Mikey sniffled, rubbing the back of his wrist against his nose, uncaring of the stares from strangers passing by. The weight of their judgment meant nothing anymore.
He raised a hand to his temple, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the scorched edge of the implant. With a faint click and hiss, it dislodged, the metal still warm from his skin. He caught it in both hands, cupping it like something fragile, like it could break apart completely if he didn't hold it just right.
Despite the ache in his chest, he smiled.
"...I'll get you fixed someday, buddy. I promise."
His thumb ran gently over the scarred casing before he tucked it carefully into his pocket. Maybe one day he'd figure out how to fix it. Or maybe — just maybe — he'd meet someone who could.
One day.
He stood and started walking again. The city moved around him in a blur — neon signs flickering, hovercars gliding above, pedestrians weaving through the steel and glass arteries of the Capital. The day passed faster than it should've. He kept walking, numb but focused, until he finally reached Sector B.
Mikey wandered through Sector B, limping and keeping his hood low as he asked strangers for directions. Most brushed him off, but a few gave vague nods or pointed him down alleyways drenched in neon and smoke.
When 7 p.m. struck, he was standing in front of it.
The Crying Wolf Lounge.
The building loomed ahead, shaped like a sleek chrome triangle. Blue neon lights traced its edges like glowing veins. A massive holographic sign above pulsed in slow, fluid letters:
THE CRYING WOLF LOUNGE
Where secrets come to die.
All types came and went — suit-and-tie politicians, glammed-up partygoers, off-duty soldiers, and the occasional person with dead eyes and too much eyeliner. It reeked of power, danger, and money.
Mikey tugged his hood further over his head, obscuring his face. He stepped forward, weaving through the incoming crowd. The second he entered, sound hit him like a wave.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The bass pounded like a second heartbeat.
Flashes of strobe lights sliced through the dark interior. Bodies swayed and collided on the dance floor, drenched in sweat and perfume. A haze of smoke hovered near the ceiling, lit by the glow of neon and augmented reality projections.
Mikey kept his hands in his pockets, trying not to brush too close to anyone. The stench of alcohol clung to the walls like a permanent stain. He passed by tables of people snorting glowing powders, their pupils dilated and their laughter hollow.
He found a staircase near the back and started down, ducking past two dancers locked in a feverish spin. The air grew cooler. Dimmer.
At the bottom was a wide door with VIP glowing above it in pulsing silver-blue letters. Two massive guards stood like statues on either side, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind dark visors.
Mikey stepped forward without hesitation, but one arm shot out, stopping him like a steel gate.
"No, you don't," the guard grunted.
Mikey looked up, jaw set. "I'm here for Payne Morrison," he said evenly. "He's expecting me."
The guard raised an eyebrow, tapped something on his wrist, then gave a slow nod.
The door slid open.
Immediately, the world changed.
Gone was the club chaos — replaced by a quiet, curated hum. The lighting here was moody and controlled. Soft jazz played in the background, winding through a space wrapped in dark velvet and blue neon. Every table had a soft glow underneath, giving the illusion that the whole room was floating.
Elite guests lounged like predators in a den — officers in polished boots, judges with gold-trimmed collars, and Councilmen with gleaming pins on their lapels.
Some gambled, their chips making soft clicks. Others nursed expensive drinks, eyes half-lidded as they whispered things that weren't meant to be heard.
It was scummy. Powerful. Untouchable.
And at the far end of the room — in a semi-circular booth under a halo of low light — sat Payne Morrison.
His long torso leaned casually over the card table, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to appear relaxed but still in control. His hands flicked cards with precision as he laughed with the other elites, flanked on all sides by guards in sleek, black suits. His smirk was permanent. His eyes — sharp as broken glass.
Mikey's stomach tightened.
He took a breath and stepped forward.
The table erupted with laughter, all crystal glasses and smug faces, as Mikey approached — slow, steady, hands tucked deep into his pockets. His thumb pressed against the hilt of Nadia's knife, the cold metal grounding him.
The air felt thicker with every step.
Payne Morrison tossed his head back in a full-throated laugh, eyes crinkled, voice booming across the VIP floor. But mid-chuckle, his gaze landed on Mikey.
And the laughter died.
He straightened, smoothing his sleeves with careful precision. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, slipping into his polished, practiced tone. "I have a meeting with this young man."
The others, clearly relieved to abandon a game they were all losing, chuckled and gathered their credits, clapping Payne on the shoulder as they left. One nodded at Mikey as he passed — unaware they were walking past a boy who lost everything.
Now it was just Payne, Mikey, and the guards lining the walls like living statues.
Payne's smile returned, slow and solemn. "Michael," he said with that faux-sincere lilt only politicians seemed to master, "I heard about your father. A terrible tragedy." He folded his hands. "I promise you, we will bring those terrorists to justice. Desmond was a loyal colleague… and a dear friend."
Lies.
Every word tasted rotten.
Mikey's heart pounded in his chest, his body practically vibrating with rage, but his voice came out low and trembling. "You killed him."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Payne tilted his head, eyebrows knitting together in just the right balance of confusion and offense. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" His voice dipped, colder now. "Michael, that's a treasonous accusation."
Mikey's breath hitched. His fists clenched.
"You heard me."
He lunged — not hesitating, not thinking — just moved.
In one swift motion, he pulled Nadia's knife from his pocket, blade already extended, aiming it straight for Payne's skull.
But Payne was faster than he looked.
With a grim grunt, he caught Mikey's wrist mid-strike. The knife dug into the soft of his palm, blood blooming instantly. He didn't flinch — didn't even blink. The smile was gone now. So was the politician.
What stared back at Mikey wasn't a man.
It was something else.
Payne's eyes — normally warm and rehearsed — turned cold and bottomless, like pits carved from obsidian.
"You know, don't you." His voice dropped, a shadow of what it was before. "About your weak father."
The guards tensed, waiting for a signal.
But Mikey didn't back down. His arm shook under Payne's crushing grip, the knife still between them, blood slipping between their fingers.
He'd seen the sigil.
He knew the truth.
And he wasn't going to run.
Not this time.