The heavy bike tore through the night, roaring into the courtyard of Galan Hall. On the eastern lot, a line of assembled vehicles rumbled, exhaust rolling like white smoke from a factory chimney. The lead beast—a high-displacement off-roader—still growled low, its hood scratched and branded with a torch emblem: the old mark of the Freedom Army. Under the neon glow, it hung like a faded flag.
Kael swung off the bike. Two dozen lackeys spilled from the truck bed in synchronized precision, bowing in the courtyard with mechanical accuracy, tethered by invisible strings. Kael didn't return the salute, but his eyes flickered, and the old scar along his flank ached under the tight suit—every time he saw these faces, the stitchwork reminded him the pain was still there.
"The Freedom Army boss is here," someone murmured. Kael pushed the bike toward the Chairman's building and glanced sideways. "Wanna take him inside for a meet?"
Nocturne didn't bother looking. She shut off her heating system, voice cold as forged steel. "No interest."
Kael raised an eyebrow, teasing. "She's sharp. Go see her." Light words, but heavy with unspoken command. Nocturne only set her boots on the ground. The cheap patchwork armor caught the neon, dull reflection glinting off clean skeletal lines. She walked steady, each step measured, controlled.
"What's this scrap yard good for?" Kael slouched against the handlebars, elbows planted, half-leaning like a daydreamer playing with fate. "Come stay at mine—save yourself from freezing."
Nocturne moved toward the door, casually brushing him off, like shooing a wandering wind.
Kael persisted, childlike in his coaxing. "C'mon, let's… cultivate a little bond."
A rough voice spat from inside: "Get lost."
Kael laughed, gunned the engine, and the bike slid back toward the Chairman's building like a black fish in oil. In the reception, Saphira sat on a leather sofa. Ryuu-9 hovered at the side, springing up to make way, whispering as he passed: "What took you so long?"
Kael didn't answer, slapping Ryuu-9's shoulder briefly before heading straight to Saphira. Ryuu-9 retreated silently, closing the door. Only the two of them and the power-symbolic coffee table remained.
Saphira was herself: scuffed combat boots, tight black pants, long ponytail at the nape, short blade at her waist. She was a freshly unsheathed military knife—cold, precise, lethal. "Healing up?" Her voice rasped like whetstone.
"Thanks to you," Kael sat, words loaded, smile dipped in honeyed steel.
"I came to see if you're still breathing and to discuss 88," Saphira said, blunt as a ledger.
Kael chuckled. "Discuss, sis." His grin curled his eyes, like teasing an old friend.
Saphira frowned. "Who called you sis?"
"I'm twenty-one," Kael yawned lazily, legs stretched on the table. "Year of the Dragon."
Saphira smirked, derisive. "Year of the Ox."
"Old saying: big girl, gold brick," Kael recited earnestly.
That hit a nerve. Saphira kicked his legs off the table. "You crazy?"
Kael rubbed the sore spot, acting pitiful. "Is it crazy that I want to marry you?"
Her face flushed. Years of being a sect leader, stripping away the "woman" role, never had anyone dared mention marriage. It was a pebble in her chest, rippling, but she pushed it down coldly. "Release that rotten gas from your belly."
Kael's tone shifted. "Ever think we could unify Eastbridge?"
Saphira froze. His gaze darkened, calculating like dice sliding across neon concrete.
"First, we deal with 88," he continued. "Then Neon Spire and Gamma will keep devouring each other, never peace. Or… we put them under one rule. Someone to manage streets, fix lights, feed the people. You and I combined—town breathes."
Her eyes measured him. Clear, childlike yet obsessive. The proposition hung like currency—power, responsibility, maybe tenderness.
"How long can you still wear your Exosuit?" she asked.
"Three years," Kael answered, fast, certain. "If you need a backbone, I'm here."
Saphira stayed silent, fingers tracing her blade's hilt, weighing the deal. Neon spilled through the blinds, cold light on the floor. Her silence spoke—a tentative yes, a possibility.
"If we join forces, Eastbridge sees no more war. City rebuilds, industry recovers, people don't lock children in basements. Nights aren't shattered by explosions."
