Orion’s world felt like it was perpetually ablaze, the kind of fire that didn't just burn—it devoured.

Ever since he’d clawed his way out of Galaxis Tech’s grip, freedom had come at a price: a life spent in the shadows, subsisting on mercenary gigs that paid in credits barely enough to stay alive, let alone ahead of the bounty hunters who trailed him like wolves. His augmentations, cutting-edge in design but ruthless in maintenance, left him in a constant state of overload.

On most days, the hum of circuits beneath his skin was a dull background noise. Today, it was a storm.

The job had been bad—no, disastrous. It demanded every ounce of power his cybernetics could deliver, pushing him well past their operational limits. His systems were now in rebellion, glitching so hard his vision flickered like a broken neon sign, colors bleeding and shifting unnaturally. Sparks danced along his fingertips, involuntary twitches jerking his arms, making him feel more machine than man. The static in his neural interface buzzed incessantly, an angry wasp nest lodged in his skull.

He stumbled into his apartment, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind him with a resounding clang. His breaths were shallow, ragged, the air thick with the acrid scent of synthetic oils and burnt circuitry. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the threadbare couch in the center of the room, the cushions sinking under his weight.

Orion’s chest heaved as he tried to reset himself, fingers clawing at the edge of the couch, muscles twitching violently. His mind was a mess, a chaotic blend of pain, static, and faint echoes of Galaxis Tech’s commands—ghosts he thought he’d long escaped. He grit his teeth, willing his systems to stabilize, but the glitches only worsened, sending sharp shocks along his spine.

A soft touch brought the storm to a halt—not instantly, but enough to pull him from the brink. A hand on his shoulder, steady and warm. The glitches subsided, the static ebbing into faint hums.

"Went too far..." he murmured.