerves, if only slightly. Still, her eyes swept the room, noting the chipped ceramic mugs on the counter, the faint scuff marks leading to the kitchen door, and the well-worn path to the register. Everything about the place felt real in a way she hadn’t expected. Almost safe.
Flint flagged down a passing waitress—a tired-looking woman with bright pink hair and an artificial smile. “Two cherryfizz,” he said, sliding a few creds across the table.
Riley frowned. “I didn’t ask for anything.”
“You’ll thank me later,” he replied with a wink.
The waitress returned quickly with two glasses filled with amber liquid. Flint pushed one toward Riley, taking a sip from his own with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. “See? Not so bad, right?”
Riley picked up the glass hesitantly, the faint hum of the drink’s carbonation tickling her fingers. She sniffed it cautiously before taking a small sip. The taste was sweet and chemical, but not entirely unpleasant. She set the glass down, still unsure whether to trust the gesture—or him.
Flint leaned forward, his expression softening slightly. “You’ve been running on fumes, haven’t you? It’s okay to take a breather, you know. Let your guard down a little.”
Riley stared at him, her mind racing. She wanted to believe him, to accept the easy camaraderie he offered, but something about the situation still felt off. She’d spent too long in the Driftlands to trust kindness without a price.
"Why help me?" The question had been burning in her throat since they'd met.
Flint's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe I'm just nice."
"Yeah. And maybe I'm a corp exec."
"Fair enough." He leaned back, cybernetic fingers tapping against his glass. "Truth? I've been you. Running scared, no allies, no plan. Someone helped me once. Now it's my turn."
Riley studied him, searching for any sign of deception. His cybernetic arms rested casually on the table, their polished surfaces catching the dim light. He looked sincere—relaxed, even—but there was still something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Despite herself, she felt her shoulders loosen slightly, the weight of her paranoia lifting just a fraction.
“You’re hard to read,” she said finally, her tone almost accusatory.
Flint raised his glass in a mock toast. “And you’re hard to help. Guess that makes us even.”
Riley rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to breathe, to settle into the moment. Maybe, just maybe, she’d finally found someone she could trust.
Flint glanced toward the stage as the performer’s song faded into an ambient hum of synth beats. He tapped his glass idly, his cybernetic fingers making a rhythmic clinking sound against the edge.
"Break time's over." Flint's voice cut through the diner's ambient hum. "Let's talk business."
Riley's hand tightened around her glass. "Business."
"Don't get jumpy. Just talking about getting you set up here. Unless you've got a better plan?"
She raised an eyebrow. “Settled? You think I’m planning to stick around?”
Flint chuckled, the sound low and easy. “Let me guess—you were planning to waltz into Helix City, no ID, no creds, no backup, and somehow make it work?”
Riley’s silence was answer enough. She tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her gaze dropping to the scuffed surface. He wasn’t wrong, but she hated hearing it out loud.
“Look,” Flint continued, his tone softening, “this city isn’t the Driftlands. You can’t just scrape by on guts and luck here. You need connections, resources. And, most importantly, you need an ID chip.”
Riley looked up sharply. “An ID chip?”
“Yeah,” Flint said, nodding. “You can’t do anything without one—not legally, anyway. No renting a place, no buying anything above the table, no access to public transport or services. Hell, you can’t even get past half the security checkpoints in the nicer districts without one.”
She frowned, the reality of her situation sinking in deeper. She’d been so focused on just getting into the city that she hadn’t thought much about what came next. Now that she was here, it was painfully clear how unprepared she was.
“I might know someone who can help,” Flint said, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. “He’s not exactly a saint, but he’s good at what he does. If anyone can get you a chip, it’s him.”
Riley hesitated, but what choice did she have? Flint was right—without an ID chip, she was stuck. Vulnerable. And the last thing she wanted was to end up back in the Driftlands, running from Chrome Fangs and Iron Jackals.
“What’s the catch?” she asked finally, her tone skeptical.
Flint leaned back, his smirk widening. “No catch. Just stick with me, and we’ll get you sorted. Easy.”
