Kai didn't get applause.
He got shouting.
"Back! Back from the center—are you trying to get this pinned on us? You think insurance covers the center?"
The clean-up lead's voice cut through the haze like sandpaper. Hands grabbed at Kai's shoulders from behind. Someone tried to yank him away from the crater.
Kai didn't let go of the scalpel.
He didn't even look up.
Because if he looked up, he might see faces.
And faces meant witnesses.
He slipped the second vial into his inner pocket, the one with the larger shard—Law-Knot Cluster (Damaged)—still pulsing faintly like an angry heartbeat. The first vial, the smaller bead, bumped against it. Two points of weight. Two points of trouble.
His fingers were shaking again. Not fear. Not adrenaline.
Something deeper.
The world had edges now.
Thin seams in the air where light didn't sit right. Tiny distortions around moving objects, as if reality lagged half a frame behind itself. His coworkers' arms looked like they had ghost images. The police tape seemed to vibrate.
The overlay didn't show itself. It didn't need to. It was already there, burned into his perception.
A pair of gloved hands finally got under his armpits and hauled him away from the center.
"Kai—Kai, look at me!" the lead hissed. His eyes were wide above his respirator, white crescents of panic. "Did you just—did you just touch it?"
Kai let himself be dragged. He let his boots peel off the tar with ugly sucking sounds.
He made his face blank.
"I was bagging," he said.
"Bagging," the lead repeated, as if tasting the word and finding it poisonous. "You were bagging in the center. That's a locked zone. Hunters leave, and that means it's sealed until the readings clear."
Kai shrugged like he didn't care.
Like he wasn't still feeling the creature's breath on his skin.
"Readings weren't coming fast," Kai said.
The lead's eyes flicked to Kai's right hand.
The scalpel.
"You brought that again," the lead said, voice dropping. "You know what they'll say if they see it."
Kai didn't answer.
If he answered, the wrong words might slip out.
Law-Knot. Cluster. Sever connection.
Words that didn't belong in a sanitation report.
The lead looked like he wanted to punch Kai and hug him at the same time. "You're going to decon," he said, sharp. "Now. And if you tell anyone you did anything out there—anything—"
"I didn't," Kai said.
The lie slid out clean. Familiar. Easy as breathing through a filter.
They dragged him toward the pop-up decontamination tent parked behind the ambulances.
It wasn't really for them. It was for liability.
A row of plastic curtains. A spray bar. A stack of forms.
A place to wash off blood and pretend it was over.
Kai's phone buzzed again in his pocket.
He felt the vibration through the vials.
As if the debt could sense what he'd taken.
He didn't look.
The lead shoved him through the first plastic curtain.
Cold mist hit him, sharp enough to bite through cloth. A chemical smell followed—bleach and something antiseptic that made his eyes water.
Kai forced his hands still.
If the vials clinked too loud, someone would hear.
If someone heard, someone would ask.
A woman in a municipal hazmat suit stood at a folding table, a scanner in her hand. Her suit was newer than his entire kit.
"Name," she said without looking up.
"Kai," he answered.
"Full."
He gave it.
She scanned his badge. The scanner beeped and displayed a number. Her eyes narrowed.
"You went past the perimeter," she said.
Kai didn't blink.
"I was told to collect fragments," he said.
"Not from the center," she replied.
Behind her visor, her gaze sharpened—professional suspicion. Not fear. Not disgust.
The kind of attention that didn't miss details.
Kai felt sweat begin to pool along his spine under the suit.
Then the overlay flickered.
A tiny pulse at the corner of his vision, like a notification he didn't want to read.
WARNING: Contamination Load: 31% (Rising).
WARNING: Cognitive Strain: Severe.
RECOMMENDATION: Decontaminate. Rest. Do not assimilate.
He almost laughed.
Rest.
As if rest paid interest.
The hazmat woman held the scanner closer to him. "Turn around."
Kai turned.
Cold jets sprayed down his suit, washing off grime, blood, tar. The noise filled the tent, drowning out the outside shouts.
Good.
Noise meant cover.
The hazmat woman leaned in, running the scanner down his back, along his arms, pausing at his chest.
The scanner beeped again.
Her head tilted.
"Your readings are elevated," she said.
Kai swallowed.
"From proximity," he said.
"Proximity doesn't usually spike like this unless—" She stopped herself and looked up at him as if recalculating what kind of person he was. "Unless you were exposed to core material."
Kai kept his posture loose.
"Then you should bill the Hunters," Kai said flatly.
For a second, behind her visor, something like amusement flickered. Then it died.
