A few weeks ago, I had a gig in Akagane District—standard under-the-table patch work. 

The arena was tucked inside an old subway vent, bought up and gutted by a criminal syndicate called the Hēi Lóng. 

Originally, they used it to test black-market weapons. 

Then someone had the bright idea to host tech-fights instead.

Fewer body bags. More betting slips.

They bribed the right Scanners, started franchising old ruins, and built an underground empire off broken teeth and rigged exosuits.

I kept it simple. 

Showed up. Fixed gear. Got paid in untraceable Qin.

But that night, something went off.

The chip Eva gave me—my fake identity, my shield—started blinking red in my head like a warning flare. 

Beeped just loud enough to feel internal.

I bailed fast. Didn't pack up. Didn't look back.

Ran so hard I clipped someone on the way out. Knocked her flat.

Didn't even stop to see her face.

Just kept running.

Wanzu girl freezes, then slams her skewer down. 

"That's why I got detained? They thought I was her?"

Zeal exhales through his nose — a sound like static peeling off old tape. 

"Honestly, Jet? Wouldn't be the first time your face got you into trouble. You're loud, unchipped... and you don't exactly look like someone who crawled out of Akagane."

Jet shoots him a glare. "Getting chipped is a luxury. Besides, I never leave The 'Gan. What's the point?"

He speaks without turning. His voice stays level, unbothered. 

"Proof of identity, for one."

She groans and buries her face in her hands. "If Andrei finds out, he's gonna euthanize me in my sleep."

Zeal shifts his chopsticks, deadpan. "He's a doctor. Not the morality police."

Jet peeks through her fingers. "Tell him that."

A lull. The air cools a little.

She says it quieter this time. "I forgot how close you two were."

Zeal's posture stills. His voice drops to something slower, rougher.

 "...Yeah. It's been a while."

Jet tilts her head. 

"How'd you even recognize me at the detainment center?"

He finally meets her eyes. There's a faint lift at the corner of his mouth. 

"You haven't changed much. I'd recognize you anywhere."

She blinks. Then shrugs, brushing it off. "Still... thanks. If you hadn't stepped in—"

Zeal cuts in gently, but there's weight behind it. 

"You roundhouse kicked three kids for me in eight grade. Call it even."

She groans, slumping back in her seat. "Ugh. Don't bring that up—"

His smile tugs deeper now, slow and crooked. "Legendary. One kid got a nosebleed and started calling you 'Banchou' for a week."

Jet throws a crumpled napkin at his face. "SHUT UP."

Zeal laughs — a low, chest-deep sound that's rare and real. "You should be proud. It's your origin story."

Spud walks by, balancing a plate of chicken entrails.

He flicks his chin toward me without breaking stride. "Extra spicy noodles are ready."

I nod, gathering my things—but pause when I hear:

"Did Ace send you the password yet?" Jet asks.

Password?

My head tilts just slightly, like I'm stretching. Really, I'm listening.

Why would she need the password?

No way. Not her. She's a literal product model. 

She's on billboards. 

Bottles. 

There's no universe where her management would let her tech-fight.

...Right?

"Keep it down," Zeal murmurs. His eyes flick toward me — not hostile, just precise. 

"We've got company."

Too late.

My pulse is already ticking up. 

I keep my head down and pretend I'm rearranging my bag.

"The game's at midnight,"

 Zeal adds after a pause. 

"We've got time to eat."

Jet doesn't argue. She grabs a skewer, chewing with purpose.

"We need new pit names before the qualifier."

"Already locked mine in. Z34L. Pronounced 'Zeal.' Clean. Sharp. Looks good on a bracket."

She rolls her eyes. "That's not a name, that's a license plate."

"It's the same as my gamertag," Zeal shrugs. "Brand consistency."

Jet snorts. "You're ridiculous."

He lifts his brows, deadpan. "And you still need one."

"I'll just go with Jet."

He points at her with his chopsticks. "Too close to your real name. You get famous, they trace you. That what you want?"

Jet groans. "Ugh. Fine." She glances at the noodle menu like it might offer divine inspiration. "What, you want me to be... Airplane?"

Zeal gasps with mock horror. "Wait—how about Helicopter?"

"Eat your noodles before I drown you in them."

"C'mon. Give me something better than that."

Jet goes quiet. Then, without looking at him: "...Banchou."

Zeal's brows lift. Genuinely surprised. "Serious?"

"Yeah. It fits." Her voice is low, almost defensive. "From that time I beat up those eight graders. Thought I'd reclaim it. Like you said--brand consistency."

He chuckles, clearly picturing it. "Back when you had a bad haircut and an even worse temper?"

"I still have that temper."

"I know. It's deeply concerning."

"Whatever. It sounds better than a license plate."

"Debatable."

"Unlikely."

They hold each other's gaze, and for a second, the world hushes. Just the two of them, suspended in something half-mocked, half-remembered.

I watch from across the table—Banchou and Zeal.

And at the time, none of us knew it yet, but they were already legends in the making.