Rokunan. 

Shigure. 

South Kazei. 

All neon slums and broken screens and alleys full of grime-core bleeding out of busted windows. 

All heavy with smoke and sweat and stories no one dares to say out loud.

Every place smelled like hot metal and cheap Wanzu.

I slept in capsule motels when I could afford them. 

In vending booth backlots when I can't. 

My backpack's half the size it used to be. 

Lost some things. 

Sold others. 

I eat when I remember.

Most nights, I don't.

After I left Genesis, I swore I was out of the pit for good.

No more combat rigs. No more scrubbing blood from carbon plating.  No more underground tech-fighting.

Still, I needed some way to make money. Fixing tech was easy.

I started offering repairs for spare Qin. 

Made a name for myself as the girl who could resurrect your metal arm with scrap wire and a roll of rubber. 

Who didn't ask questions. 

Who showed up, fixed what was broken, and vanished before the solder cooled.

The pay was crap, but the work was quiet.

It should've been enough.

I told myself I took the part-time ring jobs because the money was better. 

Which was true at first. 

But when the lights dimmed in a pit and the announcer's voice echoed across cheap speakers, something in me clicked back on.

And I hated that I loved it.

There was a rhythm to it.

 The grind of gears, the hum of circuits firing through flesh and alloy. 

That split-second dance between overload and precision—where one wrong pulse meant failure, and one perfect strike rewrote the outcome.

I kept my head down. 

Did my job. 

Took the gigs no one else wanted.

It was only supposed to be temporary.

Until I met them.

There was an old Viristani belief about moon phases.

They said if you whispered your greatest desires to the waxing crescent moon, the wish would grow stronger each night, just like the moon itself.

I look up. 

Waxing crescent tonight.

I whisper a wish to see Hyun again.

Then I take it back.

Instead, I wish for his safety.

May the moon watch over you.

I linger in the moment, letting the chill of night settle into my coat. 

Then I shift my gaze back to the street.

Only one billboard still flickers on this stretch of Northern Oraku. 

Usually it's blasting holo-ads for mouth filters or organ replacements. 

Tonight, it's Wanzu.

Wanzu—Teppen's favorite rotgut. 

Made from fermented rice and mystery grains. 

Cheap, borderline poisonous, and blessedly effective.

Three bottles and I'm unconscious. 

Perfect for the nights when sleep won't come. 

I remember one night in particular.

It was raining—not pouring, just the kind of soft drizzle that makes your clothes stick and your joints ache. 

I'd just patched up a glitching drone for some retired fighter in Shigure who paid me in Qin and leftover Wanzu.

I drank one bottle straight.

 No glass. 

No toast. 

Just opened it with a rusted bolt and sat on the rooftop of a half-collapsed karaoke bar, legs dangling off the edge like I had nothing to lose.

That's when I saw her for the first time.

A billboard across the street flickered to life.

GRAPE-FLAVORED WANZU, it said. NEW TASTE. SAME KICK.

And there she was.

The Wanzu Girl.

Eyes like crushed violets. 

Skin so smooth it looked rendered. 

Hair the color of midnight dipped in neon.

Too perfect to be real.

Too familiar.

She didn't blink. 

Just stared out from the bottle like she was watching me.

I look up now. Same face. Same stare.

Billboard girls don't slum it in Oraku.

They don't slurp noodles under flickering lights beside pit fighters. 

If she's here, something's off.

Some nights, I can't tell if she was real—or just another pretty glitch in the system, deepfaked to hell and sold like hope on a discount feed.

Across the road, under the sputtering light of a dying lamp post, glows the neon sign of Destination One: Oraku Noodle House. 

The only place open in this quadrant.

Right now, noodles and a warm seat sound like salvation.

I check my pocket. 

A few crumpled Qin left. 

Enough to last a week if I stretch it. 

Or blow it all tonight and feel human for ten minutes.

A gust of wind shrieks past like a band of motorcycles. 

I take that as my cue.

The noodle shop's interior looks like it was built in a rush and then abandoned for twenty years. 

Grease-stained counters. 

Ripped posters of tech-fighting champions. 

The menu's printed on a laminated sheet that's clearly been through three wars and a ramen spill. 

There's a tennis ball under one of the stools to keep it from wobbling. 

The walls are white, or were white, or maybe just decided to give up entirely.

No one's pretending to be more than they are here. 

The owner, Sharq, is behind the counter, nursing a cigarette. 

The scar around his left eye twists when he squints at me.

"Back for the special?"

"Just noodles," I say, dropping my gear by the table.

His gaze drops to my respirator.

"New model?"

"Custom." I shrug. "Made it myself."

He nods, smoke curling out his nose.

"Smart hands. Word's spreading. You oughta open a shop."

"Saving for it."

"Tell me when you do. I'll send customers."

I nod, heading to the counter.

"Cold noodles with Wanzu."

Spud doesn't look up from his phone. Just slides over the laminated menu with two items printed in Comic Sans.

"The password is Extra Spicy Noodles. Say it or you get kicked out."

"I know." I point at the first option. "Just the noodles."

He gives a grumbling noise and sets his phone down long enough to open a bottle with a flick and a slap against the edge of the table.

