Karauro’s world returned in darkness—dust and grit drifting through the air like ash.

  Pain lit his nerves the moment he tried to breathe. He coughed hard, metallic taste flooding his mouth. Panic cinched his throat and made every inhale jagged.

  The only light came from a cracked display on his terminal, blinking weakly through haze.

  [Dispersal of Fall Foam]

  [Status: Unknown]

  He forced his eyes up.

  A Griever hung from the fractured ceiling like a butchered trophy, caught in warped elevator wire and bent ribs of metal.

  Its talons dangled. Its face was a four-cornered mouth packed with teeth. Orange eyes scattered across it, dulled like embers—lifeless.

  Ichor dripped from puncture wounds and hissed when it hit the foam.

  Each hiss felt like a countdown.

  Karauro shifted back instinctively—

  The foam locked him in place.

  His legs were pinned. The elevator floor tilted like it wanted to swallow him whole.

  He reached for his utility belt and found his knife with shaking fingers.

  One cut.

  Then another.

  Foam peeled away in stubborn chunks. One leg came loose.

  He hacked at the rest, jaw clenched, refusing to look up again.

  A cold drop hit his forehead.

  He froze.

  The ceiling creaked—slow and heavy—like something shifting its weight.

  The Griever twitched.

  A cackle scraped from its throat, wrong and broken, like laughter learned from a dying recording.

  The wires rattled.

  From the cavity on its back, something pushed out.

  A stinger—wet, ridged, too long for the space it lived in.

  It snapped toward him through the cage-wire.

  Karauro jerked away and slammed into the elevator wall. The exit sloped down—no room to sprint, nowhere to build speed.

  The stinger struck again, scraping metal, probing gaps.

  Karauro’s gaze darted—

  Then caught it.

  A faint blue glow beneath the Griever’s damaged plating. Lower. Deeper.

  Looks like a heart!

  His eyes snapped to the floor.

  A jagged pipe lay half-buried in foam, splintered like a broken spearhead.

  He flexed his hand.

  His kinetic glove activated with a soft hum.

  The pipe trembled.

  Then tore loose, slamming into metal as it snapped toward him.

  He caught it just as the Griever twisted the cage-wire tighter.

  The stinger lashed.

  Karauro shoved himself sideways, shoulder scraping steel, and jammed the pipe upward through a gap—toward the glow.

  The Griever shrieked and bucked. Jaws split wider. Teeth clattered like needles.

  The pipe didn’t go in clean.

  It fought him—like something inside was resisting.

  Karauro planted his boots and pushed harder, arms aching, and shouted.

  Then—

  The pipe slipped forward.

  It pierced something dense.

  Black ichor streamed down his arms, splattering his chest. The blue glow dimmed.

  The orange eyes went out one by one.

  The creature sagged into the wire, heavy and dead. Its stinger hung like a broken cord.

  Karauro didn’t move for a second.

  He gasped, trembling, unable to look away as though waiting for it to come alive.

  Boots approached—multiple pairs.

  Radio static crackled.

  Karauro backed toward a wall riddled with holes, mind racing as he weighed choices he didn’t have.

  Before he decided—

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Two gloved hands yanked him into one of the openings.

  A palm clamped over his mouth.

  Cold steel pressed against his throat.

  Outside, scavengers rounded the corner and spotted the impaled Griever hanging in the shaft above.

  “How’d they vanish that fast?” one man cursed, scanning.

  “Could be trained,” another replied. “They know how to move in these ruins.”

  A third fired his rifle into the air. “You can hide all you want, asshole! Chrome-scavs will dissect you!”

  Karauro caught a glimpse of his captor’s eyes through the poly-glass slit—

  One violet.

  The other faintly glowing.

  Static erupted somewhere distant.

  The scavengers snapped their heads toward it and took off.

  When the footsteps faded, the hand loosened on his mouth.

  The blade eased off his throat.

  Slim.

  Light.

  A woman.

  She spun him around and shoved him forward. The cold metal of a barrel pressed against his head.