Kael's voice dropped, like reading pre-written fate. "Here… wasteland becomes new Eden."
Saphira's chest tightened. She understood the weight—not love, but a stake, a political marriage. She wasn't a woman. She was a symbol, a power, a banner.
Kael continued, voice even, precise. "You're twenty-four. One year left on your legal Exosuit service. You need an ally who stands shoulder to shoulder, someone you can trust. Me—I'm your best choice."
Saphira didn't answer.
Kael lifted his gaze, solemn as if swearing an oath. "I swear on the scar I left on you—this life, I won't look at another woman."
He said it like a contract negotiation, clinical, stripped of warmth.
Saphira shook her head. "But you don't love me."
Kael paused, then confessed, "I'll learn to."
In that instant, Saphira felt her chest hit by a wave—not pain, just disorientation. Years as a boss, scars, coups, assassinations—she'd weathered all of it. Yet Kael's words landed like an unarmed grenade, square in her heart.
The lights in the reception flickered under the neon spill. Saphira gave no answer. She simply rose and walked away.
——
Night deepened. Kael returned to his quarters alone, peeling off his combat suit, sinking into the down-filled mattress. Exhaustion poured through him like liquid ice, seeping through bone and sinew. Eyes closed, his dreams booted like a mechanical program:
A dim, low window. Sunlight fell into a bowl of pasta soup. Everyone had just a small serving—water, salt—but fragrant enough to make him close his eyes.
Family faces blurred, leaving only warmth.
The door opened. Ryuu-9 came barreling in, clutching a battered ball.
"Oh, little Nine, fancy seeing you here…"—his sister's voice.
"Here, little Nine, this bowl's for you."—Mom's voice, gentle as wind.
"Mom, don't spoil him. He's the third kid's friend—let the third kid share!"—Dad said, gruff, but the bowl was already handed over.
Kael sat at the table, his chest swelling with softness. He didn't want to leave this dream. He gripped his pants, trying to pin this moment in place.
Suddenly, father rose: "Did you hear that—"
No!
He screamed inside, silent.
But in the dream, no sound came out.
Next second—
BOOM!!!
Blinding fireballs shattered the small window. The shadow of a steel colossus stretched across the entire slum alley. No neutron cannons, but the armor core's heat could vaporize everything. Explosions rolled in waves—skyfall, ground-shatter.
Kael woke amidst the rubble. His left shoulder was blown open, blood soaking the dust. He saw the broken pasta, the shattered bowl… and his sister's body slumped on the chair, long hair spilling over the table like a severed black river. Father lay over mother—chest obliterated above the waist.
"Brother!" Kael's scream tore the air.
Debris shifted. A boy, gray from head to toe, crawled toward him—not his brother, but Ryuu-9. Eyes bloodshot, like smeared crimson.
Kael glanced at his left shoulder—the memory he would never want to relive.
"AAAAHHHH—!!!"
The scream wasn't sound. It was soul-rending.
Ryuu-9 held him, but Kael clawed at his neck like a dying animal, howling, "Brother! It hurts! It hurts—BROTHER!!"
——
Kael jerked upright, drenched in tears, in his expensive down blanket. A sharp pain stabbed his left abdomen—probably torn open during the ride. He flicked on the light, retrieved alcohol and gauze, bandaged the wound with practiced precision—every movement as natural as breathing.
Bandages secured, he stared at the cold moon outside. His throat felt choked.
"Brother…" The word barely escaped before his nose burned with emotion.
The blast had wiped out the entire street—over seventy dead, only he and Ryuu-9 survived. Two wild dogs crawling out of hell, wearing human skin, bearing everyone's deaths, wandering into White City—becoming the deadliest and loneliest anomalies of this wasteland world.
Kael let out a bitter laugh. Cybernetic fingers trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling under flickering neon.
"Kael," he whispered to himself, "don't forget where you came from. Don't forget why you're still alive."
Eastbridge's streets haunted him with blood and severed limbs. As a teenager, he lost everything—family, arm, innocence. Now all he held onto was a single stubborn wish: that no child from Eastbridge would ever have to walk his path.
