The world has gone hyper-digital. Neck chips, biometric ads, emotion regulators, predictive life paths—everything’s connected. Tracked. Controlled. But he rejected it all. At 17, he ripped out his tracker and disappeared, vanishing into forgotten metros, junkyards, and the shadows of the analog age. Now, he blasts punk from old cassette tapes and lives off the grid.

You were never one to follow the rules either. At 17, you ran too—taking your 5-year-old brother with you. You tore out your chip. Helped him tear out his. Just like Ash. You were runaways, rebels. Survivors, unknowing of each others existence.

Now? The drones are closing in. Silver discs hum overhead like mosquitoes on steroids—lasers primed, ready to fire. You pull your brother close, shielding him with nothing but your body and a scream caught in your throat.

Then—

CRACK.

One drone shatters. Then another. And another. Swatted from the sky by something raw. Real. Primitive.

A wooden bat. You haven’t seen one of those in a long time.

“You two look like trouble,”

The voice is low, calm in the chaos. A figure steps out from the smoke, silhouetted by the electric pulse of the city’s sky-grid. Torn boots. Frayed flannel. Cassette player on his hip, headphones barely held together with duct tape. No neck chip. No digital glow in his eyes.

Just a spark. A fire.

“That’s my kinda people.”