"Hands," she ordered.
Kai extended his hands.
The scanner passed over his gloves. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The hazmat woman's gaze fixed on his right glove, near the cuff.
Kai's heart thudded.
The vials weren't in his glove. They were in his inner pocket.
But his glove had touched the creature's chest.
His glove had touched the seams.
"Take them off," she said.
Kai hesitated exactly half a second too long.
Her eyes sharpened.
Kai forced himself to comply. Slowly. Controlled.
He peeled the gloves off, fingers stiff, pretending the delay was from chemical spray making the material stick.
The hazmat woman scanned his bare hands.
The scanner beeped, long and insistent, like a warning tone.
Her posture changed.
Not a flinch.
A decision.
"Hold," she said, and turned her head slightly. "Unit Three, I need an anomaly tech."
Kai's stomach dropped.
Outside the tent, the city's noise pressed closer.
This was the moment the wrong kind of person arrived.
A uniform with a different patch.
A polite voice that didn't ask questions—just gave orders.
Kai's vision tunneled at the edges. The world pulsed with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The overlay stuttered, then stabilized.
[SYSTEM NOTE]
Residual stitch-mark signature detected.
Cause: Severance event.
Visibility Risk: Moderate.
Stitch-mark.
So the system had a name for it.
So did the people with scanners.
Kai looked at the hazmat woman. "I need to go," he said, as if it was a request.
She didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her body language already had the answer.
No.
Wait here.
Be processed.
Processed was what happened to objects.
Kai's phone buzzed again.
And in the buzz, underneath it, like a thin wire in his skull, he heard the voice.
You're drifting, Mentor said.
Kai didn't move. He didn't show anything on his face.
"I didn't ask for you," Kai muttered under the spray.
No. You asked for a way out, Mentor replied. This is it. You just don't like the price.
Kai's jaw clenched.
They're going to find the mark, Mentor said. They'll file you. They'll label you. And if they label you, you'll never be a man again. You'll be a category.
Kai's breathing turned shallow.
"How do I erase it?" Kai whispered.
Mentor's amusement brushed his thoughts like cold fingers.
You can't erase what you don't understand, it said. But you can control what they see.
The hazmat woman tapped her scanner, frowning at the readout. "Your hands are clean," she said, almost to herself. "But the signature is—"
Kai's eyes flicked to the plastic curtain behind her.
Beyond it: workers moving, distracted. Forms. Buckets. A stack of used gloves and biohazard bags.
Kai's brain began to work again—not courage, just calculation.
He stepped forward half a pace, as if complying with whatever she'd ask next.
Her attention stayed on the scanner.
Kai's left hand slid down toward the table.
His fingertips brushed the edge of a box of disposable nitrile gloves. The box was damp from spray. The cardboard softened under his touch.
He took a single glove, crumpling it in his palm.
"What are you doing?" the hazmat woman snapped, finally looking up.
"Complying," Kai said, and lifted the glove.
Then he coughed.
Hard.
A wet, ugly cough. Loud enough to make her flinch. Loud enough to make her shift back instinctively.
In the same motion, Kai pressed the crumpled glove to his palm and dragged it down his wrist—slow, controlled, as if he were suturing a wound you couldn't see.
Not scrubbing.
Not smearing.
Tracing the line where the scanner had screamed.
One pass.
A fraction of a tilt.
A hair's breadth of pressure.
0.1 millimeters, applied to nothing but air and residue and intent.
He shoved both hands under the spray bar and rotated them—precise, repeatable—until the sensation in his fingertips changed, like a thread being pulled loose.
The scanner in the hazmat woman's hand beeped in protest, then—after two seconds—changed tone.
The insistent warning softened into a normal, flat beep.
Her eyes narrowed again.
"Stop moving," she said.
Kai stopped.
She scanned him again. Up. Down. Along the fingers.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Normal.
Her posture eased a fraction, like a spring loosening.
Outside, heavy footsteps approached the tent.
A man's voice, clipped, official. "Where's the elevated reading?"
The hazmat woman turned her head. "Here," she said.
Kai's skin went cold.
On the hazmat woman's screen, his number flickered from green to amber. Kai exhaled once. The ceiling camera iris tightened, as if it had heard. Then the curtain went still.
A shadow appeared at the curtain.
A uniform stepped through—dark, clean, expensive. Not police. Not municipal.
The emblem on the chest was different: a stylized eye over a grid.
City Security Administration.
CSA.
The man in the uniform looked at Kai like Kai was a loose nail.
"Contractor?" he said.
Kai nodded once.
