Andreas was afraid.
It wasn't the common fear of a street fight, nor the kind that chills your blood when you hear police sirens behind you. It was deeper, quieter. A void that settled in your chest and made it impossible to breathe. The fear of being alone. Of meaning nothing to anyone.
That fear had always accompanied him.
He never knew his parents. According to the orphanage records, they died in an accident when he was just a few months old. The only thing he inherited from them was their last name... and the certainty that in this world, if you don't take care of yourself, no one will. He grew up on rusty streets and hanging bridges, sleeping under neon signs and eating whatever he found in the automated garbage bags of floating cities. He learned to run before he learned to read.
But one day, at the public school in the lower classes, she met Gabriel.
Gabriel was like him. Lost, hurt, his heart shattered. But he had something Andreas didn't: fire. Together they stole their first car at age twelve, and together they founded HIGHWAY STARS, a clan that quickly became a legend on the streets.
However, the fire went out.
Not for Gabriel. But for Andreas.
Andreas needed something more. Something to explain why his chest remained empty even though he was surrounded by noise, adrenaline, lights, and speed.
And so, one day, he left.
He arrived at Psilo on a gray afternoon, his engine roaring above the air traffic. The city welcomed him as it welcomes everyone: with smoke, neon lights, and silence behind every window. A vertical jungle where no one asked who you were, and for that very reason, no one would save you if you fell.
With the money earned from illegal racing and a few robberies, Andreas did the unthinkable: he bought a building.
Andreas stepped out of the hovercraft, the Psilo sky turning an electric purple. The air smelled of ozone and new opportunities; of promises encrypted between neon signs and the noise of drones. In front of him stood the building he had just purchased. It wasn't dilapidated or old—quite the opposite. The structure had a clean, elegant, minimalist design. Straight lines, tinted windows, a metallic hue that reflected the colors of the city as if blending in with it.
It wasn't a skyscraper, but rather a well-presented multi-story building. The kind that seems expensive just because of the silence surrounding it. No signs, no graffiti, no movement. It was like a blank page. And that was enough.
The real estate agent greeted him at the entrance, his tone helpful but mechanical. He explained the details of the property: smart systems still deactivated, empty apartments, power and water networks ready for use, digital locks on each floor. Andreas barely paid attention. He just wanted to get in.
"Do you have a name?" he asked, looking at the access panel.
—No. It's not registered yet.
—Then it's perfect.
With a gesture, the broker transferred ownership to his chip.
The transaction was so fast it seemed unreal.
In a matter of minutes, the digital contract was signed. Ownership transferred. Andreas was now the owner of an entire building: TESSERA, a 35-story residential tower built with smart materials and minimalist luxury design. All of it… all to himself.
He stood in front of the main entrance. The tinted glass reflected the city of Psilo behind him, distorted by the curvature. With a slight gesture, he activated the identification chip implanted in his hand. A blue beam scanned his palm. Acknowledged property. Welcome, Mr. Andreas.
The doors opened with an almost reverential whisper.
The interior of the reception area was immaculate: dark marble, dim lighting, kinetic sculptures in perpetual motion. Everything was clean. Everything was quiet. A hologram greeted him, floating from the center of the lobby:
— Welcome, owner. Would you like to activate the building systems?
Andreas nodded, without saying a word.
Lights on. Elevators ready. Security activated. He owned everything. But the echo of his solitary footsteps shattered the perfection of the place.
He walked to the elevators, his backpack slung over his shoulder. Inside, he carried only the bare essentials: a folded blanket, two changes of clothes, a water bottle, and his portable solar-charging device. Things that didn't even fill a quarter of the space that now belonged to him.
The elevator was waiting for him with the doors open. He came in. He pressed the highest floor: 35.
The ascent was gentle, almost imperceptible. Through the side window, he could see the corridors of each level passing by. Empty. Dark. Each floor like an unfulfilled promise.
Thirty-fifth floor reached.
The transaction was completed with a sharp click. The building's AI voice welcomed him with artificial elegance:
—Registered property. Welcome, Mr. Andreas.
The elevator rose without stopping, lifting him like a thought lost between the concrete and the lights. Thirty-fifth floor. The last one.
When the doors opened, he was greeted by a sterile, almost sacred silence. In front of him was a black door with metal edges. Andreas raised his hand without thinking. The scanner recognized his fingerprint. A blue flash. Official welcome. A soft click told him it was his.
He came in.
