I remember the first time my dad came home drunk and hit my mother. The bruise she had the next day was… well, she tried everything to hide it at work, but people talk, don’t they. And I know even in Low Town, where security was basically non?existent, people talk. Seems like life is just a game of cat and mouse — you run, you build, and then someone comes and kicks it all down. Hard to keep going in all that and find a purpose, even a shred of meaning. But I guess we fight too, don’t we.

  But the strange thing is how quickly you learn to read the room after that. How a slammed door becomes a weather report, how the scrape of a chair across the floor tells you more than any grown?up ever will. You start building little shelters in your mind — places where the shouting can’t reach, where you can pretend the world is made of steadier hands and softer voices. And even when you grow older, even when you leave Low Town behind, some part of you still listens for storms that aren’t coming. It’s like your bones remember before your mind does.

  And yet, somehow, people keep going. They patch themselves together with whatever they can find — work, friends, small rituals that make the days feel less like a battlefield. You watch others doing the same, carrying their own invisible bruises, and you realise survival isn’t always loud or heroic. Sometimes it’s just choosing to get up again, to take one more step, to believe that the next corner might hold something gentler. Maybe that’s the fight we all share, the quiet one, the one no one applauds but everyone understands. - Martin Gravesend

  After I flipped the generator lever, the lights stuttered once and died, giving me the cover I needed. I took the metal stairway two steps at a time, boots ringing against the steel as I climbed into the open street opposite. I knew I had to move fast—Redeemer sniper teams didn’t give second chances, and their spotters were even worse.

  The night was thick with oily blackness, the kind that swallowed sound and shape. Up ahead, I could just make out a dark mound of trash bags slumped behind a rusted sedan. That would be my first stop. I darted forward and hurled a glass bottle toward the alley behind me. It shattered with a sharp crack, echoing down the empty street. With any luck, it would pull their attention just long enough.

  My pulse hammered in my ears. Adrenaline sharpened everything—the cold air, the grit under my boots, the faint hum of the generator winding down behind me. I tried to focus on the task: get to Tom Whitemoore, lean on him hard enough to make him talk, but not so hard I’d have to carry him out. Not that I had the strength left to rough anyone up after dodging Redeemers all night.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay, Martin? The night’s still young,” I whispered to myself as I slid behind the car. The metal was cold against my back. I crouched low and shuffled toward the front bumper, waiting for the right moment to sprint.

  A thin red targeting laser swept across the street, slow and methodical. I held my breath, lungs burning, listening to the Redeemer knight’s voice drift through the dark.

  “Could’ve sworn I heard something, Irvine. Think Kalinda’ll give me a bonus if we catch anything? It’s the wife—she’s been on me about credits again.”

  His partner chuckled, boots scraping on broken asphalt. “She’ll give you a bonus if you come home alive. Keep your eyes open.”

  The laser paused. My muscles tightened. One wrong move and I’d be a smear on the pavement.

  The wind shifted, carrying the smell of burnt rubber and cold metal. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once and went silent.

  I waited for the scan to drift away, every second stretching thin as wire, knowing the next move had to be perfect. I glanced behind me for what might have been a second too long, taking in the glittering spread of shattered glass across the pavement blocks. Then I darted forward, angling for the corner, lunging as if I had to drag my own body through the air just to stay ahead of the scan?cam’s sweep. I could swear the beam skimmed past my foot as I slipped around the edge of the building. If I’d been detected, the drone gave no immediate answer—no alarm, no shift in pitch—so for a moment it felt like things were going well.

  Or so I thought.

  I moved up the street, keeping low, edging closer to my quarry’s flat on Rightview in Sector 6. The air felt tight, the kind of silence that presses against your ribs. Every step forward felt like a wager: one more metre gained, one more chance for the drone to double back, one more moment for the whole thing to collapse. But the target was close now—close enough that the tension in my chest sharpened into something like focus. As I closed the gap to the corner, I could just about make out the break in the row of shopfronts. Through the dim reflection on the glass, it looked like Whitemoore had done well for himself—either he’d opened a florist, or someone had opened one for him. Above it, a narrow window sat crooked in the brickwork, presumably the loft he lived in. A single bulb glowed behind the curtain, faint and jaundiced, like it was trying not to be noticed.

  I moved toward the shop, keeping my steps light on the uneven pavement. The air carried the faint sweetness of cut stems and damp soil, but underneath it was something sharper: the low, rhythmic thrum of a search scan. The drone—an ugly thing made of jagged, mismatched metal plates—hovered somewhere behind me, its engine coughing out that uneven mechanical heartbeat. Every few seconds the pitch shifted, as if it were tasting the air for movement.

  I didn’t dare look back again. The scan could have been sweeping the street, or it could have been locking onto me. Hard to tell. Harder to trust. The only thing I knew for certain was that the distance between me and Whitemoore’s door was shrinking, and the drone’s patience was not.

  The florist sign creaked overhead as a breeze pushed through the alley, and for a moment the whole street felt like it was holding its breath—waiting to see whether I’d make it to the door or whether the drone would round the corner and end the chase right there on the pavement. I knocked on the door and steadied myself, slipping a hand into my pocket for the syringe. My fingers trembled—not from fear, not exactly, but from the familiar edge of the seizures that always came when I pushed too hard for too long. I pressed the injector to my skin and felt the faint click as it delivered the dose. A warm, orange?gold glow spread through my veins, subtle at first, then blooming outward like sunrise behind my ribs. The shakes eased. My vision sharpened. Even Darktown looked a little brighter for a heartbeat or two, colours lifting at the edges as if someone had turned up the contrast on the world.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The florist’s sign above me creaked in the wind, petals painted on wood shifting in the dim light. The air smelled faintly of damp stems and cold brick. Behind me, somewhere out in the street, the drone’s search pulse throbbed again—steady, methodical, too close for comfort. Its uneven hum bounced off the shopfronts, making it impossible to tell how far away it really was.

