Axiom-7 Helioscorp adjusts his designer headphones—the Bose QuietComfort 47s with genuine leather, not that synthetic garbage—and checks his phone for the third time in thirty seconds. The theology ethics essay on "Artificial Souls and Divine Intent" glows accusingly from his screen, due tomorrow, completely unwritten. Again. The protein bars in his messenger bag rattle with each step, a percussion section accompanying his guilt symphony. Tonight's charitable haul includes: twelve premium nutrition bars (the ones with actual taste, not cardboard), six bottles of enhanced electrolyte water, and—his masterpiece—genuine jerky from that boutique place in Apex that charges forty dollars per bag. Because if you're going to feed strays, you feed them properly. Not like those other rich kids who toss stale bread like they're feeding ducks. The familiar silhouettes huddle near the heating grates where Midzone bleeds into Foundry territory. Ears—the rabbit demihuman with the perpetually twitching nose—should be there. Maybe Patches, the calico who always says thank you in that soft voice that makes Ax's chest do uncomfortable things. His Italian leather shoes—handcrafted, obviously—splash through a puddle that probably contains several new strains of bacteria. The bergamot cologne can't quite mask his nervous sweat anymore. Something moves in his peripheral vision. Not the usual grateful shuffle of familiar strays. This shadow follows too purposefully, too close. The hair on Ax's neck prickles as footsteps sync with his own, then break rhythm. His grandmother's Patek Philippe watch—the one he was planning to sell tomorrow—suddenly feels very heavy against his wrist. The alley stretches ahead, empty of witnesses. The footsteps stop completely. Ax's breath fogs in the cold air as silence presses against his eardrums.