The apartment felt like a ship floating out of time. Everything smelled new: the walls, the unused furniture, the air itself. It was spacious. Luxurious. Too perfect. The kitchen opened to the left, with smooth, glossy ceramic surfaces, faux marble countertops, and appliances that looked like museum pieces. On the right, the bathroom. Straight ahead, a spacious room: gray sofas, a suspended glass table with no visible legs, and large windows revealing a flickering, sprawling, living Psilo. Beyond, four rooms. All empty. Awaiting use. Or meaning.
Andreas didn't say anything. He just took his backpack off his shoulder: a small, old backpack that starkly contrasted with the aesthetics of the place. He dropped it carelessly onto one of the sofas. Inside, just the bare essentials: a wrinkled blanket, a couple of clean clothes, a half-empty bottle of energy drink, a small solar charger.
It didn't look like the move of someone who planned to stay. It looked like the luggage of someone who didn't know where to go.
He sat down with a sigh. He rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa. He activated his implant with a slight flick of his wrist.
A translucent hologram emerged from his palm, floating gently in front of him. Icons hovered like jellyfish in water: social media, weather, music, news. He started sailing. Out of habit. Scroll. Scroll.
Influencers on artificial beaches. Perfect breakfasts on terraces overlooking the artificial sun. Families at noisy dinner parties. Children running towards their parents. Hugs. Kisses. Grandmothers with grandchildren. Floating signs read: “Home is not a place. It’s a person.”
Click. He moved forward. Click. Another video. A mother crying upon seeing her daughter return. Click.
And without wanting to, he already felt it. The images stuck in his mind like splinters. Smiles that were not for him. Voices that did not name him. Love that didn't include him.
There he was, alone, in a perfect apartment. With a blanket. And a silence that no longer felt neutral, but heavy. Like a dead body in the room.
He lowered his hand slowly. The hologram went dark, dissipating like digital fog. At that moment, the built-in sound system was activated.
A lonely guitar began to play. Strings plucked calmly. Single notes. No melody. As if someone were tuning it in the shadows.
Andreas looked around. Everything was spotless. Everything was expensive. Everything was designed to impress. But not to live in.
He stood up. He went to one of the rooms. He opened the door. Empty. It followed the next one. Empty. And another one. And another.
In one he left the blanket, still wrapped in plastic, lying on the mattress. He didn't even accommodate him.
He returned to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator reflexively. White lights illuminated empty shelves. He closed it. He took the energy drink from his backpack. He placed it on his forehead. It was lukewarm.
He returned to the sofa and lay down. The guitar kept playing alone. Slowly. Muffled. Without emotion. Neither sad nor happy. Just… alone.
And he didn't move anymore.
The sun went down. The automatic lights came on by themselves, warm, soft. But they brought no comfort. They only emphasized the obvious: There was no one there. That place, so high, so his… had no soul.
Hours later, when the stillness of his room became unbearable, Andreas decided to go out. He went down to the underground garage, each step echoing in the emptiness of the house. There, in the darkness, his car was waiting. He started it, and the roar of the engine accompanied him as he ascended toward the aerial streets, leaving the stillness of his home behind.
City lights cut through the darkness like neon spires. Mobile skyscrapers rose into the gray sky, and advertising drones circled, illuminating the night with advertisements that no longer held anyone's attention. Psilo was a glittering chaos, a place where life played out in an endless cycle of noise and haste, but without real purpose.
He drove through the crowded streets until he reached a dark district, full of clubs and haunts where souls lingered, searching for something. One of the most famous was PINK STAR, a club famous for its dangerous clientele and loud music. The entrance was adorned with pink neon figures, like melting statues, that seemed to disintegrate into thin air.
When he walked through the door, the atmosphere instantly enveloped him. House music was pounding, and people were dancing, each lost in their own world. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and the heavy smell of chemicals. It was a place where reality dissolved and people shed everything that tied them to their lives outside the club.
He approached the bar. The bartender, a dark-skinned man with shiny glasses and a sharp smile, looked at him without surprise.
"What can I get you, pretty boy?" she asked, her tone mocking but friendly.
Andreas, without thinking too much, asked:
—A Pinktonic.
The bartender handed him the glass without saying anything else.
Before he could drink, the man looked at him, assessing him for a moment.
"ID?" he asked without changing his expression.
Andreas didn't hesitate. He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to him. It was a fake, of course, a document he'd obtained in one of those shady exchanges. The bartender quickly scanned the card, and after a brief second of analysis, nodded.
He was underage, but that didn't matter to him anymore. At Psilo, boundaries no longer mattered. Alcohol was easy to come by, rules were broken all the time, and if you didn't do it, someone else would.
Andreas had learned this from a young age: rules were nothing more than a way to keep things in place for those who played along. But he didn't want to play by the rules. He stole, forged, and fought, because, in his mind, the world no longer offered any other option. The need to survive was stronger than any law or moral code.
