… Many asked him why he wore his hair long and tied in a ponytail. 

That, if it weren’t for that, he would look less attractive, less feminine too. 

O, no. No. 

Taj had tried. 

How many years? Since he was twelve? 

He wasn’t sure of his exact birthdate. Cartel estimated it, but even they weren’t sure… had he really been trying for twenty years?

Taj suddenly had a thought and shuddered, deep down.

“How old am I? And what have I achieved? Nothing, no?”

For a moment, sadness took hold of him. 

He had these thoughts more often recently. But then, as usual, anger appeared, and Taj had to stop himself from clenching his fist. 

He had someone to be angry with. Cartels and the Clar family. 

Why? O, reasons easy.

But his ponytail. Taj tried. In every combination, and it was only worse. 

He looked even more like a beautiful woman. Or, like a model on fancy lingerie posters. In the City, both paths would have been even more problematic. 

When wearing a ponytail, he was harassed less than when he tried alternative styles.

Soon it would be his arena’s fight time.

Shortly, a few minutes.

Cartel, the one into which he was sold. 

The one that destroyed his Ability path, forced artificial energy Crystal, inserted this rough embedding, and trained him to be their worker. Taj was perceived as talented in both areas, science and fighting. 

Science was more important. 

After the Disruption, few people were left, and fewer were into science. 

So, the boss allowed him to study.

Taj had always dreamed of working at TU University. 

But for a cartel boy? 

That was impossible. 

Not to mention that his main dream was to cultivate Ability, natural energy, and join the Sect. This was not to be achieved as well.

Thanks to whom? 

Cartel. 

But more to the Clar family. 

The one that invented artificial energy, produced the best Crystals, and sold them cheaply to cartels so they could use talented kids with Ability as their puppets.

“Thank you, Clar. O, thank you.” Taj said, in his thoughts, bitterly. 

Just thinking about it all made him feel angry.

It was his turn.

Taj entered the arena, looking around. 

The crowd was thick and cheering. He shut himself off from it and looked around again.

The first opponent, Crystaler. A big one.

They always underestimated him. Why? Because of his face? 

Did a pretty face mean his skills dropped by fifty percent?

Amazing.

Taj aroused his energy and prepared himself.

Crystaler attacked. 

He started to run, clearly wanting to use his mass. Taj waited until he was close and let himself be knocked down. It would be painful, but in this way, his opponents usually underestimated him even more.

Taj also morphed a weapon into his hand. 

He managed to hide it all the time, during the fights. He always pretended afterward that he had brought a weapon with him, not that he was a morpher. 

There weren’t many morphers.

Everything was allowed here, except killing. 

The fighters healed immediately after the fight, and also during it, if they still had Crystal attached and working—and that was what Taj was aiming for. 

Crystal.

They hadn’t even hit the ground when Taj struck at Crystal’s embedding of his opponent with the morphed blade, digging in and slicing along the edge. As if he wanted to perform surgery and, like a surgeon, cut it out of the body.

Crystaler started screaming.

Then, someone new ran into the arena.

Not someone. Something?

“O? That is a surprise,” Taj mumbled, trying to finish the first one, to make him finally unconscious without being in the embrace. 

He got out from under the leg that was crushing him in time to dodge.

Dancing.

Being a dancer helped so much in these fights. 

Dodges were like the most beautiful dance.

Taj dodged, and only then he noticed it. 

What was trying to reach him was not a hand. 

Or rather, it was, but a strange one. 

So, it was the truth—what all were saying recently. Cartels actually transformed people into something like this.

What evil.

Taj had many thoughts and a deep sadness within him. 

And anger. 

So much anger. 

As he dodged another attack, his gaze locked onto its eyes. 

Blank, empty. 

But when his blade struck—it flinched. It could feel.

How many fights would it be forced to endure? It was forbidden to kill here. How many? This was worse than slavery.

Cartels had been catching people for years; everyone knew. Taj himself had been a victim. 

But now what? Had they started to change those they caught into something like this? Monsters, creatures—what were these forms? 

For what did cartels do it, to make more money from it? 

Terrible.

These thoughts quickly passed through his mind. 

Then an idea struck him.

Taj tried to grab the clawed hand, managed for a second, and then, as he got closer and needed to avoid another hand, he had a chance to shout something. He wanted to check if this someone would answer.

What he did had an effect. He saw it in those eyes, as if the fog had dispersed for a moment. It tried to respond but didn’t do it properly. 

Yet, it was understandable.

One word that told it all.

“Please.”

Taj decided. 

He knew what he needed to do. 

He changed tactics; he had to break the rules and kill; he had to save this transformed human.

Another dodge, then Taj caught the strange, clawed hand and broke it. He dodged the other, but he also caught it. He held both and had to avoid the teeth, rather fangs. 

He squeezed these hands in one of his own, and with the other, struggling, Taj morphed a bigger blade by his finger and stuck it in the eye of this someone. Right into the brain.

The body slid down on him to the ground.

Taj looked around and took a breath.

They announced that he would get a penalty for breaking the rules, with his earnings reduced by three-quarters.

He let out air and took another breath, then he bent down—Taj closed the eyes for this someone. 

Then he left the arena.

As Taj walked to the changing room, more angry thoughts crowded his mind.

“How much longer would I need to do it to pay off the debt? Why is it all like this? Life here is despicable. It is all about the money.”

Then, his mind recollected something from earlier that day, only a few hours before. Money. 

This boy. 

The one Taj teased a few weeks ago. What did he say today? His name, Riley? Riley.

Money.

Taj somehow hoped it would end earlier. 

But this boy tried to make contact several times over the weeks.

It was no problem; Taj ignored it.

What did this boy, Riley, say today? That he had the money? For what? What he wanted to buy?

“Me.” Taj said to himself.

Rowan also noticed it and tried to laugh it off. 

Taj couldn’t laugh.

So many men, so many times, asked Taj to take their money. 

Asked about his rates per hour, for two hours, or per night. Just touching, no cuddling. How much for tasting him? Bottom, top? Once or twice, with bonuses available if more were bought upfront? These words, Taj didn’t make them up. 

These were real questions when he was walking on the streets, asked by random people.

Not once. 

Not twice. 

Many, too many times.

Again, like something to buy in a shop. 

‘What a pretty face and body, I want; here is my money; thank you; no need to pack it for me; I will use it right away; no bill needed.’

It was tiring. It was disgusting. The City—indecent.

The moment he stopped being a child, the harassment began. 

Since the first talks of this kind, he himself stopped being interested in any relations, anything like this. 

No feelings. No reactions. 

His body had been trained—conditioned—to feel nothing.

Today, at first, Taj had a thought that he overreacted. Rowan commented on it that Riley said something stupid, and that would be all. 

Maybe. But Taj started to think it was quite odd and later asked around.

What he got to know was that this boy was not nice and shy. He had been stalking him for weeks. 

And had money because, as Taj also painfully learned today, Riley paid people to get information on him. He said he had money—Taj could confirm. 

O, yes, he had.

When Taj discovered it, he decided to distance himself from the boy. 

It would be as usual. This Riley should resign after a few more weeks.

Not the first and not the last time.

Lately, Taj had wondered if love was even possible for him. 

Real love. 

Love that wasn’t a transaction—his love would be for free. 

No money was needed.

Then he thought again about his debt.

“Our reality is difficult. Of the poor, the reality of the poor.”

// LOG: 48 ACD-5-20 the City 

🌆 ⛓️ This doesn't look good…

What's next? → next episode soon.