  “Keep moving,” she commanded, applying slight pressure like she didn’t need to raise her voice.

  He nodded and complied.

  Stepping close, she removed his utility belt with one hand.

  Knife gone.

  “Go,” she said. “Try anything and you’ll regret it.”

  The corridor narrowed fast. Their shoulders skimmed walls slick with water and grime.

  The air smelled like burnt polymer and old blood.

  Stopping wasn’t an option. If she wanted him dead, it would’ve happened already.

  She moved like gravity worked softer on her—light steps, no hesitation.

  When dim lights flickered, her armor picked up the pulse like it was breathing.

  At a rusted security gate, she lifted her forearm.

  A Nexon plate flashed.

  A hiss of code left her throat.

  The lock opened.

  “Inside.”

  Karauro ducked through.

  The room beyond used to be a vending hub—cracked tile, stripped shelves, half the ceiling caved in.

  A single lamp swung from a wire, buzzing like it wanted to die.

  The woman holstered her pistol, then popped her helmet seals and pulled it free.

  Purple hair fell loose for a moment before she shoved it back.

  One eye violet and sharp.

  The other threaded with faint circuitry.

  Too young to sound that cold.

  “Name?”

  “Karauro.”

  She stared at him like she tasted it.

  “Sounds like someone useless.” She folded her arms. “Sector?”

  “Athereon’s. Trash pits. Sector Nineteen.”

  Her laugh was short and mean. “Figures. I crawl through rot to find a shit-sector stray.”

  “I didn’t ask you to find me.”

  “No. You didn’t.” Her cyber-arm buzzed as she checked a joint like it annoyed her. “Thought I’d snag someone valuable. Instead I got a rat.”

  He held her stare a second too long. “Then you should’ve left me.”

  “Thought about it.” She stepped closer—metal, sweat. “You kept moving. That’s unusual for your kind.”

  “My kind?”

  “Sector rats.” Her voice stayed flat. “Talk back again and I’ll test how much spine you’ve got.”

  His kinetic glove twitched.

  He forced his fingers open, slow and obvious.

  Something flicked in her gaze.

  Not mercy.

  Calculation.

  “Come on,” she said. “If you fall behind, you stop existing.”

  ---

  They cut through old concourse tunnels.

  The walls sweated oil. Far ahead—voices. Men laughing like they owned the ruin-space.

  She raised a hand.

  “Quiet.”

  They crouched behind a cracked pillar.

  Through a gap, Karauro saw a camp: five scavengers around a fire made from synthetic crates.

  Patchwork armor—stolen plates, taped mags. Each wore the same patch: a black-painted open palm.

  The woman exhaled through her teeth. “Great. They’re here too.”

  “Who are they?” Karauro whispered.

  “People who strip bodies before they stop moving.” Her tone stayed flat. “Chrome-scavs.”

  Karauro’s stomach tightened.

  “We cut north,” she murmured. “No noise.”

  They slid along the shadow line.

  Karauro’s boot nudged a can.

  She totally jinxed me...

  Clack.

  His blood went cold.

  “Shit,” she hissed.

  “Who’s there?” a Merc called.

  Boots approached.

  She spun, clamping a hand over Karauro’s mouth and yanking him against the pillar.

  “Don’t move.”

  A scav rounded the corner, rifle half raised—

  Violet steel flashed.

  The rifle hit the ground in two pieces—and the man hit after it.

  The camp erupted.

  “Left,” she snapped.

  Karauro dove as gunfire chewed concrete. Dust burst like smoke.

  She moved fast—clean cuts, short shots, no wasted motion.

  One broke away and ran.

  Karauro saw a dropped rifle.

  He grabbed it, shouldered it—

  —and fired.

  The shot cracked wild, chewing concrete and throwing sparks.

  “Damn it—”

  His jaw tightened. Not fear.

  Annoyance.

  His kinetic glove hummed.

  A jagged pipe tore loose from rubble and skidded forward like a thrown tooth.

  Karauro snapped his wrist.

  The pipe slammed into the runner’s leg.