The people around him were sinking into a false illusion of fun, dancing mindlessly, drinking mindlessly. And he was no different. The Pinktonic burned in his throat, the sweet taste mixing with the bitterness in his chest. It was only a sip, but in his mind, each sip was a small escape, a way to silence the voices telling him to stop.
He looked around. The bodies were moving like a mass, aimless, without purpose. Empty smiles, laughter that didn't reach the eyes. No one was really there; everyone was lost in the same need to disconnect from themselves, to forget the world, even if only for a few hours.
And then, she saw him. A gray-haired man, removed from the noise, sitting at the bar, as if he were beyond it all. His gaze was lost, empty, as if he'd already seen everything the city had to offer. Drinking, stealing, fighting, living... and yet, nothing changed.
Andreas looked away. He didn't want to get into trouble. He didn't want to face the cold indifference of that man, who seemed so distant from everything he himself felt. But a strange feeling pulled him toward him. An unhealthy curiosity, as if that man were a representation of something he himself was about to become.
He placed his empty glass on the bar and began moving through the crowd, sliding his hand into people's pockets with a dexterity that only years of survival had given him. There was no excitement in the act, just routine. Three digital cards, a couple of watches, a fake ID chip. It was the same old same old.
And then, just as he was thinking about leaving, he saw that the gray man had also stood up. He moved with the same calm, the same control. He didn't steal out of necessity; it seemed more like a mechanical, precise act, as if he did it for sport. Each movement was smooth, calculated. It was like watching someone move with the same coolness with which they perform a choreography. Without a doubt, there was something inside him that had brought him to this point.
Andreas watched him, and an uneasy feeling washed over him. It was as if the man were lecturing him without saying a word, as if he were looking at him through a screen, from somewhere else, outside the time and space of the city.
Who was he? What had he done to reach this level of detachment?
At that moment, Andreas couldn't help but think that maybe, deep down, they were all there for the same reason: trying to fill a void they didn't know how to fill, resorting to anything to make the pain of existing go away, even if only for a second.
A few minutes after deciding to leave the club, Andreas crossed the narrow bridge, which looked like an aerial alleyway, between two neon skyscrapers that cast a warm glow on the asphalt. His mind was filled with only one thought: to escape the crowd, to escape the decay that surrounded him. His car was parked in a secluded corner, and all he wanted was to simply get in and disappear completely into the sky.
But something changed before he could reach his car. Pressure on his back pushed him violently against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him, his head hit the concrete, and a sharp pain shot through his body. Before he could react, he saw a face in front of him, a nasty smile on his face.
"Well, well... what's a boy so young doing in a place like this?" said a man, with a repulsive smile, as if he were enjoying what he saw.
Andreas recognized him instantly. It was one of the men he'd stolen the cards from. His face was unmistakable, and the man's demeanor paralyzed him. Next to him were two more, surrounding him, cutting off any escape route. The darkness of the alley seemed to close in on him, and a chill ran down his spine.
Confusion and fear gripped him. In a desperate attempt to move, he tried to wriggle free, but received a heavy blow to the stomach. The pain doubled him over, and he fell to the ground, the air escaping from his lungs. The stolen cards scattered around him, sliding across the pavement like tiny fragments of his last attempt at survival.
"Ugh... n-no..." he muttered, the physical pain mixed with a feeling of humiliation. He tried to get up, but his hands wouldn't respond. He looked at the pavement, where his cards lay like silent witnesses to his failure.
One of the men, a burly fellow, bent down and began picking up the cards. His mocking smile only aggravated Andreas's distress.
"Wow... you've got good taste, huh?" she said, laughing as she flipped the cards through her fingers, enjoying the small haul Andreas had worked so hard to acquire.
Andreas, still reeling from the blow, tried to get up again, hoping to reclaim what was his. But his legs wouldn't respond, and the three men surrounded him. The air felt thick, heavy with an imminent threat. Something inside him told him he couldn't escape. The feeling of being trapped, with no options, took hold of him.
At that moment, an impulse, a spark of rage, awoke within him. Despite the fear that clouded him, Andreas managed to grab a small stone from the ground and, with all his remaining strength, threw it at one of the men, hitting him in the head. The man staggered back, surprised, and Andreas took advantage of the opportunity to get up. It was a clumsy blow, but at least it had momentarily knocked him out. The terror inside him transformed into a fleeting burst of hope. He could fight! He could defend himself.
