I wake up sweating.

Still in Andrei's bed. 

Sheets damp, skin clammy. 

My chest feels like I ran a marathon through a minefield.

Every breath scrapes. 

Ribs ache. 

But my head... it's lighter.

The holopad is on the floor beside me, silent now. 

Powered off, but I don't trust it. 

Not really.

I sit up slowly, half-expecting to feel static behind my eyes or that cold, wrong voice whispering sweet rot into my skull. 

But there's nothing.

Just the faint, uneven whir of the ceiling fan. 

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and that's when I smell it—rice. 

Warm. 

Familiar. 

Comforting in a way that makes my throat clench.

Downstairs, there's food.

I move on autopilot. 

My limbs still don't feel like they belong to me, but I follow the scent like a lifeline.

On the table sits a bowl of porridge—still steaming—rice softened in broth, strips of dried fish and slivers of ginger floating at the top. 

Next to it, a sticky note, half-slid under the bowl and barely hanging on. 

The handwriting's barely legible. 

Like it was written mid-hurry, possibly mid-bite.

Visiting Nana. Be back at noon.
Here's your breakfast.
Pay me back after our first win.
– JB

My eyes flick over the note again.

So that's it, huh?

I'm in.

Not with fanfare. 

Not with promises. Just... this. 

A bowl of food and a bill I didn't know I owed.

In Mujin, this kind of informality would've gotten someone fired. 

Or detained.

But this is Akagane.

Here, people here give you what they have and call it enough. 

They feed you. 

Cuss you out. 

Let you stay. 

That's how trust works here—not clean, but functional. 

Unlabeled. 

Loud.

I sit cross-legged at the table. 

Spoon in hand. 

The first bite burns my tongue—too hot—but I don't stop. 

The rice is creamy. 

The fish is chewy. 

Salt clings to the roof of my mouth, and the ginger slices bite back with heat just shy of cruel.

I'm still here.

And I'm not her.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I finish the last bite, set the bowl down. 

Steam still curls from the surface like breath.

My hands twitch, restless. Waiting for the next glitch. 

The next voice. The next countdown.

But the house stays still.

No whispers. 

No override protocol. 

ust the quiet creak of old wood and the memory of something frying, long ago.

I get up.

Not because I want to.

Because I need to move.

Need to remind myself that I'm not just waiting to be replaced.

So, I poke around. Just to see where I've landed.

Downstairs is part kitchen, part ancient chicken joint. 

Tori Ichiban—which I'm 90% sure means "Chicken Number One," though judging by the ceiling stains, it lost that title a long time ago.

Low tables. 

Tatami mats. 

The smell of soy sauce, beer, and fryer grease baked into every wooden surface. 

It's cluttered in that deliberate way—like someone knows exactly where everything is, even if no one else does.

Notes taped to the walls. 

Photos in crooked plastic frames. 

A calendar behind the register that stopped flipping three months ago. 

Bundles of drying herbs hang near the stairwell. 

A half-dead plant by the window is clinging to life out of sheer spite.

It's not clean.
But it's real.

My eyes land on a laminated menu, curled and half-folded by the counter. 

I pick it up. 

The plastic feels greasy.

I read.

HOUSE SPECIALS:

Spite Wings — ₸12  ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Brined in Wanzu, dusted with lava chili, deep-fried in recycled soy oil. Comes with a toothpick and a warning label.
"So hot, it'll make your ex apologize."

Gizzard Blitz — ₸9  ★ ★ ★
Grilled chicken gizzards glazed with burnt garlic soy. Served in a Jolt can.
Funky. Regrettable.

Neon Nuggets — ₸11  ★ ★
Cartilage bites dipped in mood sauce that changes color with temperature.
Crunchy. Questionable.

Jet's Bad Idea — ₸12  ★ ★ ★ ★
Fried chicken skin layered with blood sausage and sour mango.
The name says enough.

The Mop Bucket — ₸15  ★ ★ 
Necks, feet, and "bonus bits," dumped over rice and drowned in jet-fuel sauce.
Regret included. Gloves recommended. Nana banned it indoors. 

DRINKS:

Spud Light Beer (Tall Can) — ₸4
Local brew. Light, vaguely citrusy, decent when cold.
Best when paired with bad decisions.

Wanzu Draft (Pint) — ₸6
Spicy lager from South Kazei, guaranteed to punch you in the throat.
Chug responsibly. Or don't.

Cherry Death Cola (Limited) — ₸3
Wanzu, expired Jolt, ginger soda, and a questionable ice cube.
Discounted if you drink it without gagging.

I blink.

Read it again.

Then slower, like maybe the syntax will rearrange itself into something less criminal.

It doesn't.

Somewhere in Mujin, I'm pretty sure a Ministry of Clean Eating official just flatlined from psychic trauma.