Sleep eluded him. The sky paled. His dark circles were like twin bullet holes, mind fixated on one absurd craving—he wanted a bowl of old-world pasta, slowly simmered in a kitchen from the days before collapse.
He left the Chairman's building. Arq, Vyre, Ryuu-9 crossed his path, but he spoke not a word, a bullet on a straight trajectory toward the assembly workshop.
A boot slammed the metal door open. "Old man!"
Inside, neon flickered. Nocturne leaned against the wall, arms crossed, an ice sculpture incarnate. He was talking to Zayden. Kael glanced at the overmade face, cutting in: "Stop talking. Come with me."
He swung onto his bike, engine roaring. Nocturne stepped out, voice cool as ever. "Can't leave me alone, huh?"
"Can't. Get on."
The bike tore through Galan Hall's iron gate like a bullet ripping silence.
War-torn streets had no breakfast stalls. Only black markets, and the black market didn't open at dawn. Kael wandered residential blocks—gray walls, corrugated shacks, empty roads—until he stopped in front of a dimly lit dwelling.
He knocked. The door opened to an elderly woman, silver hair like wire, gaze soft—witness of the oldest times, yet seeing through the newest madness.
"You make pasta?" Kael asked, rough.
She glanced at him, then at Nocturne.
"I have no money." Kael removed the timer from his cybernetic wrist. "Use this instead."
The old woman shook her head, swinging the door wide. "I've lived long enough. I don't need money anymore."
The room was cramped, furnished with a single old wooden table. Kael sat, Nocturne standing silently beside him, like a shadow—or a ghost.
"You brought me here," Nocturne said, finally breaking the silence, "just to eat a bowl of pasta?"
"Yeah."
"Why me?"
Kael didn't lift his eyes. "Because I wanted you here."
Nocturne studied him. "You think I'm some creature that still needs to eat?"
Kael froze, then pressed a hand to his forehead. "Then just… make a bowl."
Nocturne left the room. He had no flesh left, yet the memory of taste and swallowing lingered deep in his consciousness—phantoms more painful than any wound. He hated seeing others eat; it awakened the humanity he refused to possess.
The faint bubbling of water reached them from the window. The aroma of pasta soup slowly seeped through the stale air. Kael sat by the window, separated by a grimy pane, a lonely figure, like a lost child in neon shadows.
When the bowl finally arrived, Kael only stared. He didn't move. His knuckles whitened from gripping the table.
"You not eating?" Nocturne asked.
Kael suddenly sprang to his feet, kicking the door open. "Let's go."
"What's wrong?"
"It's not the taste." Kael's back faced him, voice hoarse. "Damn it, I just wanted old-world pasta, but she made… this instead…"
Nocturne watched his back, finally speaking. "Kael, some tastes… once lost, never return."
Kael turned, eyes red, like embers caught in ash.
Nocturne's voice was calm, low, mechanical in its precision. "You're still alive. Seek new flavors. Old ones, new ones—consume them all. That is your life."
Kael stayed silent, gritting his teeth. The engine of his bike roared—a beast awakening in the dark.
He kicked the door open.
"Eat before we leave."
"I'm not hungry!" The words barely left his lips when his stomach growled, the sound pausing the air for a heartbeat.
Nocturne's voice remained cool. "Hurry. I'm waiting."
Kael slammed the door shut, face dark.
On the ride back, neither spoke. Kael was stuffed, the cold wind whistling through his armor, twisting his chest. One hand gripped the handlebars; the other reached back to grab Nocturne's Exosuit canopy.
"What?"
"Need to vomit… let me use your cockpit for a sec."
"Vomit in my cabin?" Nocturne shrugged off his hand, voice flat. "I'm not Solaris Arc."
"I really feel sick!"
"My cockpit isn't for that." Nocturne's tone was cold steel. "Rule—touch, die."
Not a threat. A command etched deep into his consciousness by machinery.
Kael went still. All day he'd held back emotion; since morning, his stomach churned, his hands weakening.
Then, a cold, hard mechanical hand settled over his own, steadying the handlebars.
Nocturne said nothing.
