The door hissed open.
Alya stepped in first. Her hair still damp, skin flushed from the public wash station. The blood was gone from her knuckles, but not from her mind. Her eyes stayed dry. Too dry.
Behind her, Nolan followed. He'd changed shirts. Nothing fancy—just clean. A dark patch of synth-skin clung to his jaw, hiding where the bone had caught a fist. His steps were straight, too controlled. The kind of walk someone practiced in a mirror to convince others they're fine.
They didn't speak. Didn't limp. They moved like nothing happened.
But the house already knew.
Alan was waiting.
Not standing. Not pacing. Just seated—one leg crossed over the other, elbows resting on his knees, back straight without trying. He didn't bother looking up. He didn't need to. The slow crack of gum broke the silence like a warning shot. Not loud. Just deliberate.
The red neon from a wall-strip light painted him in low, bloody shadows. A half-dead hum buzzed in the background, like the house was holding its breath.
His eyes—the color of fresh wounds—were locked on them.
He never blinked.
He simply watched.
Studied.
Hunted.
"Who?"
The word dropped like a stone into still water. No inflection. No emotion.
Nolan reached for a glass of water. Cool move. Dumb move.
"Who what?"
Alan stood.
No sound. No shift of breath. Just motion. Silent and sudden.
The air changed—got heavier. Like pressure was pushing inward from the walls. Like oxygen had been replaced with something colder.
Nolan froze with the glass halfway to his lips. Those red eyes were fixed on him like a blade drawn slowly across flesh.
Alya didn't flinch. She stepped forward.
"Some pricks in suits. Velarian sons of corporate whores."
The words snapped. Hard. Her fists were clenched again, knuckles pale.
"They ran their mouths. Called us 'market rats'... said we don't belong in this sector. Said you were just some washed-up shrink. That we're lucky to be seen with you."
She paused. Breathed in. Didn't want to let it show—but it showed.
"We fought. We beat them. They'll limp for a week."
"But they weren't trying to win. They wanted to crawl inside our heads. Make us feel like shit despite winning."
Her shoulders sagged, a slow collapse. All the rage that made her glow burned out into smoke.
"I don't want to admit it… but it worked."
Alan walked over.
Stopped in front of her. Still. Solid.
Then, with a hand that had broken bones and torn muscle, he reached out—not to strike—but to wipe away a single tear.
His thumb passed under her eye. Gentle. Steady. Warm.
"You beat them?"
She nodded.
"Then it was a good warm-up."
He turned without ceremony. Strode to the kitchen like nothing had been said.
"Next time, go for the kneecaps first. People scream longer that way."
Dinner came and went in quiet.
Alan cooked. Alya set the table. Nolan handled the plates like they were made of glass. No one pushed the conversation. The food was good—real meat, not lab-grown filler. Alan's way of saying "I give a shit" without saying anything.
But he never asked more. And no one wanted to test the temperature of the room. His presence was a sharp edge resting across the house. Calm, but unsheathed.
Alya kept looking at him.
Nolan kept pretending not to.
After the meal, they cleaned. The routine helped. Gave their hands something to do. Then came the goodnights. Short, quiet, not meant for comfort.
Alan just nodded. Still chewing. Still unreadable.
Their room was dim. Real walls, real silence. No bunk beds. No shared sheets. Just two single beds with enough space between them to fit a whole different life.
Alya lay flat on her back, eyes open, arms behind her head like a soldier on rest. The night outside pressed gently against the window, silver light outlining the angles of her jaw.
Nolan sat propped up on his elbow, back to the window. Sleep hadn't even tried to claim him.
"Do you think we'll ever be… normal?"Her voice was barely above a breath. Not fragile. Just tired of pretending not to feel.
"Define normal."
"Not questioned. Not spat on. Not seen like a threat just for existing."
He took a moment.
"If normal means being invisible… then I don't want it."
A pause.
"Is Alan mad at us?"
"No. He's… disappointed, maybe. Not in what we did. But in what we felt."
"What do you mean?"
"We let their words land. That's what pisses him off. They didn't earn that."
Alya didn't reply.
She rolled to face the wall. Closed her eyes.
Sunlight seeped in through the blinds.
Lines of gold stretched across the room like prison bars. Nolan blinked awake, groggy and stiff. He dragged a hand down his face, yawning, and reached for his datapad without thinking—still half-dreaming.
He scrolled through the feed.
A few headlines passed.
Then he stopped.
His breath caught.
The pad slid from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.
He shot upright. Stumbled across the room, ripped the blanket off Alya in a panic.
"Wake up. Wake up. Alya—read this!"
She groaned, groggy and annoyed. "Ugh, Nolan—what the hell?"
"Just read."
Still half-asleep, she grabbed the datapad from the floor. Her eyes scanned the headline. Her annoyance drained in a heartbeat.
Frozen.
BREAKING: 5 GG TECH OFFICIALS FOUND IN SHOCK NEAR VELARIA SKYRAIL—CATATONIC, UNRESPONSIVE
She blinked. Sat up straighter. Read on.
"Sources confirm the men were discovered at dawn, seated upright in a perfect row beneath the Velarian skyrail scaffolding. All were physically unharmed, save for signs of severe bruising and deep tissue trauma—knees, jaws, and ribcages shattered with surgical precision. Their eyes were open. Unblinking. Frozen."
"None have spoken since discovery, except for one phrase, repeated by all five in perfect sync: 'I'm sorry.'"
"Surveillance was offline. No sensor data. No witnesses. The site was marked with a symbol painted in blood-red dye—a circle, jagged at the edges, like teeth."
Alya's voice trembled. "This… this was where we were yesterday."
Nolan nodded. Slowly. He wasn't blinking either now.
"Alan leaves us."
A pause.
"He came back… smiling."
They looked at each other.
And they knew.
Not with certainty. Not with proof. But with instinct. Something primal deep inside them whispered the truth.
Whatever happened out there… it wasn't human.
Cut to black.
The storm outside hadn't relented. Rain hissed against the glass like whispers too angry to form words.
Inside, Alan stood in his room.
No weapons. No armor. Just a black T-shirt and joggers. His gloves lay tossed on a nearby chair—forgotten.
His hand was bare.
And blood-stained.
It dripped onto the tile in slow, steady drops. Not a puddle. A pattern. Like punctuation from a sentence no one wanted to read.
He was chewing gum—slow, rhythmic, mechanical.
The secure line in his ear crackled. A voice came through.
Shaky. Almost pleading.
"What did you do, Alan?"
He said nothing for a moment.
Then popped the gum with a soft snap.
His voice, when it came, was quiet.
"Taught them something."
"They were just—just officials. Tech execs. They didn't deserve—"
"They talked." Alan's eyes narrowed. "About my kids. They earned a conversation."
The voice on the other end was nearly a whisper now.
"But you didn't kill them…"
Alan stared out the window. The city below twisted in rain and neon, reflections swimming like ghosts across his gaze.
"Didn't have to." His voice was flat. Dead calm. "They won't speak to anyone else. Not after what I showed them."
A pause.
Then the voice on the other end—barely holding it together—asked:
"What did you show them?"
''The Hell'' Alan replied
He clicked off the call.
Silence filled the room.
Then—he smiled.
Not with joy. Not with victory.
But with the satisfaction of a surgeon who knows the rot has been cut out.