It had been a smokey day.
A woman dragged herself across a marble floor slick with blood and dust. Her firearm was empty, its weight more a burden than a weapon now.
She clawed forward with one hand, the other pressing against the place where her right eye had once been. The socket was dark, ruined, throbbing with every heartbeat. Still she moved, inch by inch, toward the mangled corpse that lay sprawled before her.
Her husband. What was left of him, at least. His body was broken, scattered pieces of flesh where once there had been warmth. She could not recognize him except for the clothes he wore. Even then, she told herself she knew. She had to know. She collapsed against the marble beside him, and her breath came out like smoke.
The world had been forged on sins. Each one pressed down, spiral upon spiral, a city turned inward on its own. Those who carried will, those who tried to live with kindness, were trampled by boots that did not care, by men and syndicates who found pleasure in indifference. Good will rarely lasted here. It was punished, mocked, carved into the ledger of the city like a cruel joke.
One of her comrades had been nothing more than a spotter. He had sharp eyes and a steady voice but no fists, no blade, no weapon that mattered when knives came out. His mistake was carrying a rifle that looked too fine for someone who could not fight. The syndicate noticed. They dragged him away for daring to walk too close to their candy factory. They carved him up, piece by piece, until he was less a man than a warning. And then, proud of their filth, they hung what was left outside their doors where children could see.
When her husband found himself with rage drowned out sense.
He had been a friend.
A brother in all but blood.
He stormed the factory with nothing more than his shotgun and his grief, and he tore through half the syndicate in a night. Shell after shell, a song of vengeance echoing through sugar-stained walls. But the Middle had eyes everywhere. They came. And when they came, they wrote his name into the Book of Vengeance. He was marked, and he was killed, his body joining the endless cycle of debts and reprisals.
His name was not the only one carved into that cursed book. His wife's name followed. Sophia. And their children–
But the children's names were fed into the Concept Incinerator. Letters that once formed identity were turned to oblivion. The faces of her children blurred and then vanished in her own memory, scrubbed from memory as though they had never been born. She knew she had held them once. She knew she had loved them. But she could not picture their hair, their laughter, the shape of their hands. All that was left was absence. And absence was worse than grief.
The woman staggered on the marble. Her heart screamed that there was nothing left to lose. She pulled herself upright with one last surge of strength, pressed her bloodied palm against the floor, and leveled her empty weapon.
She chose to finish the syndicate. She chose to burn every last one of them, even if it meant her corpse would join her husband's on the cold marble.
The marble floor was cold against her cheek. She was almost sure she had closed her eyes, but the steps behind her kept her awake. Not the rush of a killer or the stumble of the wounded, like someone who had seen too much of this place already.
A woman's voice slipped through the haze.
"An awful day, isn't it."
Sophia's breath rasped out. She forced herself up on one elbow, empty rifle sliding against the marble.
Familiarity.
"Ja," she answered, voice raw and cracked. "Zis is it."
The stranger crouched beside her. A hand touched her shoulder. "Your children are safe under my care now."
The words twisted like a knife. Safe. Under her care. But names burned away in the Concept Incinerator could not be safe. Faces forgotten could not be protected. Still, something in the voice clawed against despair.
"I don't vork with a syndicate."
"No," the woman said. The faintest smile appear in her tone. "But how about work with a friend?"
Sophia let her shoulders slacken. She shut her one good eye. "Zat is… alright."
The marble blurred. The smoke thickened. The world gave way.
When she opened her eyes again, morning light pressed against the cracked blinds of her living room. The old rocking chair creaked beneath her.
"We can't just walk through the district without a guide, Kamina. Not here."
"Tch. A guide? What, are we tourists now?"
Shmuel shook his head. "No!"
By the window, Pisanio stood quietly, brushing Imogen's hair. The strands caught the morning light–white streaked with crimson at the tips, like the last burn of a fire before ash.
Sophia sat forward in the chair. Her hand went to her temple, half-expecting to feel blood again. Instead, only the deep ache of memory. She let her gaze linger on Imogen, the girl's profile etched against the glow of morning.
"Ja…", she said,"She does sure look like her mother."
Sophia rose from the rocking chair, the creak of old wood following her like a sigh. Her hand brushed the wrinkles from her coat out of habit and she moved toward the small stove. The faint clatter of tin and the hiss of heating water filled the quiet.
The smell of instant coffee soon seeped through the room.
Imogen's voice broke the silence first. "Miss… could you become our guide through District Thirteen?"
Sophia didn't turn right away. She stirred the coffee, slow circles, watching the steam twist. "You ask zis after already being knee-deep in ze Quarter? Vy you not hire someone before, hm? Before you valk into ze nest?"
Shmuel shifted, scratching the back of his neck. "We tried. Every fixer we approached backed out the second they heard the name Brithelm. No one wants to get involved."
Sophia gave a small snort. "Ja. Brithelm does not sing ze sweetest song around here."