Violations stack in my brain automatically—unsanitary prep, unauthorized organ use, emotional distress via sauce names.

And still... I kind of want to try Jet's Bad Idea.

Just once. Just to see if it lives up to the name.

I set the menu down. 

Equal parts disturbed, impressed, and morbidly curious.

The house creaks above me, pipes groaning like it's waking up too. 

I head for the stairs, brushing past a curtain strung with old receipt paper and mismatched beads. 

Up there, it's quiet.

Three rooms and a bathroom that sounds like it has asthma.

Jet's room. Nana's. And mine—for now—Andrei's. Jet's elusive brother.

The curtains are only half-closed. 

A desk sits neatly by the wall, worn smooth at the edges. 

A holotablet dock. 

Anatomy diagrams. 

A calendar covered in neat, anxious handwriting—exam dates, medication refill reminders, "Call Nana" circled twice.

Medical journals and tech manuals line the shelves. 

Some so dog-eared they look chewed. A photo sits in the corner—Jet and Andrei as kids. 

Wild grins. 

A bandage on her chin. 

A lab coat two sizes too big on him.

Pinned beside it, there's a pencil sketch—faded, yellowing—of a pair of lungs, drawn with shaky lines and quiet effort. It's labeled in small, careful script. Maybe his. Maybe hers.

The whole room feels like a pause. Like someone hit "save" before leaving, expecting to return.

His bed is stiff. 

Clean. 

No clutter. 

No secrets. 

Everything folded. 

Everything ready.

The kind of person who makes space for others before thinking about himself.

I don't know him.

But I feel him here.

Quiet. Intentional. 

The kind of brother you want to make proud, even if he never asked you to.

For a moment, it makes me think of my own brother.

Just a flicker. A pang in the ribs.

And I wonder—was I ever the kind of sister he could be proud of?

Or just the storm that passed through and left everything harder to clean?

I don't dwell on it for long.

A floorboard creaks behind the wall—heavy step, deliberate. 

Then another.

Muffled voices leak up from below.

Jet.

The door clicks open downstairs, followed by the dry whump of boots on hardwood and the metallic clang of something being tossed onto the counter. 

A soda can hisses open.

They're back.

I slide the menu off the desk and tuck it under my arm, heartbeat still steady—but not still. 

The house, silent for hours, stirs with their presence. 

The kind of shift you don't hear as much as feel. Like gravity reasserting itself.

By the time I'm halfway down the stairs, the kitchen's already full.

Jet's leaning against the sink, sleeves rolled, hair damp from the heat outside. 

Zeal's perched behind the register, spinning the stool with one foot like he lives here—which, knowing him, he might as well.

"Good. You're up," Jet says, eyes flicking to the menu I'm holding.

"You've been reading that?"

I nod. "Yeah... It's, uh. Creative."

Jet grins. "You wanna try anything?"

I pause. "I was thinking about the... Bad Idea."

She smirks, washing her hands on the sink. "Bold choice."

Zeal groans. "God, not again. It's not food, it's a dare."

"It builds resilience," Jet says, flicking water off her hands after a quick rinse. She wipes them on her jeans.

Zeal looks over. "How's Nana?"

Jet's smile fades a little. "Holding on. I put down the deposit. Now we wait."

The room shifts, heavy for a beat.

Then she claps. "Alright. Orders of business: Tori Ichiban needs to stay alive, which means we hustle."

"I can pick up part-time shifts," Zeal offers, stretching until his shoulder pops.

Jet turns to me. "You cook?"

I shake my head. "I can ruin boiling water. Does that count?"

"Perfect," She says. "You're on the register."

She turns to Zeal. "Which means you're cooking."

He grins. "Fine by me. I'm the better cook anyway. You just set the kitchen on fire."

Jet glares. "Once."

He raises two fingers. "Twice. I have video."

"You were drunk."

"You were the one holding lighter fluid."

They lock eyes. I'm not sure who's winning.

I raise my hand. "Can I just say—I haven't blown up anything. Yet."

Then Zeal spins his stool around, aiming his smirk at me. 

"Coming from someone who can't even boil water right."

Jet groans, grabs a towel, and slings it at his face. 

"Great. We're gonna die broke and crispy."

She claps her hands again—brisk. Focused. 

"Second order of business—we need to hit Uncle Kenzo's. Need to resupply."

Zeal perks up instantly. "Finally. My rig's been begging for upgrades."

Jet points a finger at me. "You're coming."

"Okay," I say, already pulling on my jacket. 

The collar's still warm from the midday heat trapped inside the house.

"Where's that?"

"You've been in Akagane before, right?"

I nod. "Yeah, but I never stayed long."

Zeal smirks as he puts on his respirator and pushes open the back door. The hinges let out a sharp squeal, and a curtain of hot air sweeps in—thick with alley grease, rust, and rain still steaming off the pavement from this morning's drizzle.