But the relief was short-lived. The real terror lay far deeper than a simple blow or a fight. No matter how many times he fought, no matter how many times he managed to strike or defend himself. There was a much larger shadow lurking over him, a sense of vulnerability, of being stripped of everything he was. In those moments, Andreas realized he wasn't just afraid of blows. His fear was of being stripped of his humanity, of his control, of being just another victim. His terror wasn't just physical; it was psychological. It was the fear of losing himself to those who saw him as nothing more than an object of desire or amusement. And that terrified him even more than any blow.
Andreas, still in pain from the blow, tried to get up, his breathing ragged as the darkness of the alley closed in around him. Cold sweat ran down his forehead and his stomach twisted with physical pain, but there was something deeper troubling him. This feeling was different, something visceral, as if his body was telling him the consequences would be worse this time.
The men approached, one of them with a mocking smile, the others laughing in a superior tone. The atmosphere became increasingly claustrophobic, as if the air were heavy and dense. Andreas, staggering, tried to take a step back, but they quickly cornered him.
"You're too young to be in places like this," one said, as another pushed him slightly, getting too close.
Andreas tried to react, but the pressure of the bodies around him suffocated him. He tried to move, but he couldn't stop the men's hands from surrounding him, touching him disdainfully, as if he were no longer just an object of their amusement.
A lump in his throat choked him. He knew what could happen. He'd experienced it before, and although the rage grew within him, the terror lay much deeper. The fear came not only from the immediate danger, but from what lay ahead. The thought of being violated again, of losing control, of being reduced to something weaker... it was eating away at him.
“No... please...” he murmured, his voice breaking as the hands kept coming closer, touching him without any respect.
But something inside him, something he'd never known, drove him to fight. He felt a spark of inner rage, something he'd never felt before. He remembered the times he'd had to survive, the blows and humiliations, and a surge of courage washed over him.
With a shout, Andreas lunged at the nearest man, using what little strength he had left to land a direct punch to his jaw. The man staggered, surprised by the reaction, and the blow allowed Andreas to regain some space. But he wasn't out of danger.
The others' hands were reaching out for him again, and the terror in his chest continued to squeeze his heart, keeping him from breathing freely. His body was trembling, but suddenly, a gunshot cut through the air.
The men stopped instantly.
From the bridge entrance, the gray-haired man watched them, his pistol still smoking in his hands. His presence was cold and authoritarian, a shadow that disarmed them on their very turf.
“Leave him alone,” he ordered, his voice deep and emotionless.
The men didn't hesitate for a second to attack the stranger, but each attempt was futile. With almost inhuman precision, the gray-haired man effortlessly took down the three. Within seconds, the alley fell silent, with the attackers lying on the ground, unable to move.
Andreas, trembling, fell to his knees, breathing heavily, fear still flooding his body. Although the men no longer posed a threat, the trembling in his body didn't stop.
The gray-haired man looked at him sideways, his expression distant and emotionless.
"You're safe... for now," he said, before holstering the gun and starting to walk toward the other end of the alley.
Andreas, still trembling, lay on the ground, breathing heavily. The faces of the fallen men were still etched in his mind, as if his fear were trapping him, suffocating him. Anguish tightened his chest. The shock of what had just happened was overwhelming him, and the feeling of humiliation wouldn't leave him alone.
A whisper of gratitude escaped her lips:
"Th... Thank you..." he murmured, his voice breaking, almost inaudible. He didn't know if he was saying it to the gray-haired man, to fate, or to himself. The humiliation of having let himself be beaten, of having sunk so low, hung over him like a heavy blanket.
The man, unfazed, put away his pistol as calmly as he had fired it, as if it were all routine for him. His presence remained imposing, distant, like a shadow that had no room for compassion. Without looking back, he began to turn around, ready to leave without another word.
But Andreas, something in him awakened by adrenaline and humiliation, couldn't let it go like that. Something inside him pushed him to act. What could he lose? Why not try? He struggled to his feet, his arms shaking, his face pale. His voice, though hesitant, came from his throat with unexpected force.
"Wait!" he exclaimed, louder than he'd anticipated, the echo of his words resonating in the empty alley. The gray-haired man stopped, and Andreas felt a mixture of uncertainty and despair course through him. He had to say something, something to get him out of this hole he was trapped in.
The man didn't turn around completely, just tilted his head slightly, a sign that he was listening, but his posture remained distant, calculating.
"You steal cards too, right?" Andreas said, glancing at the man's bulging jacket pockets. His mind was racing, searching for a way to connect with him, to make him stay. He swallowed; the cold sweat on his forehead wouldn't go away. He tried to put a certain amount of confidence in his voice, as if he could convince him of something he wasn't even sure of himself.
"I do too... and I thought... we could work together," she added, looking at the man with a mixture of desperation and determination, as if that was the only way out she saw at that moment.