Easy. Right. Nothing about this had been easy so far, and Riley doubted that was about to change. Still, she found herself nodding. “Alright,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Let’s do it.”
“Good,” Flint said, finishing the last of his drink and sliding out of the booth. “Let’s get going.”
Riley stood slowly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Where to?”
Flint’s grin returned, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’ll see.”
He led her out of the diner and back onto the streets, the noise and energy of the city hitting her like a wave. The narrow alleys and shadowed corners had given way to busier thoroughfares, where the crowd was denser and the lights brighter. Neon signs flickered overhead, advertising everything from cheap cybernetic enhancements to questionable dining options. The air buzzed with the sound of haggling vendors, distant music, and the occasional shout of an argument.
Riley found herself walking closer to Flint than before, her earlier wariness giving way to a reluctant trust. He navigated the chaos with ease, throwing casual nods to familiar faces and pausing briefly to chat with a vendor selling fried noodles from a rickety cart.
“You hungry?” Flint asked, holding up two steaming paper containers.
Riley hesitated, but the smell of the food made her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten since… she couldn’t even remember. “Thanks,” she muttered, taking one of the containers.
Flint winked. “Don’t mention it.”
They ate as they walked, the simple act of sharing a meal breaking down some of the barriers between them. Riley found herself relaxing despite the constant hum of the city around her. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel completely alone.
Flint led her through the twisting streets, their path taking them deeper into the slums. The buildings grew taller and closer together, their walls covered in layers of graffiti and peeling advertisements. The air was thicker here, heavy with the smells of grease, smoke, and unidentifiable chemicals. It was overwhelming, but Riley forced herself to focus, her gaze darting between Flint and the unfamiliar surroundings.
Eventually, they stopped in front of a nondescript building with flickering lights above the door. Flint turned to her, his expression serious for once. “Alright,” he said, “this is the place. Stay close, and let me do the talking.”
Riley nodded, her stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and unease.
The bass reverberated through Riley's chest before she even stepped inside, the muffled beat seeping through the cracked, weather-worn walls of the club. A flickering neon sign above the entrance spelled out XOXO in electric pink and blue, but one of the O’s was dark, leaving the letters uneven and twitching in the half-light. Beside the door, a hulking bouncer leaned against the frame, his cybernetic arm gleaming faintly in the dim glow of a streetlamp. He looked up lazily as they approached, his visor scanning Riley and Flint without interest before turning back to the empty street.
The building itself was sandwiched tightly between two crumbling warehouses, their exteriors coated in a grime that seemed resistant to time or effort. Above, rusted catwalks stretched precariously from one warehouse to the other, casting crooked shadows across the alleyway. The faint tang of oil and garbage lingered in the air, though it was quickly drowned out by the chemical bite of synthetic smoke wafting from the club’s open door.
Riley stopped short of the entrance, her throat tight. Every instinct – the same ones that had kept her alive in the Driftlands – screamed at her to turn back. But where would she go? The weight of her empty pockets and borrowed time pressed down on her shoulders. She looked at Flint. "This place screams a lot of things. 'Legit' isn't one of them."
"You want legit?" Flint gestured at the neon-streaked streets behind them. "Try uptown. Oh wait—you can't. Not without papers." He nodded toward the door. "Sometimes the back door's the only door."
The casual confidence in his voice made it worse somehow. She'd seen that same easy smile on traders right before they pulled guns, on gang leaders right before they ordered hits. Yet here she was, following him anyway. Maybe that said more about her desperation than his trustworthiness.
She shifted uneasily, her gaze flickering toward the door again. The thudding bass was louder now, almost a physical presence, and she could hear faint bursts of laughter and conversation filtering through the haze. “I don’t know…”
“C’mon, Riley,” Flint said, his grin widening as he stepped closer. “It’s safe. You’re with me, remember? Trust me on this one.”
Something about the way he said it—the easy confidence, the way he leaned just slightly toward her—made her stomach flutter, and Flint hadn’t steered her wrong yet, she reminded herself.