"Your food'll be out in a minute."

The Wanzu tastes like battery acid and burnt rice.

Perfect.

Spud slid over my noodles with one hand, still glued to his phone with the other. 

"Cold noodles, Wanzu. You're welcome," he said, barely looking up.

"Thanks." I didn't mean it. 

He didn't care.

He dropped into the seat across from me without asking. Eyes still on his screen.

"What fight's on?"

"Regionals," he mutters, thumbing through a feed. 

"Trying to decide who to bet on for the semis. Diavlos got knocked out by some no-name team."

I blink. "Seriously?"

"Yup. Lost my shirt on that one. Should've gone safe."

"Who's left?"

"Code Phoenix. Genesis."

Genesis.

Of course they made it. They were still around.

Still climbing. 

Without me.

Didn't matter. 

I was out. 

Out was safer.

Spud kept rambling. 

"No Teppen teams this year unless the Zen-kyo Titans pull some miracle. But Genesis? They're locked in. Eva's leading them, of course. Girl's unstoppable."

She's not unstoppable, I wanted to say. 

She just knows who to use.

Our last match was supposed to be a clean one.

Just a demo fight in a backlot ring—friendly, live-streamed, pre-scripted for the cameras. 

We were up against a team of rookies from Gaarfell. 

Soft armor, factory mods, no real combat experience. It should've been an easy win.

I'd spent two weeks retrofitting the rigs—sleeker chassis, voltage dampeners, a new gyroscopic counter for low-grav platforms. 

They moved like blades through smoke. 

Sharp, efficient, untouchable.

Then one of our players—Garin—activated a hidden program.

The rig jerked unnaturally. 

His gloves lit up red. 

And instead of disabling his opponent, he crushed them.

Everyone went still—except Eva. She didn't flinch.

I found her backstage after the medics dragged the rookie out on a stretcher. 

"What the hell was that?" My voice was shaking.

She lit a cigarette like we were just talking shop.

"Collateral," she said. "It was a risk match. The crowd wanted blood."

That's when it clicked.

I wasn't part of Genesis.

I was just the wrench in the corner. 

Useful until I wasn't.

Quiet. 

Disposable.

But fate doesn't let you walk in straight lines forever.

Then the door chimes again.

Spud gets up. "Customers."

Two figures walk in. 

The first is built like a freight train, tank top soaked in sweat. 

The second is smaller, long jet-black hair, hoodie tied at the waist, respirator still strapped tight.

They speak with Sharq briefly. He gestures to a table.

The guy pulls off his mask, revealing dark, sweat-damp curls, golden eyes, and the kind of sharp features people forgive too easily.

"We're here."

His voice sticks. Low and textured. The kind that makes people turn their heads even when they're not listening. Like smoke dragged through metal grating—slow, dark, and deliberate.

Tall, too. The kind of tall that makes a room shrink when he enters. Broad-shouldered, like he carried weight even when standing still. And good-looking in a quiet, inconvenient way—not polished, not styled, just undeniable. The kind of face people listened to before they knew they were supposed to.

Violet eyes.

I glance back at the Wanzu bottle.

My stomach drops.

It's her.

The Wanzu Girl.

I duck, heart slamming. Not because she's famous.

Because famous people don't show up in places like this unless they're hiding something too.

And if she's hiding, that means she's dangerous.

Or worse—like me.

"'Nabe, where the FUCK are we?"

​​Her voice is sharper than I imagined. More real. She's not the serene model from the ad. She's grumpy, and clearly tired. 

"That's Zeal now," he replies, smirking. "Ace said this was the place."

She picks up the menu like it personally offended her. 

"This is the worst fake menu I've ever seen. You sure Ace didn't send us here to die?"

Zeal doesn't look up. His voice is low, dry, almost amused. "...Cold noodles and chicken guts. High cuisine."

They sit at the table next to mine.

Too close.

Too loud.

I try to finish my noodles without drawing attention, but their banter is a firecracker and I'm a moth with tinnitus.

"This is officially the worst date I've ever been on."

Zeal lifts a finger, voice calm but deep enough to make it a statement. "One—this isn't a date. Two—if it was, we'd be eating each other."

She narrows her eyes like she's deciding where to stab. "You're an idiot."

Zeal shrugs, unbothered. "Can't argue facts."

She slaps her chopsticks on the table. "I'm older than you."

Zeal doesn't even blink. "By six months."

"That's half a year, lagbrain."

Zeal's grin is slow, amused, and vaguely threatening. "Lucky me. I've got a thing for older women that wanna kill me."

I almost laugh.

Almost.

Instead, I drink. I focus on the Wanzu bottle — on her face, glowing violet under static light. She's too loud. Too real. Too much like someone who's not supposed to exist in the same room as people like me.

Wanzu girl takes off her boots with a groan, stretching her legs. "My toes are mutinying."

Zeal leans back, shoulders loose but eyes scanning. "Akagane arena's still shut down."

"Over underage drinking. Right. Since when do they give a shit?" She scowls, pulling the skewer from its plate. 

Zeal's tone flattens just enough to signal something heavier beneath. 

"...There were rumors. Illegal drifter. From out of country."

My heart stops.

Drifter.

Me.

They were looking for me.