The distant buzz of neon faded into a lull as the adrenaline died. Somewhere in the distance, a train wailed like a dying beast. It was past 2 A.M., and the City was holding its breath.
Kamina cracked his neck and glanced up at the flickering light above them. "So, Boy-where do people like you sleep in this scrapheap of a world? I'm not about to crash face-first into another dumpster just to wake up with a horde of organ junkies on my back."
Shmuel, still half in shock from the encounter, blinked and checked his watch. His eyes widened slightly.
"...It's almost 2:10."
Kamina raised a brow. "Is that bad?"
Shmuel looked up at him. "If you don't have a roof over your head before 3:14, you'll end up being part of the pavement."
That got Kamina's attention. He squinted. "What?"
"The Sweepers," Shmuel said, quick and grim. "They come every night. From 3:14 to 4:34. They sweep through the Backstreets. Eat whatever's left outside."
"Eat?" Kamina tilted his head. "You mean like… food?"
"No. People. Flesh. Machines. Junk. Whatever's not locked behind a wall." Shmuel's voice was clipped, mechanical-as if he'd repeated this explanation too many times, like a student reciting the rules of a nightmare he'd learned to live with. "They don't stop. You can kill one, but it doesn't matter. They'll just step over the body and keep coming. Think of them like a moving wall of death. Some people actually use them to hide evidence."
Kamina stared at him for a long moment. No witty comeback. No posturing. Just silence.
Then he snorted.
"Sounds like a bunch of brainless cult trash with a hygiene fetish."
Shmuel blinked.
Kamina cracked his knuckles. "So, let me get this straight. The City just lets these freaks out like a parade of meat-hungry janitors, and nobody does anything about it?"
"It's not that simple."
"It's never that simple, is it?" Kamina growled. "This place's got rules like a prison and smells like the devil's armpit. Whole damn thing feels like it's waiting for people to stop fighting back."
He shook his head, scoffing. "No wonder the sky's gone. Everyone's too busy surviving to remember how to live."
Shmuel didn't argue.
"C'mon," the kid said, motioning toward a narrow path branching off the alley. "My place isn't far. It's not much, but the door locks, and the walls are thicker than they look."
Kamina followed, his cape catching the wind with each step. "You better not snore."
Shmuel gave him a sidelong glance. "You dropped out of the sky, knocked a guy out cold with the flat of a katana, and declared yourself a goddamn celestial rebel. I don't think you're allowed to complain about snoring."
"I'm not 'complaining,'" Kamina grinned. "I'm establishing dominance. It's how real men mark territory."
Shmuel rolled his eyes.
They walked through the mist-wrapped Backstreets. Behind them, the alleys began to stir, whispering with unseen movement. The Sweepers were waking.
The streets of District 12 stretched like veins of rust and smoke. Kamina and Shmuel moved briskly under flickering streetlamps, their footsteps echoing off warped metal walls and crumbling concrete.
Around them, corpse-littered pavement told a silent story. Bodies slumped in alley corners, riddled with makeshift blade wounds. A few were still twitching. Most weren't.
Kamina slowed for a moment, eyes flicking from one blood-slicked heap to the next.
"...Shitty place," he muttered, voice low.
Shmuel said nothing.
Didn't argue. Didn't try to excuse it. He just kept walking.
Ahead, a group of worn-down thugs burst from a side alley, pushing and shoving each other as they scrambled toward a shuttered storefront. One of them banged on the metal door until his knuckles bled. Inside, no one answered. The others didn't wait—they ran again, like rats before floodwater.
Kamina watched them vanish.
He shook his head. "That's what fear looks like," he said. "This place is full of muscle and metal, and no one's got the spine to fight back. Just running from the dark like it's already won."
He reached into his cloak and pulled something out—a round badge, cheap and scratched, with a four-cornered star stamped into the center. It was made of hard plastic, already cracked near the edge.
"Dropped this earlier," Kamina said, holding it out.
Shmuel blinked. "Oh—thanks." He took it carefully, brushing it off on his coat.
Kamina glanced at it again. "So... what the hell's an 'Office'? You said you're a Fixer, right? Is that some kinda janitor?"
Shmuel gave a short laugh. "Not really. Offices are… like teams. Mercenaries for hire. You group up with other Fixers, find work, take contracts. Fighting, bodyguarding, investigation, cleanup… whatever someone'll pay for."
Kamina raised a brow. "So… you're like bounty hunters?"
"Sometimes," Shmuel nodded. "Each Office has a Rep—the boss. They manage contracts and grade us based on what we take and how well we survive."
Kamina grinned. "So you've got a guy shouting at you all day? Sounds familiar."
"Only if you live long enough to piss him off."
He paused, then added, "The Office has to be recognized by something called the Hana Association. That's what makes it official. There's twelve big Associations that run everything—gear, assignments, evaluation, you name it. If you're not with them, you're not anyone."
Kamina scratched his chin. "And you're part of one of these outfits?"
