The four men spread out in the rain, half-circling him. Neon flickered over their faces… jagged, scarred, and etched with malicious intent.
Kyle stayed still. Calm.
"Look, guys," he said quietly. "You really don't want to do this."
"Oh, but we do," one of the men replied, cracking his fists.
"Are you sure about that?" Kyle asked, his voice low but with an edge that was dangerously calm. "Do you even know who I am?"
The men exchanged amused glances. The one with the glowing blade scoffed. "We don't care who you are, kid. Just give us the credits and we'll be on our way."
Kyle sighed, rolling his neck. "Well, I tried being nice."
He placed the small grocery bag down beside the wall, out of the rain. Then he straightened his stance. Hands relaxed. The rain kept falling, tapping against the pavement like a countdown.
The man with the knife lunged, the red glow of his blade arcing directly at Kyle's chest.
But Kyle didn't move. Instead, his left eye lens flashed imperceptibly. And instantly, the world around him warped, time stretching, the blade's trajectory moving in slow motion.
He pivoted, evading the attack easily, then caught the man's wrist and twisted. A crack echoed through the alley.
A raw, guttural scream tore from the man's throat, but it was cut short as Kyle's other hand struck the side of his neck. The man's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled, unconscious.
The remaining three men froze for a split second, their grins replaced by expressions of furious disbelief.
"Bastard!" one roared. Then two of them charged simultaneously, one aiming a wild punch, the other a clumsy kick.
Again, Kyle's cybernetic eye processed the attacks with eerie clarity. He weaved between them like a blur, and struck.
Crack!
A swift, brutal elbow to the first man's jaw sent him spinning into the wall, collapsing in a heap.
Bam!
A follow-up, open-palmed strike to the second man's temple dropped him like a marionette with cut strings.
The last thug backed up a step, his face pale with a mix of fear and rage. "You… you freak!" he spluttered, fumbling at his jacket. His hand emerged, clutching a black plasma pistol.
Kyle didn't move. He simply stared, his gaze unnervingly steady. "Don't do it," he warned, his voice devoid of emotion. "If you do, you'll regret it."
The man, driven by adrenaline or desperation, ignored him. He squeezed the trigger.
Twoom!
A concentrated beam of searing blue energy erupted from the muzzle, hurtling towards Kyle's head.
But Kyle's cybernetic lens tracked it like a bullet in slow motion. He swerved sharply, the beam grazing the wall where he had stood moments before, spitting sparks and melting a small crater.
Before the shooter could even process what happened, Kyle had closed the distance. He seized the man's wrist, twisting the pistol effortlessly from his grasp.
Then with a swift, practiced motion, Kyle rolled the man over his back and slammed him onto the grimy alley floor. The plasma pistol now rested in Kyle's hand, its glowing muzzle pointed directly at the man's cowering face.
"Wait! Please! Don't shoot!" the man babbled, his voice thick with terror.
Kyle's face remained impassive. "I told you you'd regret it." he said, his voice cold and flat.
Then he shifted his aim lower and fired without hesitation.
Pew!
The blue energy beam tore through the man's thigh like paper, vaporizing flesh and bone in a sickening flash of light and heat.
"Ahhhh!" The man screamed in agony, clutching at the cauterized, bleeding hole in his leg, thrashing on the ground. "You bastard! My leg! My leg! How could you!"
Kyle simply stared down at him for a moment, then tossed the pistol aside. "Next time… walk away." he whispered.
Then he turned, picked up his groceries, and kept walking down the alley, leaving the four broken, defeated men in his wake.
...…..
The rain had eased off to a fine drizzle as Kyle stepped into Peckham, one of the local districts in south-east London… the kind of place the city had long forgotten.
The buildings were patched with old steel and cheap synth-glass, most walls tagged with neon paint and graffiti that glowed faintly under the streetlights.
It wasn't the high-end districts where the elite lived above the smog in their sky towers. This was the ground level… the backstreets. The real London.
And it was alive.
Kyle turned onto Rye Lane, where the crowd thickened. The glow of the city softened behind him… holographic ads fading into the mist, neon trails slicing through the smog.
He walked into the bustling neighborhood, the streets alive, even in the rain. Hover-bikes lined the curbs, their engines whining low.
People were sheltered beneath awnings, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of handheld data pads or the harsh, primary colours of street holograms advertising cheap data chips.
Most of the residents of the district were people like him, surviving on the edge: heavily inked young men in utility vests with chipped cybernetic limbs, older women monitoring community security feeds from their stoops, and families trying to make ends meet in cramped flats.
As Kyle passed by the streets, a group of young men stood under a flickering sign, chrome chains gleaming around their necks, smoke rising from their synth-cigarettes. They spotted Kyle and straightened immediately in reverence, offering nods and salutes.