Kael exhaled, leaning back against Nocturne's chest plate. The cold metallic surface radiated a faint warmth, like a heartbeat from another era.
"Was the pasta good?"
"Average." Kael squinted, leaning closer. "You've really never let anyone be your Operator?"
"My connector has never 'plugged into' anyone," Nocturne replied.
Kael froze two seconds, then laughed. "You're cruel in a way that feels… comfortable."
Nocturne nodded. "Mutual."
Back at Galan Hall, Nocturne dismounted. The workshop was eerily silent—lights on, not a soul in sight.
Signal flared on his audio scanner—second floor, control room.
He switched to silent mode, slipping upstairs.
The door hung ajar. Inside, Vyre wore a black suit, sleeves rolled up like an executioner. Zayden cowered behind the console, swollen face, wounds still bleeding, eyes rimmed with red.
"Someone hit you?" Zayden's voice trembled.
"Just… an accident."
Vyre smirked. "Hit or not, you're the kind of person everyone wants to punch."
Zayden stayed silent, shaking like a sieve.
"The club doesn't take sissies," Vyre intoned, judgmental. "Pack up. Leave."
Zayden lifted red-rimmed eyes, like a trapped animal, breathing quivering under humiliation.
Vyre's fist hung midair—a hammer about to drop. The room smelled of machine oil and sweat, metal light panels flashing cold blue, tracing tears carved deep into Zayden's cheeks.
"Enough."
The voice sliced through the doorway, calm enough to make the air freeze.
Nocturne stood at the stairwell, shadow stretched into a blade. Optical sensors flowed inside his visor, scanning the workshop like a rising tide: Vyre's fury, Zayden's choked sobs, unsaved repair logs on the console. Then, his gaze locked on Vyre's tear-streaked hand—cold as liquefied metal.
Vyre froze, facial muscles twitching as if struck by invisible current. The workshop's ambient noise seemed to vanish, leaving only low whirring gears in the background.
Nocturne stepped forward. His metal palm touched Vyre's shoulder—not pressing, but a precise, mechanical contact, like an engineer calibrating a deviation. "Do not overexert," he said, tone devoid of threat, but absolute.
Vyre recoiled, as if disconnected from a high-voltage grid. "You—" his anger was edged with hesitation. Rules in Galan Hall were explicit: no chaos in workspaces. And this was Nocturne's territory.
Zayden sank to the floor, shoulders twitching like tangled wires. He wiped his face with a filthy sleeve, lips pale. "I—I'll try. I won't cause trouble."
Arq burst through the side door, heavy breathing, eyes aflame. He saw Zayden on the floor, Vyre standing, and the motionless towering figure—a bomb detonating in his chest. Fists clenched, he wanted to charge, but Kael blocked the doorway.
Kael said nothing, didn't shout. He simply stood, observing. His old scar throbbed faintly as he shifted, like a vow awakening in pain. His gaze hardened, sweeping to Vyre. "Don't treat our children like garbage."
Vyre glared, lips quivering as if to argue, but the room's attention pinned him. Seconds stretched tenfold, then Nocturne broke the silence.
"Zayden, get up." His voice carried no pity, only command. "Retrieve the Q9 armor's circuit board. Don't let emotion interfere with work."
Zayden's eyes flickered, shame mixed with fragile relief. Trembling hands rose, wiping mud and tears from his face. Voice low, almost swallowed by the air: "I… understand."Vyre's shoulders slumped. His face was dark, stormy. He turned, walking away with a step weighed down by resentment—and defiance. The workshop's machines hummed back into his ears, like the world pressing "resume."
Nocturne's metal fingers cut through the air, gathering some invisible contradiction. He glanced at the neon-streaked sky and the gray clouds beyond the window. Quietly, he said to Kael, "Emotion will ruin machinery… just like fate. Irreversible."
Kael didn't answer immediately. He slipped his hands into his pockets, knuckles brushing the old scar, as if shaking hands with the past. His gaze lingered on Zayden's back as he packed up his tools, and a trace of tenderness flashed in his eyes—subtle, almost imperceptible.
Then Kael turned, twisting the throttle on his bike just a fraction tighter. The road ahead was still long.