Shmuel hesitated. "Kind of. Starwatch Investigations. We're... new."
Kamina eyed him.
"How new?"
"Three members," Shmuel admitted. "One desk. No funding. And I'm Grade 9."
"Is that good?"
"No," Shmuel said flatly. "It's the worst grade."
Kamina whistled. "Oof. Tough break."
"And I don't have augments either."
Kamina blinked. "Wait—you mean all those other guys are running around with metal bones and energy eyeballs or whatever, and you're just… you?"
"I couldn't afford it," Shmuel said, looking away. "Implants cost. A lot. Even basic ones. People like me just have to run fast and hope we don't get seen."
Kamina was quiet for a beat.
Then he slapped the kid on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
"You're telling me you're fighting off this freak-show apocalypse bare-handed with a knock-off badge and bad luck?"
Shmuel winced. "...I mean, yeah."
Kamina barked a laugh.
"Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" he shouted. "That's guts, kid! You're not just scraping by—you're flipping off the world with nothing but your shoes and your lungs! Hell, that makes you more of a man than half the cyborg trash we've passed so far."
Shmuel gave him a confused look. "That was… oddly encouraging."
Kamina shoved his hands into his cloak pockets, still grinning.
"I don't get your world, Boy. I don't get your grades, your gangs, or your flesh-eating vacuum monsters. But I know this: if you're still breathing, and still fighting, you haven't lost."
Behind them, something distant rumbled. A low, wet mechanical scrape, like something metal crawling over bone.
Shmuel tensed. "We need to move. That's the Sweepers waking up."
Kamina didn't flinch.
"Let 'em come," he muttered, looking back toward the darkness. "I've stared down monsters bigger than your nightmares, and I grinned while doing it."
Still, he turned and followed as Shmuel broke into a jog.
The apartment sat near the end of a rust-stained corridor on the upper floor of a derelict building, shielded behind a reinforced door with three locks and a painted-over peep slot. Inside, the space was dim, quiet—and unexpectedly spacious.
Kamina stepped in and whistled low, looking around. "This whole thing's yours?"
Shmuel nodded and started securing the locks behind them. "Yeah. It belonged to my grandparents. They lived here when this district was still under the old L Corp's Nest."
Kamina blinked. "...One of those Wing places, right?"
"Used to be. Then it collapsed." Shmuel's voice dropped a bit. "They didn't make it out. I was six."
Kamina fell silent. He glanced at the room again—plain gray walls, a coffee table scarred with burn rings, and a couch that had clearly outlived three owners. Still, the bones of family lingered in the shape of things. A dusty bookshelf. An old kettle that hadn't been touched in months. A framed photo turned facedown.
He turned back to Shmuel with a grin that could split stone. "Then live like it still burns."
Shmuel blinked. "What?"
"If the fire took them, then burn hotter than it did. That's what I'm sayin'." Kamina said, tossing his cloak dramatically onto a coat rack that nearly collapsed under the weight. "They lived here, so fill it with enough guts and noise to shake the ghosts loose! You hear me, Boy?"
Shmuel stared. He didn't understand it entirely. But for some reason, it didn't sound wrong.
"…Sure."
Then he looked Kamina up and down, frowning. "Also, uh—you need to take off those weird triangle sunglasses indoors."
Kamina gasped like he'd been told to disarm a bomb.
"These shades pierce darkness itself!" he declared, placing a hand over them as if shielding them from insult. "They are the lens through which destiny is seen!"
"Yeah, well, inside this apartment, destiny wears socks," Shmuel said flatly. "And take off the slippers too."
Kamina grumbled dramatically but obliged. He peeled off the triangular red shades in slow, exaggerated motions, holding them aloft like a sacred artifact along with his Katana. "You better treat these with respect," he muttered, placing them gently on the counter next to a stack of outdated ration coupons.
"And the slippers-" Shmuel reminded him.
"Yeah, yeah," Kamina kicked them off in a chaotic flurry that nearly sent one into the ceiling fan.
He looked around again, spotted the couch, then collapsed into it like a man returning to a throne. He sprawled sideways, arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded.
"Damn. That's actually comfy," he mumbled. "This beats sleeping under a wrecked mech leg."
"You've slept under a mech leg?"
"I've slept under three. And one of them was still sparking."
Shmuel rolled his eyes and started up the stairs to the second level. Kamina was already half-asleep, mumbling something about punching the sun if it showed up too early.
Upstairs, the room was small and plain. Just a bed, a desk, and a drawer filled with notes he never reread. Shmuel sat down, pulled open the bottom drawer, and took out a thin, cloth-bound notebook.
He flipped to the last page.
The corner read.
Day 999
His pen hovered for a second.
Then he wrote.
"Granny, I met someone today.
Fell out of the sky. Literally.
Loud. Unreal. Talks like the world hasn't ended yet.
A weirdo. But…
He stayed.
Maybe that means something."
He paused, tapping the pen against the edge.
999. The number sat there like it was trying to tell him something. Heaven had blessed this world with a man. A real man.