Shmuel pressed on. "So that means… Brithelm's knights can't do much here, right?"
"Not quite," Pisanio said. "While Brithelm's knights themselves are forbidden to tread in M Corp's quarter, their allies are not. There are syndicates and mercenaries who still honor their oaths. But that isn't our only concern."
He set the brush down. "Fixer offices and syndicates with old grudges against the Grey King will want her–alive, if only to make him bleed through her. And worse…" He looked to the window, where the skyline of the city loomed. "A Wing could take interest."
Sophia took a slow sip of her coffee, the bitterness grounding her thoughts. Then she nodded once, curtly. "Zen I vill be your guide. District 13 is a maze, and ze Knights here–they are not ze gallant kind. You vill need someone who knows vhich streets bite and vhich only bark."
"And… I vill be your spotter. If you vant to learn ze Barrett, you learn ze way your mutter did. Through patience and through blood, if need be."
Imogen blinked, surprised.
Kamina leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Guess that's settled, huh? The Old lady joins the band."
Sophia's eye narrowed, though her lips twitched at the corner. "Keep talking, ja? Maybe I teach you how to be quiet–permanently."
Kamina only laughed.
The group stepped out into the streets.
The sun, half-choked behind the clouds of exhaust, offered no warmth–only a pale, sterile light that turned the alleys into streaks of gray.
Sophia locked the door behind her, the sound of the latch echoing down the narrow street. She adjusted the strap of her rifle and began walking ahead, her boots crunching on the broken glass that glittered faintly underfoot.
"Listen vell, kleine Prinzessin," she said without looking back. "In zis city, there is a law. It is ze Law of Gut Vills and Bad Deeds."
Imogen tilted her head, following close beside her. "What kind of law is that?"
Sophia lit a cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before the smoke vanished into the fog. "A cruel one," she said. "Gut vill–doing ze right thing–it does not pay vell here. You save someone, ja? Maybe zey live for a day or two. Maybe zey sell you out ze next morning. Gut vill is punished in zis place, always. But bad deeds? Bad deeds feed you. Keep you alive for a few more days."
She exhaled. "If you vant to survive long enough to see your X Corp boy again, you must remember zis, Imogen. Ze city does not care for heroes."
Kamina, walking just behind her, suddenly threw his hands up. "What the hell is that?!"
Sophia glanced over her shoulder. "It is truth."
"The hell it is!" Kamina shouted, voice rising loud enough to startle a few passersby. "If she wants to do a good deed, then she just does it! Who cares if it gets punished?!"
"You sink zis city vill clap for her? You sink ze Sweepers vill give her medal before zey eat her corpse, ja? Her organs vill be sold to laboratories before ze blood even dries!"
"And what, doing bad deeds is any better? Turning a blind eye and calling it survival? That's just saying the world's broken and you're fine letting it rot!"
"I do not like it, Dummkopf. I accept it. Acceptance is not ze same as approval."
"Well I don't accept jack!" Kamina yelled. "If you see something wrong, you do something about it! Even if it's stupid, even if it kills you!"
"Zen you vill die, ja? Brave and useless."
"Maybe! But I'll die swinging, not sitting!"
They rounded the corner, the tension in the air thick enough to cut–until Kamina's eyes caught something.
Down the street, three Kurokumo henchmen were shaking down a man near a row of rusted vending machines. One of them snatched the man's wallet while another cracked his knuckles.
Sophia muttered, "See? Bad deeds. Zey live well."
Kamina didn't answer. He just walked forward.
Before anyone could stop him, he was behind the trio.
The hilt of his katana cracked against the first thug's skull–thud!–and the man dropped instantly. The second turned just in time to catch a knee to the stomach and another smack to the jaw, collapsing onto the pavement. The last Kurokumo spun around, blade halfway drawn, but Kamina's uppercut met him mid-motion. Teeth scattered like dice on concrete.
The whole fight lasted less than ten seconds.
The beaten thugs groaned, their tattoos dimming as consciousness fled. The man they'd been robbing didn't even thank Kamina–he just bolted down the alley, clutching what was left of his wallet.
Kamina stood there, stretching his shoulder, then looked back at Sophia and Imogen. "See?" he said, grinning through the bruises on his knuckles. "Not the right way. Not the best way. But it's my way."
Sophia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mein Gott… you are madman."
Pisanio murmured, "Perhaps. But a madman with conviction moves mountains more often than a wise man with doubt."
Sophia huffed smoke through her nose. "Or he gets crushed under ze mountain first."
Shmuel rubbed the back of his neck. "We should move," he said. "You just knocked out three Kurokumo henchmen, Kamina. That noise will bring more."
But Kamina didn't move.
"When you say people are bad by nature…" Kamina began, "I can't help but laugh."
"Oh, bitte. Now you vill lecture me on human nature, ja?"
He didn't answer her–he was already lost in his own words.