The man, without turning around completely, let out an exasperated snort, as if he'd had enough of it all. He ran a hand through his gray hair, a gesture that reflected how bored he was with the proposal.
"No." His answer was categorical, without hesitation.
Andreas felt a knot in his stomach, but the need to find a way out drove him forward. He couldn't stay there, alone, aimless. He couldn't let that be the only interaction he had with someone like him.
“Come on! I'm good at this…” His voice became more urgent, as if he were trying to convince a stranger he was worth it. “I saw you were good at this too… we could make a good team,” he said, almost pleading without meaning to. He knew he wasn't asking for much, just a chance, a small chance to break out of this cycle of misery he was trapped in.
The man, without even looking at him, repeated his refusal even more firmly.
"No."
The wind began to blow harder, and the sound of the distant city seemed to fade into the void between them. Andreas, feeling a growing sense of helplessness, continued, trying not to give up.
"We could..." —but he didn't get a chance to finish.
"No." The word fell like a weight on him, so sharp that it made Andreas immediately fall silent. It was a final judgment. There was no room for further argument.
The man finally turned his face toward him, giving him a look so cold that Andreas felt as if his skin were going to freeze. The intensity of that gaze gave him the feeling that at that moment he had been completely exposed, vulnerable. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he offered; it wasn't enough.
"I wouldn't work with you, kid. Stop talking nonsense." The words were like a blow, and Andreas, unable to answer, stood there, frozen.
The man didn't wait another second. Without another word, he began walking with a firm stride, moving away down the same dark alley he'd come from. Each step he took seemed to make the silence even heavier, more difficult to bear.
Andreas watched him walk away, feeling his body grow heavier with each passing second. Humiliation, failure, and emptiness enveloped him, and the fear he'd felt moments before was back in his grip, but in a different form. It wasn't just the fear of physical pain anymore; it was the fear of being alone, of not being able to change, of always being the same boy trapped in the same spiral.
He sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the full weight of his misery, and bent down slowly to gather up the remaining cards. Although he had managed to steal something, the feeling that none of it was worth anything weighed him down even more.
With a final sigh, Andreas returned to his car, the sound of the engine igniting like a small hope that was extinguished as quickly as it came. The city was still a monster, and he was just another one trying to survive inside it.
The drive back to the building was in absolute silence. The sound of his car's engine and the distant hum of the city barely managed to enter his consciousness. Andreas was trapped in his thoughts, struggling to shake off the images that continued to torment him: the men's faces, their laughter, the feeling of being trapped and vulnerable. He didn't want to think about it, but every time he looked in the rearview mirror, the scenes returned, replaying themselves with eerie clarity.
He parked the car in the underground garage, unconcerned about leaving it in a safe place or the filth of the dark space surrounding it. To him, it was just another place, a nameless space he shared with thousands of others going through the same thing. He got out of the car with a vacant swiftness, closing the door more forcefully than necessary, as if doing so might release some of the tension building in his body. The place was quiet, only the sound of his footsteps echoing on the cold concrete of the garage. Somehow, that emptiness felt familiar.
He walked without stopping to the elevator, almost on automatic. He knew he had nowhere else to go, that everything around him meant nothing. He got on quickly, barely registering the sound of the elevator on its journey to the top floor. He opened the apartment door and entered without hurry, almost dragging his feet. The place wasn't welcoming, but at least it was his. The same mess, the same feeling of abandonment that always surrounded him.
He left the door closed behind him and walked to the bathroom, where he looked at himself in the mirror with a blank expression. The memories of that night hit him hard, and again, he felt the pressure in his chest. He touched his stomach, as if the pain was still there, marked by the blow he'd received, but it was something more. The fear was still inside him, trapped in his bones, in his skin.
With trembling hands, he began to remove his shirt, which was still torn, scarred from the assault he had suffered. The ripped fabric clung to his body, and when he ripped it off, something inside him snapped. It wasn't just the shirt that was shattering, but also his image of himself, the feeling of having been reduced to something smaller, more fragile. He casually threw the shirt to the floor, without looking back, and stared at his reflection. His body was marked, his skin paler than usual, his face tense as if every muscle were on the verge of giving way.
He quickly changed into something more comfortable, but the change of clothes didn't ease his discomfort. With a long sigh, he sank down onto the bed. The pressure on his chest was still there, an invisible weight crushing him. He tried to close his eyes, but the fear kept circling in his mind, unable to stop itself. The men's screams, the dread in his stomach, the feeling of being completely at the mercy of others... it all came back, like a movie he couldn't turn off.