"Yo, Kyle!" one of them, a young guy with red hair and a neck chain thick as his thumb called out. "You good, fam?"
Kyle lifted a hand in greeting. "All's good, Dre."
Dre grinned, taking another puff of his cigarette. "My crew tells me you handled those boys from Brixton last week. Nice work, homie. We owe you one."
"Yeah. Respect, man," another boy said, giving a nod that carried weight.
Kyle simply nodded, acknowledging their acknowledgments, and kept moving.
As he walked by the houses, an older woman tending a small garden by her doorway smiled warmly, raising a hand in greeting. Even the local street vendors tucked away their wares to acknowledge him with a wave or bow.
Kyle returned their gestures with a quiet nod, the familiarity comforting after a long night. The whole neighborhood knew and revered him. He had carved out a quiet existence there with Quinn after the Syndicate seized everything their father owned.
And eight years of living in the streets had earned him a lot of admiration and popularity among the residents. Though most of the younger generation respected him for a totally different reason.
Kyle turned onto his street, where the houses were smaller. Young men clustered outside the chicken shop near a church, their laughers ringing across the street. A girl with braided extensions that moved like snakes laughed at something on her phone. Someone's music system thumped bass that made the windows rattle.
A group of kids his age with face tattoos nodded at him as he passed. Kyle simply raised his chin in acknowledgement. One of them started to mutter something, but his friend elbowed him quiet. They knew better.
A moment later, an adult woman, Mrs. Adebayo, whose front door was slightly ajar and filled with the scent of spiced cooking, waved him over. She was the informal security chief of their stretch.
"Kyle, darling," she called out, her voice warm but firm. "Late night again?"
Kyle paused, the smile he offered tight and fragile. "It's been a busy week, Mrs. Adebayo. Lot of cars to fix up in the city." he lied perfectly.
Mrs. Adebayo didn't buy it, but she didn't push the matter further. She simply chucked. "Alright, then. Get some rest, child. You look tired."
Kyle gave a small nod and moved on, letting out a sigh of relief. Then finally, he arrived at his destination.
His house sat just at the end the street, sandwiched between a barber shop and a Nigerian restaurant. It looked like all the others; red brick, two stories, with a slightly battered but clean appearance. A small garage stood beside it, making it appear more graceful.
This small house in the backstreets of Peckham was the only thing the syndicate didn't take, either by accident or by a cold, calculated gesture of 'mercy.'
But Kyle didn't care why. He was just glad to have a home. He unlocked the door and stepped into the cool, silence of the house. Inside, the apartment was modest but lived-in
The sitting room was small but comfortable, occupied by a leather couch that had seen better days, a low holo-screen on the wall, and a cracked glass table littered with engine parts and half-finished tools.
The kitchen was tucked in one corner, composed of glowing touch panels, stacked plates, and a humming smart-fridge.
Kyle dropped his grocery bag on the counter, exhaled, and walked straight toward the stairs leading to the two bedrooms. The first room belonged to Quinn. Kyle avoided looking at it, the door always shut, serving as a monument to loss.
He entered his own room. It was minimalist: a simple bed frame, a small desk covered in disassembled parts and wiring, and a dark, monolithic storage unit for clothes.
The walls of the room were occupied with posters of old race events, holographic images frozen mid-frame, one showing Quinn standing beside their father's old racer. Kyle stopped for a moment, staring at it.
Then he shook it off and stepped into the shower.
Steam filled the small bathroom as water coursed down his back, washing away the tension of the night. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
This was the only time he felt quiet. No noise, no engines, no guilt… just the sound of water and memory.
When his brother died in that race three years ago, something inside him had gone silent. It was just him now. Alone in the same house where they'd once dreamt of better lives.
His sister was the only family he had left… and she wasn't even free. The Syndicate held her in "protective custody" until he could pay back the remaining debt. Hundreds of millions that might as well be considered a fortune.
He didn't know how he could sum up that kind of money in his lifetime. He just knew he couldn't stop.
He stepped out of the shower, wiped the steam from the mirror, and stared at himself. Kyle was 180cm tall, with a lean but muscular body.
He pulled on his grey pajamas and collapsed onto the bed, preparing to sleep. He wasn't hungry, only tired.
Tired of the city. Tired of running. Tired of counting how far he still had to go to save her.
His eyes drifted to the small holo-frame on the bedside table, a picture of Karen smiling beside Quinn, sunlight cutting across their faces.
Kyle exhaled. "Hold on a little longer, Karen, I'll get you back… no matter what it takes." he whispered to himself, slowly drifting off into slumber.
The lights in the room dimmed automatically, leaving the faint hum of the city beyond the walls.