"Every man and woman," Kamina said, his tone rising, "is born with the same light within them. It is not good, nor evil, but alive. The world, however, is a cold forge. It takes that spark and hammers it, beats it, molds it into something smaller–something that fits their own image. The child that once dreamed learns to beg, or to kill, or to stand silent while the world runs in its own way, because someone taught them that survival is nobler than living. And so, they begin to mistake existence for life."
He looked down at his own hand, scarred and dirty, flexing it as. "But to live… to truly live… is to burn. To embrace that flame, no matter how it sears you, no matter how the world douses it in blood and smog. The world says to dim yourself and most obey. But the fire in me refuses. Even if it blinds the world, even if it consumes me, I'd rather be ash that burned bright than stone that weathered forever."
His eyes lifted, and for a moment, in the haze, he looked utterly alien to all around him.
"You say that good will is punished," he said. "I say it is remembered. You say the world crushes those who try. I say they leave cracks behind. Enough cracks, and even the coldest forge breaks."
Then he turned, looking directly at Sophia, the grin that followed not one of mockery but of pity. "I don't think this city breeds only cruelty. But cruelty is only the sickness–the symptom. Beneath it, buried deep, is the truth that all of us were born to reach for the light, to love, to fight, to believe. It's just that somewhere along the way, someone convinced everyone that it was a fool's dream."
The cigarette between her fingers had burned itself to a stub, the ember biting into her glove, but she didn't notice. The air between them was heavy with silence, only broken by the distant rumble of machinery from the deeper parts of the district.
Finally, she flicked the cigarette away. "You talk like a poet. You people never talk small. Talking to people like you is waste of time. You die too fast to matter, and ze city forgets you by morning."
"I'll burn bright enough," Kamina said, beginning to walk again, "that it'll take the city a lifetime to forget."
Shmuel sighed, picking up his pace to catch up.
Imogen followed in silence, her expression conflicted–caught between the cold pragmatism of Sophia's world and the impossible, blazing faith that Kamina carried.
Pisanio walked at the rear, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips as he murmured, "To live is to burn… such strange men this city have."
Kamina stopped mid-step as the road opened into a wider street littered with vehicles, their frames half-buried under layers of dust and rain-eaten grime. Some still had shattered license plates hanging by a single bolt, others had their windows webbed with cracks and their wheels stripped for scrap. The sky above was the color of tarnished steel, and the air hummed with the faint stutter of distant engines–the living machines of the City's arteries.
Kamina placed his hand on the nearest car hood. It was cold, lifeless, but something about it made him grin. "Hey," he said, looking over his shoulder at Shmuel, "you know how to drive one of these?"
"Me? No. I… don't have time for that. I never had a reason to learn. And I'm not even old enough for a license."
"What do you mean not old enough? You've got legs, don't you? Hands? That's all you need to drive!"
He turned next to Pisanio. "What about you? Ever drive one of these?"
"Drive?" Pisanio said. "No. I was taught to handle horses and other mounts. Never machines. They are rather lacking… temperament."
"You mean to tell me that between all of you, not one can drive? What's the point of being alive if you can't even steal a ride when you see one?"
"I can drive. But I do not own a car. Und even if I did, I vould not trust any of you to sit inside it."
"Then it's settled–you drive."
"Nein. Ve valk. Driving here is asking for a bullet through ze windshield."
"Brat," he said, voice casual, "you got a lot of money to spare, right?"
Yes… so?"
Kamina's grin spread. "Perfect."
________
___
_
The world snapped into chaos.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Shmuel's scream tore through the cabin as the armored car jolted over a pothole the size of a man's grave.
Sophia gritted her teeth, both hands gripping the wheel tight. "I am driving!" she shouted back. "You should be holding on!"
The armored car–painted black, dented at the edges, still gleaming with a corporate logo half-scratched off–barreled down the cracked street at breakneck speed. Bullets pinged against the reinforced plating like hail.
Behind them, three Kurokumo clan cars roared in pursuit. Neon lights glowed through their tinted windows, and men leaned out, katanas strapped to their backs, submachine guns flashing fire.
Kamina stood through the sunroof, wind shredding his hair, laughter spilling from him in wild bursts. "NOW THIS IS WHAT I CALL A RIDE!" he bellowed, slamming a fist against the roof.
Pisanio leaned out the side door, calmly firing his revolver he got thrown to by Sophia at the front tires of their pursuers. One car swerved, smashed into a lamppost, and flipped into the gutter in a bloom of flame.
Imogen clutched the Barrett-11 across her lap, wide-eyed.
Sophia yanked the steering wheel, spinning the armored car around a corner so sharp the tires screamed. "Zey vill not stop coming!".
Kamina ducked back into the cabin, grinning ear to ear. "Then we keep driving till they do!"
"Do you even know how much this car costs?!"
"Doesn't matter, kid! It's ours now!"
Sophia growled under her breath, slamming her foot on the pedal. "I hate zis city," she muttered. "Und I hate you more."