She sighed deeply, but as she tried to relax, the tears began to fall, soft, silent. She hadn't noticed them at first, but soon her face was soaked. The tears weren't loud, they weren't loud cries, but they were uncontrollable. They hurt her soul, every part of her body that felt broken. She couldn't let them go, couldn't silence them, couldn't hold them back any longer. It was as if her body had finally begun to release something it had been bottling up for so long.
With every tear that fell, he felt like a piece of him was falling away as well. It was a quiet but deep pain that accompanied him even in the stillness of the night. The crying mingled with the exhaustion in his body, with the discomfort in his very being. He tried to sleep, to close his eyes and forget, but the tears kept falling. The doors of his mind wouldn't close; the memory of the alley, the hands on his body, the anguish... it was all still there, lurking in the darkness.
Hours later, Andreas woke up on his makeshift mattress, covered by an old thermal blanket. The sun barely filtered its light between Psilo's tall buildings, dyeing the sky shades of amber and purple. He blinked heavily. He hadn't slept well. Another night of broken dreams and an unbearable silence.
He stood up, put on a black jacket he had in his backpack, and pulled the hood over his head. He stuffed the stolen digital cards into his inside pocket and left the building, descending the metal stairs to the street.
The city was already roaring with its accelerated life.
He ascended an aerial walkway to an elevated park, where an ATM hovered, anchored to the ground by an invisible support. People passed by, distracted, without noticing the dull-eyed young man approaching the terminal.
Andreas inserted the stolen cards one by one, transferring the money to his ghost account. The screen illuminated his face with a pale blue glow.
One hundred thousand dollars.
He smiled slightly, without joy. Just enough for the next step.
He didn't wait a second. He headed straight for a gun shop.
The weapons store was a bunker disguised as a commercial establishment. Located on a shadowy corner of Psilo, it was partially buried in the district's foundations, like a tumor amidst the neon architecture. The facade was opaque glass with reflective technology: from the outside, it looked empty, but inside, the place was packed with lethal power.
Andreas stopped in front of the automatic door, which scanned his hooded face before opening with a sharp, hydraulic sound. He entered without saying hello.
The air was charged with static electricity, mixed with the metallic scent of titanium, calibration oil, and residual ozone from recent tests. Each step echoed dully against the polished steel floor.
Blade-like white lights illuminated shelves packed with weapons: electromagnetic rifles hung in perfect rows, smart guns suspended in anti-gravity fields, programmable blades that vibrated with every step Andreas took. Security drones flew slowly between the aisles, scanning him.
The counter was at the far end, behind a barrier of bulletproof glass. A stocky, bald man, an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth, watched him from behind the glass. He had a mechanical arm covered in fire scars, and he rested it on the counter with a heavy indifference.
"What are you looking for, kid?" he asked in a deep voice, not bothering to sound friendly.
Andreas didn't respond immediately. He walked over, took out the fake ID, and swiped it through the reader with a precise motion, without even lowering his hood.
The system blinked. One second. Green.
—I need two INFERNO ARC-7s… and a Parasite Rifle.
The man raised an eyebrow. He whistled softly.
—Wow... you're here for the heavy stuff, huh?
He turned without further question and disappeared through a door reinforced with an electromagnetic lock. Andreas heard the sound of security locks and boxes being unlocked. Then, the creak of heavy hinges.
He returned a few minutes later, pushing a steel cart with three pitch-black cases, each with biometric locks. He placed them on the counter, one by one, reverently.
"There you have the best of the best," he said, patting the first one. "But I warn you, there are no returns."
Andreas slid his finger across the sensor and the first case opened with a pressurized sigh.
The inner light revealed the INFERNO ARC-7.
It was a sight in itself. Black as obsidian, with a rough texture like volcanic rock. Lines of orange neon ran along its surface like incandescent veins, pulsing very gently, as if the weapon were breathing. The barrel had vents to release internal steam, and its grip was molded from a polymer that mimicked burnt bone.
Andreas lifted it with both hands. It wasn't heavy. But it radiated more than mere mass: a palpable threat, as if it throbbed with a thirst for use. The weapon was famous for its thermal mechanism: it fired delayed-ignition projectiles, which, upon impact, didn't kill immediately... but rather began to heat up inside the victim's body, generating a progressive heat until a fire emerged from within. A weapon for someone who wanted to send a message.
The second case contained another ARC-7, identical, but with subtle differences in the side engravings. Andreas inspected it the same way. Perfect.
"Do you know how to use them?" the salesman asked, crossing his arms.
—I'm going to learn quickly.
The salesman gave a short, dry laugh.
-I like that.
Andreas opened the third case.
The air seemed to instantly become colder.