  I kept my eyes on the door. Footsteps approached on the other side—slow, cautious, the kind of steps someone takes when they’re not expecting company at this hour. The latch clicked. A thin line of warm light cut across the threshold, widening as the door opened.

  Whitemoore stood there, framed in the glow from inside. His silhouette was sharper than I remembered—leaner, more guarded, like he’d been living with one eye on the street for months. The scent of flowers drifted out around him, soft and strangely out of place against the tension coiled in my chest.

  For a moment, neither of us spoke. The drone hummed again in the distance, and the light behind him flickered as if the whole building was holding its breath

  He cracked the door open slowly, the hinges creaking in protest. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the tension palpable in the air. Fear etched deep lines on his face, his eyes wide with apprehension. Sensing the impending danger, I reacted swiftly, jamming my arm into the narrow gap of the door to prevent it from slamming shut on me. With a determined push from my boot, the door flew open wide, startling him as he jumped back in shock, his eyes widening in fear.

  "Come on, mate. I'm not here for trouble," I said in a calm and steady voice, my presence unwavering. Stepping inside quickly, I wasted no time as my fist connected forcefully with his chest, a sharp crack echoing through the room as his ribs gave way under the impact, causing him to crumple to the floor, gasping for breath.

  "You said something bad. They told me all about it," I growled, my voice low and menacing. He scrambled away frantically, his hands scraping against the rough floor as he tried to stand, only to find himself crawling backward, a desperate attempt at escape like a cornered rat.

  I stomped my foot down hard on his left leg, pinning him in place as a raw scream tore through the room, sweat beading on his forehead under the pressure. The drone outside hummed louder, its buzz growing closer, time running short.

  "They just want what you owe them," I stated firmly. "Pay up, and I'll be out of your hair for good."

  He struggled to speak through strained breaths. "I don't have it. Even if I did, why would I give it to you?"

  A short, bitter laugh escaped me as I saw through his facade. With a deliberate twist of my heel, I ground my foot into his leg, tearing muscle and causing excruciating pain that contorted his face further. The weight of the debt loomed heavily between us, the ultimatum clear – pay or suffer the consequences. This was the job: extracting payment or ensuring he regretted not doing so.

  My doubts hit me hard—again. The idea of doing this cleanly was slipping through my fingers, and the drone’s presence made it worse. Its hum rolled down the street like a warning, each pulse a reminder that I didn’t have the luxury of dragging this out. I couldn’t take him out, and I knew leaning on force wouldn’t get me what I needed—not fast enough, not with that machine closing in.

  The neurotellin sharpened everything. Colours, sounds, the faint tremor in the floorboards, the uneven rhythm of his breathing. My senses stretched out across the room, searching for anything—anything—that could turn this mess into a solvable puzzle. The drone’s hum shifted pitch—closer, sharper, like it had finally caught the scent. Instinct kicked in. I lifted my foot off Whitemoore’s leg and backed away, scanning the room for anything that could buy me seconds. That’s when I spotted it: a child’s toy on the stairs, a bright plastic thing out of place in the dim loft. A reminder he wasn’t alone here. A reminder of why he’d break before he’d fight.

  I slipped behind the floor pillar, back pressed tight against the cold wood. My voice stayed low, steady.

  “What if I went upstairs? Maybe the tooth fairy left me some money.”

  Whitemoore’s face twisted. “You… you’re a real piece of work,” he muttered, voice shaking. But the fight drained out of him. He knew exactly what I meant, and exactly what I didn’t want to do.

  He sagged, defeated. “Fine. Fine. It’s under the dresser. I’ll get it.”

  He limped toward the stairs, each step heavy with resignation. The drone’s thrum vibrated through the walls now, rattling the window frame. I kept my breathing slow, forcing calm into my limbs. Maybe I relaxed too much—maybe the neurotellin made everything feel just a little too sharp, a little too easy.

  Whitemoore came back down clutching a bundle of notes. His hand shook as he held it out. For a heartbeat, it looked like this might actually end clean.

  Then he screamed.

  “INTRUDER!”

  The word tore through the house like a flare. I didn’t think—I just moved. I dove for the back window, shoulder first, glass exploding outward as I hit the alley behind the shop.

  The drone didn’t hesitate. It surged through the front of the house, metal plates clattering, engines roaring. Its sensors swept the room in a violent arc, blasting chunks out of the plaster as it tore through the doorway. The whole building shuddered under the force of it.

  I hit the ground hard, rolled, and scrambled to my feet. The drone’s shadow spilled across the alley as it pivoted toward the broken window, its searchlight slicing through the dust and petals drifting in the air.

  The job had gone sideways. Fast. And now the whole sector knew someone was running.

  . I’d come for money—simple, clean, in and out. But nothing about this was clean anymore. Whitemoore wouldn’t be talking to anyone now, not after the scare I’d put into him. Fear shuts people down. Scared people don’t testify, don’t gossip, don’t breathe a word unless they’re forced to.

  And Whitemoore was terrified.

  The drone’s engines roared through the broken window behind me, its searchlight slicing across the alley like a blade of white fire.