There was a pulse in the city.
But deeper still, there was one under his skin.
Kael felt it hum through his bones as he leaned against a cracked pillar beneath the upper-line tram rail, half-hidden in shadow. His hood was drawn low, face obscured from the flickering surveillance drones that swept through Sector 12 like mechanical vultures. The neon haze of Virelia always buzzed—screens barking advertisements, vendors screaming in three languages—but tonight, the city felt quieter. Tense. Like it, too, was waiting to see if he'd snap.
He didn't want to snap.
But the pulse was growing louder.
A boy staggered toward him through the alley's grime, breathing hard. Seventeen? Maybe. In Virelia, you either grew up fast or stopped growing altogether. His jacket was stitched with stolen gang colors, one hand hidden behind his back.
Kael's gaze flicked to the shadows.
"Gimme your credits," the boy barked, his voice a shaky growl. "Or I carve your neck like street meat."
Kael said nothing.
The knife flashed from the boy's sleeve—a thin, mono-edge blade buzzing faintly with cheap energy. It wasn't the first he'd seen. Wouldn't be the last.
The pulse in Kael's body thrummed.
He met the kid's eyes, and for a second, the world… pressed in. The air seemed heavier, denser. The shadows grew sharper.
"Wrong mark," Kael murmured.
The boy's face twitched. Fear bloomed behind the bravado, but pride kept him from backing down.
Kael didn't move. Didn't need to.
Reality did it for him.
The ground beneath the boy's feet shifted—just enough for him to stumble. His knife clattered to the concrete as his knees buckled. Kael stepped forward, calm, every movement coiled with quiet threat.
"You've got five seconds to vanish," Kael said. "If I still hear your breathing after that, your lungs become a memory."
The boy ran.
Not a word. Just vanished into the steam and smog, like prey remembering the shape of its predator.
Kael exhaled slowly. The pressure eased.
But the pulse—the one beneath his skin—remained. Stronger than before. Hungrier.
He turned, slipping deeper into the city's lower veins, past where the neon flickered and the sky was nothing but rusted piping and digital ghosts.
His contact waited in the shadows—an old man with cybernetic limbs, eyes made of glass, and veins just a shade too dark.
"You're late," the old man rasped, offering Kael a dented metal chip the size of a thumbnail.
Kael took it, slid it into his jacket. "Had to deal with trash."
"Trash doesn't tremble before turning corners." The old man squinted. "That storm inside you's getting louder, boy."
"I didn't ask for commentary," Kael muttered.
"Didn't ask to be born either. But look at you now."
Kael didn't answer.
Somewhere behind him, sirens wailed. A building above collapsed into itself with a sickening crunch. Another failed test subject, probably. Another reminder that the Syndicate was still digging for what they lost.
For what he stole.
Kael disappeared into the dark before the smoke settled.
And far above, behind a dozen surveillance feeds… someone was watching.