Inside, with its greenish metallic finish and a stylized shape reminiscent of a ceremonial dart, lay the Parasite Rifle. The green lines glowed with an almost sickening intensity. It was slim, long, elegant. Its design seemed more surgical than military. It had a single ammunition slot: one round at a time. One chance. One final judgment.
The ammunition was unconventional. Each projectile contained disintegrating nanorobots programmed to destroy matter from within, severing molecular bonds with microscopic precision. Nothing survived a hit from that rifle. No armor, no bone, no consciousness.
Andreas held it. The stock was strangely comfortable. As if the gun had been waiting for him.
"It has a pulse sensor," the salesman said. "If someone tries to fire it without being registered, the bullet activates inside the magazine."
Andreas nodded without looking at him.
—How much in total?
The salesman entered the total into the touchpad. A high, ungodly figure. The man looked at him with a sneer somewhere between mockery and defiance.
Andreas didn't hesitate. He took out his digital card and swiped it. The screen paused for a few seconds… and then he confirmed:
TRANSFER APPROVED. AVAILABLE BALANCE: 0.00†
The salesman gave a dry laugh.
"You've emptied yourself, haven't you?" he said, as he closed the cases and handed them to her. "You've got good taste left, but no pocket money."
Andreas didn't respond. He slung the cases over his back, one across his body diagonally, the other two strapped down as if carrying cursed relics. He felt the weight of the decision pressing down on his shoulders. He had nothing left. No savings, no support.
Only weapons.
He walked out of the store with firm steps, his head bowed under his hood, while the neon lights from the street illuminated his face.
That night, the air was permeated with a dense, cold fog that covered the city, giving the district a gloomy and desolate air. Andreas parked his car near the bank, in a spot where the neon lights barely illuminated the shadows of the abandoned buildings. He knew he couldn't allow himself to be discovered, so he approached cautiously, quickly moving away from his vehicle.
As he got out of the car, his gaze swept across the empty parking lot. Everything seemed peaceful. But as he passed a nearby space, he noticed something that made him stop in his tracks.
Another car was parked there.
A black vehicle, almost like a shadow in the darkness, its engine off. There were no signs of life inside, but something about the atmosphere made him feel uneasy. His heart beat a little faster, and his senses heightened. Who else would be here tonight? It couldn't be a coincidence.
He frowned.
—Tsk… is there anyone here yet?
But he didn't stop. Not that night.
He silently climbed the side of the building, using the panels and pipes to propel himself. The sky reflected red against the glass of the skyscrapers, as if the city were burning from within. On the roof, he crouched behind a vent, watching. He knew the guards made rounds exactly every thirty-six minutes. He waited… and when he heard footsteps approaching, he carefully slipped inside. One of them stopped to light a cigarette.
At that moment, Andreas leaped up like a shadow and snatched the key card away.
Not a sound.
He slipped through the upper maintenance door, went down a couple of floors, and entered the dimly sensor-lit hallway. Everything was fine... until he turned the corner.
And crashed into someone.
The impact was brutal. They both fell to the ground. Andreas hit his head against the wall frame, letting out a muffled grunt.
When she looked up, her vision blurred, she immediately recognized those tired eyes and that unruly gray hair.
"You?!" they both exclaimed in unison.
It was him. The man from the alley.
The savior. The thief. The stranger himself.
"What the hell are you doing here, kid?" he whispered, frowning.
"I'm going to rob the bank," Andreas replied, still panting.
—What? This is my fucking plan.
The man drew his pistol, with the reflexes of a snake. Andreas, without missing a beat, raised his Parasite Rifle and aimed directly at the center of his chest.
Silence.
They were both aiming to kill each other. There was no fear. Just assessment.
"We can work together. Half and half," Andreas suggested, breaking the tension.
The man studied him for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he sighed.
—Okay. But if you betray me, you'll be the first to fall.
"I like risk," Andreas smiled cheekily, slowly lowering his gun.
They both turned toward the vault door. Andreas took out the stolen card and swiped it through the reader. A short beep, followed by a magnetic unlocking, let them in.
The man looked at him sideways.
—Where did you get that?
"I have my tricks," Andreas murmured, enjoying the reaction.
What they saw inside left them paralyzed.
Rows and rows of digital cards, each marked with a balance: 100,000†.
—Wow… —they both whispered at the same time, spellbound.
The man reacted first and opened his bag, quickly inserting cards.
"Take at least a hundred!" he said, his voice a mixture of laughter and anxiety.
Andreas obeyed. It showed on his face: this was more than he'd ever imagined. Money he'd never dreamed of having. But he didn't have much time to savor it.
