The boy ran
His breath burned his chest as his feet slapped against the metal pavement of the great city. Neon lights flickered overhead, towering buildings stretching endlessly into the dark sky like cold giants watching his escape.
Behind him—
sirens wailed.
But these were not ordinary police.
They were not human.
Heavy footsteps echoed in perfect rhythm, precise and merciless. The enforcers chasing him wore the shape of men, but their movements were too flawless, too calculated. Their eyes glowed faintly blue beneath visors of reinforced glass.
Machines.
Robots designed to act like humans.
Programmed to think like them.
Built to hunt better than them.
"Target in sight," one of them said, its voice calm and emotionless.
The boy turned sharply into a narrow alley, nearly slipping as steam burst from a pipe beside him. He didn't look back. He already knew what he'd see—metal hands, synthetic muscles, weapons integrated into steel arms.
This city didn't forgive mistakes.
Above him, drones hovered silently, scanning heat signatures, predicting his movements before he even made them.
The boy clenched his teeth.
I can't stop. If I stop, I'm dead.
He leapt over a fallen barrier, sparks flying as a laser round struck the ground inches from his heel. The robots didn't shout. They didn't curse. They didn't hesitate.
They advanced.
Cold.
Perfect.
Relentless.
This wasn't a chase.
It was an execution in progress.
And somehow—against logic, against probability—the boy was still running.