With a reluctant sigh, she nodded. “Fine. But if this is some kind of trap…”
Flint raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax.”
The bouncer stepped aside without a word as they approached, the metal door sliding open with a pneumatic hiss. The smell hit Riley first: a heady mix of stale alcohol, sweat, and the sharp tang of cheap synth smoke. It was thick enough to make her nose sting, and she instinctively pulled her hood lower as she stepped inside.
The interior was a sensory overload. The lighting was dim, punctuated by flickering neon strips that bathed the room in shifting hues of red, purple, and blue. Dancers moved languidly on elevated platforms scattered across the space, their bodies outlined in glowing paint that made them look almost ethereal. The platforms themselves were surrounded by low tables and booths, most of them occupied by patrons who lounged in shadows, their faces partially obscured by smoke or the rims of their glasses.
Riley’s gaze darted around the room, taking in the patrons with a growing sense of unease. Some were dressed in threadbare clothes, others in suits that looked slightly too crisp for a place like this. Most of them were paying attention to the dancers, their eyes fixed on the gyrating bodies.
In the far corner, a holographic projector sputtered weakly, casting distorted ads for drinks and private rooms. The text glitched every few seconds, the smooth voiceover turning choppy and mechanical: “Indulge… yourself… tonight…”
“This is…” Riley trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
“A dive?” Flint offered, his smirk audible in his tone as he led her toward a table near the edge of the room. “Yeah, it’s not exactly the Neon Circuit. But hey, it’s got character.”
The table was sticky to the touch, and Riley frowned as she slid into the chair. She could feel the faint vibration of the bass through her feet, the music seeming to pulse through the very foundation of the building. Flint sat across from her, leaning back in his chair with the kind of casual ease that made her stomach churn.
“I’ll grab us some drinks,” he said, already rising before she could protest. “What do you want?”
“I don’t—” Riley started, but he waved her off.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll surprise you.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, weaving his way through the crowd toward the bar. Riley slumped back in her chair, her eyes scanning the room once more. The dancers on the platforms moved with mechanical precision, their movements rehearsed and almost detached, as if they were just as bored. In the corner, a couple whispered to each other, their heads close as their hands exchanged what looked like a small vial of something.
Riley’s grip tightened on the strap of her bag. She felt out of place here, like she’d stepped into a world that didn’t care about her, didn’t even notice her. The dim lighting made the shadows feel heavier, and every time someone walked past her table, her heart jumped, half-expecting a hand to grab her or a voice to call her out.
Flint returned a few minutes later, setting two glasses down on the table. The liquid inside glowed faintly under the neon light, its color shifting between electric blue and green. He slid one glass toward her and took a sip from his own.
“Drink up,” he said, his grin as easy as ever. “You look like you could use it.”
Riley hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the glass. The liquid fizzed slightly, tiny bubbles rising to the surface and popping in soft flashes of light. “What is it?”
“Just something to take the edge off,” Flint said with a shrug. “Trust me, it’s good.”
She lifted the glass and took a cautious sip. It was sweeter than she expected, with a faint aftertaste of something metallic—not unpleasant, just strange. She set the glass down and tried to shake the unease from her shoulders.
Flint leaned back in his chair, his cybernetic fingers tapping a rhythm against the table. “I’ll be right back,” he said, standing again. “Gotta grab my friend. You just sit tight and enjoy the atmosphere.”
“Flint—” she started, but he was already disappearing into the crowd.
Riley sighed, her gaze drifting to the dancers again. She took another sip of her drink, the liquid warming her throat as it went down. The room felt heavier now, the lights seeming to blur slightly at the edges. She blinked, her hand tightening around the glass as a strange warmth spread through her limbs.
Something wasn’t right.
The thought came too late. Her vision wavered, the room tilting slightly as her head grew heavy. She tried to push the glass away, her hand trembling, but her strength was fading fast. Just as her head dipped forward, she felt a sharp prick on her neck. Her sluggish mind barely registered the sensation before she caught a fleeting glimpse of Flint’s face leaning over her, his cocky grin and the needle in his hand the last thing she saw before the world went dark.