  A wet, ugly hit.

  They collapsed hard, screaming.

  Karauro stepped toward them, breath sharp—thinking he’d finish what he started—

  A single bark behind him.

  Her pistol.

  The runner’s head snapped once, then went slack like a switch got flipped.

  Silence rushed in around the echo.

  Karauro froze for half a second, staring.

  This is what “clean” looks like.

  She didn’t glance back.

  “I leave you,” she said, irritation cutting through calm, “if you freeze again.”

  She walked through bodies without slowing.

  Karauro followed because she still hadn’t said he could stop.

  ---

  They hit a stairwell lit by a dying green strip. She sealed her helmet back on; her voice went distant through filters.

  “North route’s clear. Outpost’s east.”

  “Outpost?”

  “You don’t get to know yet.”

  “Then why bring me?”

  A pause that felt like weighing him.

  Then her voice came quieter—not softer. Colder. Honest.

  “Because most people out here already belong to someone,” she said. “Mercs. Scavs. Corps. Debt chains.”

  Karauro said nothing.

  “If you were Mercy-brained,” she continued, “you would’ve tried to trade me the moment you saw my eyes.”

  His throat tightened.

  She nudged him forward.

  “Spine can use hands that aren’t rotten,” she said. “And right now… those are rare.”

  He swallowed.

  She didn’t look at him when she finished it.

  “So you’re coming.”

  ---

  They moved off the main road into feeder lanes that bled between buildings. Wind smelled like dust and electricity.

  The concrete dipped into a stagnant floodline, so they skirted a dry edge where the city still held together by spite.

  She stopped hard.

  Crouched behind an abandoned car.

  Beckoned him in with two fingers.

  He slid in fast, heart punching his ribs.

  She unclasped her helmet, purple hair spilling free, and shoved him into the passenger seat. The door shut with careful pressure.

  This time, her hand didn’t cover his mouth.

  It pinned his throat lightly—control without panic.

  With her other hand, she lifted a finger.

  Don’t.

  A shadow swallowed the street.

  Karauro’s eyes locked on it through the grimy windshield.

  A Griever.

  Bigger than the one in the elevator. Spikes jutted from its back. Two scythe-like arms scraped the concrete as countless smaller legs skittered under its long torso.

  Karauro didn’t breathe.

  The creature brushed past, and the car trembled. Each step hit like a dull hammer through the frame.

  Her ear-piece comm crackled faintly.

  “Unit Seven,” a voice whispered. “Large-class moving west. Trail matches last night’s ping. Let it pass.”

  “Copy,” a man replied. “Keep distance.”

  She stayed perfectly still until the creature was no longer there.

  Then she exhaled slowly and pushed herself off Karauro like nothing happened.

  Exited the vehicle, he trailed behind her.

  ---

  They traced the ridge until the remnants gave way to a broader path.

  She settled near a broken barrier, holding binoculars, and then passed them to Karauro.

  He hesitated.

  She gestured once: look.

  “Match the coordinates,” she said. “West.”

  Karauro aligned the direction.

  “We’ve got a Hauler waiting,” she continued. “We move before dark.”

  Under a highway ramp, a large grey vehicle sat parked. Two armored soldiers stood nearby, plates marked with a skeletal figure with a red spine—matching hers.

  Karauro heard her quick comm exchange.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I know. He isn’t worth looking at.”

  Karauro tightened his jaw, handing the binoculars back without a word.

  Wherever he was headed now, he wanted to truly live—not become another victim of the ruins.

  Above, a flock of crows descended—wrong-looking things compared to what he remembered from books.

  Bulkier.

  Heavier.

  They looked as if they had two heads.

  The woman watched them too long, calculating.

  Then clicked her tongue, irritated.

  "Those aren't crows anymore. So we need to hurry."

  "Ready, Rat?"

  Nera, being stealthy, cold, and calculating, leaves Karauro aware that he can't overpower her. What brings him to Spine?

  At the end of the next chapter, there is an illustration of Nera Caldwell.