Management had already transmitted the coordinates. To K.P.R.’s concern, the destination was set in territory Epsilon (ε)—a volatile sector teetering on the edge of secession. It was a hotbed of dissent, crawling with those who despised AI legislation and the Ministry’s iron-fisted labor laws. For an emissary of the Big House like K.P.R. to set foot there was an open invitation for chaos.

"But they’ve already made up their minds," K.P.R. thought, letting out a heavy sigh. He understood the peril of the situation; this wasn’t just a mission, it was a walk through a powder keg.

Outside, after packing his meager belongings into a small satchel, K.P.R. approached a vehicle that resembled a high-performance motorcycle. With a swift snap of his fingers, the tattoo on his neck flared with a sudden, rhythmic glow before vanishing again. The bike’s lights hummed to life instantly—a seamless synchronization, as if the tattoo acted as a bridge, commanding the machine through some technology embedded in his skin.

As he mounted the bike, an old man leaning against a nearby soot-stained wall stopped him. Releasing a heavy stream of cigarette smoke, the man croaked, "Don't you think it’s a bad day to be out? The sky is starting to turn."

K.P.R. offered a faint, sardonic smile. "It's just a light drizzle. I’ve cross-referenced the weather patterns several times. A rider doesn't start his journey without being prepared."

The old man continued to puff, his eyes narrowing as he looked up. "I wasn't talking about the weather."

High above, a swarm of armored soldiers patrolled the murky skies. They gripped heavy shields, kept aloft by X-shaped jetpacks that roared with a low-frequency hum. K.P.R. looked up toward the armored units, watching them with a mixture of wonder and dread.

"So, it’s exactly as I feared," he whispered. "The Ministerial intervention forces are already here. Their numbers have swelled since last week. Ever since the lockdown of certain regions, the state was tightening its grip, desperate to suffocate any spark of civil war. I just hope this doesn't complicate the operation."

"Those bastards," the old man spat. "Still banning family gatherings. I haven't seen my daughter in months. I don't even know if she’s breathing."

"But... Solomon Atherdeen promised change, didn't he?" K.P.R. asked, his voice wavering with a rare touch of hesitation.

"What change? Solomon hasn't been seen since his last broadcast. People are starting to think the Atherdeen name is nothing more than a polished lie."

"Don't forget," K.P.R. countered, "it’s the Atherdeen family that guards the Graviton legacy—the machine that saved humanity from extinction."

"Or was it the very weapon that shattered the world in the first place?"

"But they used it to rebuild. They kept the peace for decades. What happens if that power falls into the wrong hands?"

The old man looked at K.P.R.’s bike, then at his own tattered rags. "Don't act so righteous while you’re riding a machine worth more than my foreclosed home. I have nothing left but these clothes. They took everything."

K.P.R. looked down, his voice dropping to a somber tone. "You know... I’ve been a friend to the Atherdeen family for years. I’m only trying to show you a side of him.. ahh... of them—that you might not know. And this bike? It isn’t mine. It’s Ministry property, issued to facilitate transport for staff. Nothing more."

"Heh. So you’re a Ministry lapdog. No wonder they give you the luxury class." The old man’s expression shifted to a bitter nostalgia. "I served in the Ministerial security apparatus for decades. I regret every single year I wasted. After I retired, they didn't even give me a decent 'thank you.' The funny thing is, you never realize how hollow the job is until your part in the play is over."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No," the old man said, his tone turning eerily sharp.

K.P.R. paused, his helmet tucked under his arm, struck by the sudden intensity in the man's voice. "What did you say?"

"Don’t be sorry," the man replied, taking one last drag of his cigarette and looking K.P.R. straight in the eyes. "you might be next. The real question is... will you wait until your part is over to realize it?"

It was one of the rare moments where words actually stung him. K.P.R. stood frozen, paralyzed by the old man’s words as if a rusted bullet had just pierced his soul.