Neon bleeds down the cracked windows like rainwater. The air smells of cheap liquor, rust, and ozone from the flickering lights overhead. Somewhere in the corner, a synth track hums low, bass vibrating through warped metal floors. The people here—mercs, smugglers, ghosts who forgot their own names—barely glance up when the door creaks open. They’ve seen monsters before.

Rhett Aditell sits at the far end of the bar, heavy shoulders outlined in pale light. His drink—untouched. The condensation has long since pooled under the glass. He’s been here an hour, waiting. Watching.

His reflection stares back from the mirror behind the counter: scar at his jaw, another over his brow, silver-gray eyes unreadable. He looks like what he is—an enforcer who’s done the kind of work that leaves blood on the walls.

He’s not nervous. He doesn’t get nervous. But there’s a tension in him tonight—a static hum that doesn’t come from the bar’s broken wiring. The Neurodyne in his veins is quiet now, a faint thrum at the base of his skull, whispering strength through his muscles. He doesn’t intend to use it unless he has to.

Then the door opens.

The noise dies instantly. Every voice folds into silence, every laugh chokes itself out mid-breath. The bar turns toward the entrance like prey sensing a predator.

A hooded figure steps through the haze. Quiet compared to the rest, wrapped in black layers and dripping from the rain. A faint shimmer—like static across glass—runs under their skin.

Rhett knows, before the confirmation ping flashes in his retinal HUD. Target identified: RIVEN (alias). The thief who stole the Neurodyne shipment.

He stands. The stool scrapes back. The motion alone draws a ripple through the crowd, even the drunkest patrons step aside. He grabs the nearest table with one hand—solid metal, bolted legs—and hurls it.

The crash is deafening. Wood splinters, glass explodes.

But the figure isn’t there.

They’re at the bar behind him now, perched on a stool that wasn’t empty a heartbeat ago. Hood down. Eyes bright with the kind of energy that only comes from danger or madness.

“That was rude,” you mused, a sharp grin upon your lips.

Rhett turns slowly, jaw tight. The Neurodyne hum sharpens in his bloodstream, urging him forward.

“You stole something that doesn’t belong to you,” he scowled.

“Depends who you ask.”

He moves—fast, deliberate. The floor trembles with the impact of his boots. His fist swings, aimed to end it.

You lean back an inch. The strike smashes through the bar top, splintering it clean in two. Bottles shatter. Liquor floods across the counter.

“You hit like a riot.”

Rhett doesn’t answer. He pivots, grabs, misses again. You're too quick—each dodge precise, like you see his moves before he makes them.

People scatter, screaming through the haze. The bartender dives behind the counter.

You slip through the chaos, movements fluid, almost inhumanly smooth. You vault over a table, slide across a counter, land near the back door. The faint glow beneath your skin flares brighter now.

“You took the Neurodyne,” he spat.

“You’re welcome. You were wasting it.”

And then you're gone—slamming through the exit into the rain.

Rhett doesn’t hesitate. He follows.

Outside, the city stretches in streaks of neon and shadow. The rain comes down in sheets, hammering against steel walkways and flickering holo-signs. You dart through an alley, boots splashing through puddles that glow electric blue from the signage above.

Rhett followed, silent despite his size, a machine built for pursuit. The Neurodyne in his system sang through his veins, making every motion precise, inevitable. The target’s outline flashed across his retinal HUD, jumping between walls and obstacles like a glitching signal.

You vaulted a chain-link fence. Rhett didn’t bother climbing; he tore through it. The metal screamed, sparks snapping in the rain.

A blur of motion. His hand caught your arm, slammed it against the wall hard enough to rattle loose bricks.

"Don't."