"Then consider this your official welcome tour."

The alley outside is narrow and crooked, buildings stacked like tired bones.

 Old wires droop between balconies. 

Rooftop water tanks drip in sync with a distant pipe leak. 

We pass a stack of broken crates, a mural of a crying dog tagged over with "F33D TH3 STRAY," and a food cart that smells like week-old squid tempura.

The streets are a collage of decay and invention—neon signs flicker over rusted metal, and every corner buzzes with the sound of tech being soldered, fried, or screamed at.

We duck through a side street that smells like burnt rubber and lychee vape, until we reach a low, dented building with a sign that flickers in two languages—one of which doesn't exist anymore.

Jet raps twice on the sheet-metal door. "Ace! Open up before I blow your lock again!". 

It opens with a mechanical stutter.

The bell above the shop buzzes. Glitchy. Low.

Kenzo Tech Repair is half scrapyard, half shrine, half museum of things that shouldn't work but still do. 

The air hits me stale and metallic, like hot copper.

Zeal's already inside, grinning. "Yo, Ace."

A grunt answers from the back. Then someone stands.

My first thought: There's two of them?

For a blink, it's like the city copy-pasted Zeal but forgot to scale him down.

He's huge. 6'5", cigarette behind one ear, socket wrench slung like a threat. 

Blunt face, calm. 

Like you'd wake up in a ditch if you crossed him.

This is Ace.

His eyes flick to me, then to Zeal. "This one yours?"

"New pickup. Still got the receipt."

Ace turns to me. "Name?"

"Tessa."

He grunts and goes back to sanding something between a rig and a spaceship.

Zeal winks. "Don't mind him. Allergic to small talk."

"Allergic to morons," Ace mutters.

Jet snorts behind me. "Flirt quieter, I'm trying to think."

Zeal stretches out a leg and knocks his boot lightly against Ace's. "You hear that, sweetheart? She thinks we've got chemistry."

Ace's wrench creaks in his grip. For a split second, I swear he considers lobbing it straight at Zeal's head.

Zeal just grins like he's done this a hundred times—probably because he has.

And me? I'm not sure if I should be terrified or amused.

I let their sniping fade into background static as my gaze wanders across the shop—past the tangled wires, cracked helmets, half-gutted rig torsos. 

It's a mess. 

But not chaos. 

This place is curated junk. 

A graveyard with intention.

And that's when I see it.

Half-tucked beneath Ace's bench, caked in dust and dried resin—something bulky, silver-edged, humming faintly in standby.

I crouch and pull it out with both hands, brushing off a layer of grime.

A modified riot core shield unit. 

The casing's heavy, but the internals have been stripped and refitted—someone knew what they were doing. 

I run a thumb along the edge of the housing, checking the charge socket. 

Still stable. 

The projection nodes pulse faintly, like they're sleeping.

"Shield unit?" Zeal crouches beside me. 

"Nice catch, Kite."

I turn it over. "Nodes look good... I think if I reroute the output, maybe wire it through a dermal jack, I can drop the deployment time. Cut the weight too. Kinda turn it into a—like—a burst-shield mod."

Zeal grins. "No full dome. Just fast, reactive pops. Block, redirect, counter."

"Exactly."

Ace's voice cuts in from across the bench. "I was saving that."

I glance back. "You were hoarding it."

He grunts. "Same thing."

Jet walks over, wiping her hands on an oil-stained rag. "You think you can get it running?"

"If I don't sleep tonight, yeah," I nod, still focused. "I can reprogram the pulse output and run sync tests."

Zeal leans against the table. "Wait—hold on. You ever even been inside a pit?"

I hesitate. "No."

He blinks. "Like... not even once?"

I shake my head. 

Jet hums, glancing down at the shield core in my hands. 

Then she smirks.

"Well, shit. Maybe you should wear it instead of Zeal."  she says. 

Zeal scoffs. "Wow."

"If she's not throwing hands, might as well block 'em."

Zeal opens his mouth to argue—then stops.

"...Okay, actually? Not the worst idea."

Jet raises a brow. "Yeah?"

"She's got the frame for it," Zeal says, gesturing lazily. "Smaller profile, tighter shield angle. That's a pain to track in close quarters—especially if she's running bursts."

I stare at him. "You're... not messing with me?"

"Nah. Everyone expects me to play tank. We flip that, I swing wide while you soak the openers—they won't see it coming." 

A beat. 

"Boom. Misdirect. Easy cleanup."

Jet's already nodding.
"Yeah. Let 'em aim for the wrong body. We sweep the rest."

I look down at the shield again. It's still warm in my hands. 

Like it already knows what I'm about to do.

Ace, silent until now, mutters from behind the workbench. 

"If she gets pancaked first round, I'm repossessing that rig."

I smirk. "Fair enough. I like a good warranty."