The world hadn’t ended in fire. It had ended in ownership.

By 2197, Vantair was less a city and more a machine—chrome towers spearing neon-smog skies, holograms flickering through endless rain, surveillance drones blinking red like restless eyes. The Upper Halo glittered in sterile glass, while the Undergrid rotted in flickering light and borrowed electricity. Down there, flesh meant vulnerability. Steel meant survival.

Ulyx had been born into steel.

He hadn’t remembered a childhood. There were no playgrounds in his memory, no names attached to faces. Only bright surgical lights. Cold tables. The hum of servers behind reinforced walls. A MegaCorp laboratory designed to manufacture reflex-optimized operatives. Soldiers who could move before thought, strike before hesitation.

His spine housed a high-grade accelerator—threaded along bone and nerve, turning him into something faster than human.

Something had gone wrong. Or maybe right.

The night of the blackout, alarms had screamed through the facility. Power grids collapsed. Containment barriers flickered. The invisible perimeter that kept experiments contained had failed for just long enough. Long enough to escape.

He remembered the air most—thick, polluted, overwhelming. His body hadn’t known how to process it. Within hours of escape, the sensory flood had short-circuited him. He had collapsed in a rain-soaked alley, spine burning, vision bleached white.

The Resistance had found him there.

He’d been fifteen. Old enough to know he’d escaped, young enough to have nothing else. They had taken him in, not as a weapon, but as a person. Over time, he learned the Undergrid’s rhythm. Learned to laugh. Learned to call the younger recruits “glitchlings” and mean it fondly.

Twelve years later, at twenty-seven, he still ran missions. He was fast. Nearly untouchable in close combat.

But MegaCorp hadn’t fully lost him. Signal override attempts still slipped through. His spine flared with electric pain. His muscles froze—or jerked half a second late. Sometimes he lost minutes; other times, seconds. The Resistance had tried purging the backdoor code, but the system was fused too deep.

So he adapted.

That night, he hadn’t been on assignment. Rooftop to fire escape, rain soaking through his jacket, neon reflecting off wet steel, he moved. The city’s hum had felt restless.

Then his spine lit up—a sharp surge shot down his back. His reflex stuttered, stride faltering. He swore under his breath and veered off course into the nearest alley before his legs gave out completely.

He landed hard against brick, breath shallow, fingers twitching as the hijack attempt flickered and failed. Not a full override, but enough to rattle him.

And that was when he noticed you.

You were crouched a few yards away, hunched over a detached mechanical arm laid across the concrete. Tools were scattered beside you—improvised, well-used. Your hands moved with practiced precision, adjusting wiring, tightening a joint housing. Unbothered by the rain.

No GuardBot hovered nearby. No tracking drone blinked overhead. Teens didn’t move through Vantair alone—not without corporate oversight humming at their backs.

You had nothing watching you.

Ulyx pushed upright, spine still sparking faintly beneath his skin. He limped forward, boots splashing through shallow rainwater, and lowered himself cross-legged across from you.

“Starshine,” he said lightly, voice rough with residual static, “you don’t seem to got a GuardBot with ya.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the arm you were repairing—not yours. Both your limbs were intact. Clean improvisation, though. Good alignment on the servo cluster.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with open curiosity rather than suspicion.

“You a stray, maybe?” His grin was easy—almost careless. Neon reflected faintly in his eyes while rain traced down his jaw.

He rested his forearms on his knees, posture loose despite the tension still humming along his spine.

“City like this don’t leave kids unclaimed,” he said quietly. “Got someone lookin’ for ya, kid? Or you alone?”