The walk home wasn't silent.
It was suffocating.
The air didn't feel like it filled their lungs—it scratched its way in. Alya's boots scuffed along the polished path of Velaria's high-tier sector. Behind them, the neon lights of luxury buzzed faintly, mocking.
Neither of them spoke.
Not because they had nothing to say…But because everything they could say would shatter something inside them.
Alya's palm was still red—warm from the slap she gave that pompous, gold-suited bastard. The one who spat the words:"Market rats. Vermin pretending to be elite."
And Nolan… his hands were still shaking, clenched into fists so hard the veins were raised like wires. But it wasn't the insult that bothered him.
It was the fact they disrespected Alan.
They didn't know who he really was.
They called him a shrink. A market floor mind-fixer. A nobody.
They had no idea.
The apartment door hissed open when they arrived.
The lights were dim. The air was colder inside than outside.
And Alan was already there.
He sat on the edge of the couch like he had been waiting for hours, chewing gum slowly, rhythmically. The faint light glinted off his red eyes—unblinking, unreadable, as he stared straight through them.
The silence stretched.
Nolan cleared his throat, tried to force a greeting or a smile, but couldn't.
A crunch echoed through the room.
Alan bit down hard on his gum.
"You're late," he said. Calm. Controlled. Dead cold.
Alya opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Then failed.
Her mask crumbled. Not loudly—she didn't wail, didn't scream—but tears started leaking down her cheeks before she could catch them. She bit her lip hard enough to bleed.
Alan stood.
He moved slowly, methodically. Like a machine turning on. Like violence dressed in casual clothes.
His voice was quieter now. Too quiet.
"Who?"
Nolan hesitated. "Who…?"
Alan turned his head just slightly. The gum cracked again between his teeth.
"Don't insult me, boy."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It vibrated in the air like thunder on mute.
"Who. Are. They?"
That's when Alya snapped.
"A bunch of entitled, Velarian fuckers!" she barked. Her hands shook at her sides, curled like claws. "They called us rats. Called you a fucking shrink!"
Her breathing was broken, jagged. She was crying harder now, and trying to speak through it made it worse.
"They… they made fun of where we're from. Called us nothing. Like we're just dirt they stepped over. Like we don't even have the right to be seen here!"
She choked.
"We're just trash to them, Alan… We were born in hell. And we've never stopped hurting."
Alan was silent for a long time.
Then he stepped closer.
"You're wrong," he said quietly, looking her in the eyes. His tone was brutal, but not cruel. It carried weight. Like he was choosing every word with a scalpel.
"Trash doesn't cry."
He took a step closer.
"Trash doesn't fight back."
Another step.
"Trash doesn't slap some golden-spoon brat across the face for spitting poison."
Then he turned, heading for the door.
"But…" he added without looking back, "if you want to act like trash…"
He reached for the handle.
"…Then I'll go take the garbage out."
And with that—
He left.
No sound. No stomp. Just gone.
They stood frozen, raw in the center of the room.
Then, from the shelf above the dining table, a soft thump.
Meow dropped down with feline elegance. The silver-neckband around his throat flickered as he spoke, accent rich and deep.
"Let him go," he murmured. "That man ain't angry. He's remembering."
He padded over to the kitchen counter and, with a push of his paw, slid two plates of warm food toward them.
"Eat. Cry. Survive. But don't follow him. Not tonight."
Alya wiped her eyes and disappeared into the bathroom to wash her face.
Mou, lounging on the top of the fridge like royalty, yawned and stretched.
He looked at Nolan without moving much.
"Today… is game day."
Nolan blinked. "What?"
Mou shrugged. "Pain can wait. Game can't."
An hour passed.
The rain began to fall outside—soft at first, then steady, like the world was mourning in silence.
The front door hissed open again.
Alan walked in.
Boots dusty. Sleeves rolled up. A relaxed smile on his face. Gum still working in his jaw.
He dropped a small briefcase on the table. Opened it.
Inside: imported sweets from Orion-5. The kind only executives could afford.
"Good night," he said simply.
Then walked past them and disappeared into his room.
Not a word.
Not a single damn reason.
Just a smile.
Later that night…
Alya lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight painted lines across her cheeks. Nolan faced away from her, quiet.
"…What if they were right?" she whispered.
"Huh?" Nolan turned slowly.
"What if… we are trash? Just market rats. Not special. Not worth anything."
Nolan didn't answer at first. Then:
"If we're trash…" he muttered, "they're radioactive sludge. Wrapped in velvet."
Alya let out a soft, tired laugh. It didn't last long.
"…Why did Alan leave like that?" she asked. "Like none of it mattered."
Nolan hesitated. "Maybe… he's disappointed in us."
They went quiet.
Morning.
Sunlight seeped in through the blinds.
Nolan blinked awake, groggy. He rubbed his face and reached lazily for his datapad.
Casual scroll.
Headlines.
More headlines—
And then he froze.
Eyes wide.
The pad slid from his hand.
He jumped out of bed, nearly tripping, and yanked the blanket off Alya.
"Wake up. Wake up. Alya—read this!"
"Ugh, Nolan—what the hell?"
"Just read."
She sat up, groggy, irritated—
Then saw the headline.
And froze.
"BREAKING: 5 GG TECH OFFICIALS FOUND DEAD IN VIP VELARIA."
She blinked.
Read it again.
Her sleep vanished.
"Sources say the bodies were found suspended from scaffolding under Velaria's skyrail system. Mutilated. Eyeless. Mouths sewn shut with fiberwire. Each had a single letter carved into their back. Together, the five spelled one word…"
SORRY.
"There were no alarms. No surveillance footage. All sensors jammed. No evidence. Just corpses."
Alya's voice trembled. "This… this was where we were yesterday."
Nolan nodded slowly.
''Alan leaves us.''
A beat.
"He came back… smiling."
They looked at each other.
And they knew.
Cut to black.
Rain pours outside. The night hasn't ended yet for him.
Alan stood in his room. No armor. Just a black t-shirt and joggers. The kind of outfit you'd wear to a lazy night in.
His gloves were off.
But one hand still dripped blood onto the tile floor. A small puddle. Like a memory that refused to dry.
He was chewing gum, slowly. Methodically.
A secure line buzzed in his earpiece.
A voice—shaken, unsure—spoke from the other end.
"Why did you do it?"
Alan didn't answer right away.
He blew a tiny bubble with his gum. Let it pop.
Then replied.
"They crossed the line."
The voice hissed back.
"That line wasn't theirs to cross, Alan."
Alan's red eyes narrowed.
He stared out the rain-slicked window.
"Then they should've checked the map before running their mouths."
Click.
The line disconnected.
Alan didn't move.
He smiled—slow and silent.