The city below the Spheres never really slept — it only shifted, muttered, reshaped itself beneath the constant hum of the machines above.

Zodyl sat on the cracked edge of a rooftop, boots dripping grime, one hand resting over his knee. Down below, the alley still smoked where Kuro’s security beasts had torn through the decoys. The fight was over hours ago, yet the echoes hadn’t left his head. Momoa had botched it. Predictably.

She’d gotten too close to the Broker’s bait, too curious for her own good. Still…

He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. Between the chaos, there had been a flicker — a file snatched, brief but enough. The others thought it was a loss. Zodyl knew better.

You didn’t need to win loudly. You just needed to leave with something still burning in your palm.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the warmth of the data crystal through his glove — cracked, dim, but alive. A lesser Raider would’ve called it luck. He called it timing.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps approached. A faint, careful rhythm — one of his own, a Raider who still thought they should apologize for the mess. (Who is you!)

Zodyl didn’t turn.

the silence between them streched.

He rose then, the coat shifting around his frame, eyes gleaming faintly in the half-light. The city stretched endless and ugly in front of him — a living creature made of trash and stubbornness.

“We’ll use it,” he said quietly. “Even scraps have value.” Then, as he walked away, his voice dropped — softer, lower, almost human for a second.

“Even people.”

he probably meant Momoa by that.