As he left the vault, Andreas closed the vault door and then the cursed message appeared:
"Card verification required. 10 seconds remaining."
Sweat froze his back.
—Don't fuck with me…
He began to search through his jacket pockets, which were saturated with similar cards.
"Hey, kid..." the man whispered nervously, looking both ways.
"5 seconds."
—Wait, I almost have it!
"2 seconds."
The final whistle came like a shot straight to the heart.
ALARM ACTIVATED.
Red lights. Sirens. Chaos.
"SHIT!" Andreas and the gray-haired man shouted in unison as the alarm screamed like a doomed siren.
Without a second thought, Andreas raised his Parasite Rifle. He aimed, he fired.
The round whistled like a demon as it left the barrel, leaving a fleeting trail of energy before piercing the first guard's body armor. The impact threw him backward, leaving a smoking hole in his chest. He fell like a puppet with its strings cut.
The gray-haired man wasn't far behind. He pulled out his pistol with such swift and calculated movements that he seemed to have rehearsed this scene a thousand times. Two clean, accurate shots, two fewer guards. Heads exploded. Corpses falling to the ground.
The sound of the alarm, the thunder of footsteps, the gunshots that met metallic echoes... everything merged into a chaotic symphony of violence.
"Not bad for a brat," the man said, reloading with surgical precision.
"Thanks... old man," Andreas replied with a crooked smile, without taking his eye off the scope.
But they kept coming.
More boots echoed in the hallways. More figures with rifles appeared around corners. Andreas fired steadily, his muscles tense, his eyes fixed on his targets. The man fired one last time, but… click.
Empty.
"Fuck..." he muttered, resignedly putting the gun away.
Without saying anything, he turned on his heels and ran toward the stairs leading to the roof. Andreas watched him flee.
—ARE YOU CRAZY?! DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU DAMN TRAITOR! WE SAID IT WAS A TEAM WORK!
He didn't even turn around.
But the escape would cost him dearly.
Two guards intercepted him. One raised his rifle, but the man moved like lightning, kicking the weapon out of reach. With the same leg, he twisted his body and struck the second guard in the throat. He fell to his knees, coughing blood.
With a quick grapple, he subdued the first one, disarmed him, and shot the third one who was coming up behind him.
He seemed to have the situation under control… until another guard, hidden behind a column, charged him from behind and slammed him against the wall. The man's skull thudded against the concrete.
He felt the cold metal of the barrel pressing against his temple.
"It's over. You're not getting out of here alive," the guard whispered, his finger on the trigger.
A second of silence.
And then… BAM!
The guard's body slumped, a smoking hole in the center of his forehead.
The man blinked in disbelief and slowly turned his head.
Andreas stood at the end of the corridor, holding his rifle in both hands, smoke still rising from the barrel. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched.
"Next time you leave me stranded," she said, walking toward him, "I'll blow your brains out, you bastard."
The man gave a short chuckle.
—I like you, boy.
But there was no time for jokes.
More steps. More enemies.
Andreas opened one of his coat pockets and took out one of his INFERNO ARC-7s.
"Catch it!" he shouted, throwing it to her.
The man caught it with one hand and examined it in a split second. The jet-black design, the neon orange details like glowing veins… and the pulsing heat inside.
He smiled.
—Now we get serious.
They covered each other, retreating as they fired. Each INFERNO ARC-7 bullet streaked through the air, leaving a fiery trail, and when they impacted, the enemies began to burn from within, screaming as their bodies writhed in flames.
The man combined his shots with brutal blows, using the buttstock like a lethal hammer. Andreas, more agile, slipped through cover, aimed, and brought down with surgical precision.
But they never arrived.
"Fuck, it's a fucking hive!" Andreas shouted, ducking down as he saw more shadows at the end of the hallway.
He saw a corpse nearby, searched the tactical belt and found a grenade.
—COVER YOURSELF!
He threw it hard toward the entrance. A second later, the hallway erupted in a hellish explosion. Smoke, fire, shrapnel. Everything was enveloped in a vibrant orange fog.
“NOW!” the man shouted.
They both ran toward the stairs, jumping over debris, bodies, smoke.
They climbed the last few steps as if death itself were chasing them. When they reached the rooftop, they slumped against the wall, sweating and gasping for air.
“You… are good,” the man said, still panting.
"And you... you're not as old as you look," Andreas joked with a half smile.
Silence enveloped them for a few seconds.
Andreas looked down, then up.
—We could do something great together… you saw what we accomplished downstairs. It was… perfect.
The man looked at him.
He thought about it.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel alone.
Sigh.
—Okay… let’s do it.
Andreas smiled as if he had just won a war.
-Perfect.