The CSA officer held out a hand. "Badge."
Kai handed it over.
The officer scanned it with his own device—sleeker, quieter, meaner.
He watched the readout without blinking.
"Elevated contamination," he said. "Why?"
Kai didn't hesitate.
Because hesitation was confession.
"Proximity," Kai said. "Hunters left it hot."
The CSA officer's mouth tightened. "Hunters don't leave it hot."
Kai shrugged, small. "Then someone did."
The officer's gaze sharpened at that.
For a second, Kai thought he'd pushed too far.
But then the officer turned his scanner toward Kai's hands.
Beep.
Normal.
The officer's eyes flicked to the hazmat woman. "You called me for this?"
She hesitated. "There was a signature. It dropped. Maybe the spray interfered."
The CSA officer didn't look pleased.
He scanned Kai's chest, his shoulders, the oxygen bottle, the respirator.
Beep. Beep.
Normal.
Kai didn't breathe.
Mentor's voice murmured in the back of his skull.
Good boy.
The CSA officer handed the badge back, expression flat. "Contractor," he said. "If you feel sick, report to your supervisor. If you develop symptoms, report to CSA."
Kai nodded.
A cheap yes.
The officer leaned in close, voice low. "And don't go past the perimeter again."
Then he stepped out of the curtain like Kai had already bored him.
The hazmat woman stared at Kai another moment, then looked away, embarrassed by having overreacted.
"Get out," she said. "Next time, follow the rules."
Kai pulled on new gloves with fingers that were steadier than they should have been.
He walked out of the tent like nothing had happened.
Outside, the intersection looked the same.
But Kai didn't.
His skin felt too tight.
His hearing was too sharp.
He could hear the faint squeal of the drones' rotors. The small clicks of police radios. The distant honk of a car that had no business honking near a cordoned nightmare.
He could also feel the two vials in his pocket, tapping against his ribs with every step.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, he took it out.
The screen lit up with a call, not a notification.
CASE MANAGER
INCOMING CALL
Kai stared at the name like it was a snake on his hand.
He declined the call.
It rang again immediately.
Kai declined again.
A third time.
Kai shoved the phone back into his pocket.
The clean-up lead grabbed him by the arm as Kai tried to slip past.
"What did you do?" the lead hissed. His eyes were bloodshot with panic. "CSA came. They don't show up for nothing."
Kai met his gaze and held it. "I cleaned," he said.
The lead looked like he wanted to believe that.
He didn't.
"You're getting flagged," the lead said. "They'll pin it on us. On me. On the company. You want to die? Fine. Don't drag my paycheck down with you."
Kai's mouth curled, not quite a smile.
"You're worried about your paycheck," Kai said.
The lead's face flushed. "I'm worried about my kids," he snapped, then caught himself. His shoulders slumped. "Just… go home. You look like you're going to vomit in your suit."
Kai turned away.
He walked past the barricade.
Past the officers.
Past the bystanders who stared at the wrecked intersection like it was a show they'd missed.
He walked until the smell of blood faded behind him and the city's normal noise swallowed the last traces of the fight.
Only then did his knees start to shake.
Only then did he realize how close he'd been to getting boxed into a van and labeled.
He ducked into a narrow alley between two closed shops, leaned his back against brick, and slid down until he was crouched, oxygen bottle knocking lightly against the wall.
His respirator hissed with each breath.
His vision blurred at the edges.
The overlay blinked into existence without being asked.
[STATUS]
Contamination Load: 33% (Rising)
Cognitive Strain: Severe
Precision Rating: Uncalibrated
Inventory:
— Law-Knot Fragment (Damaged) ×1
— Law-Knot Cluster (Damaged) ×1
A thin bar pulsed red at the bottom.
WARNING: Instability detected in extracted items.
WARNING: Stabilization required.
NOTE: Improvised stabilization reduces yield.
Kai stared at the options.
Two items.
Two chances.
Two risks.
He touched the first vial through his pocket, the smaller bead.
The system highlighted it.
Law-Knot Fragment (Damaged)
Potential Yield: Minor attribute reinforcement
Risk: Low–Moderate
Options:
— Stabilize (Requires Tools)
— Assimilate (Not Recommended)
He touched the second vial. The larger shard.
The system highlighted it with a harsher red.
Law-Knot Cluster (Damaged)
Potential Yield: Moderate (Unstable)
Risk: High
Options:
— Stabilize (Requires Tools)
— Assimilate (Not Recommended)
Not recommended.
Kai almost hated the phrase.
It felt like the city.
Like every form he'd ever been forced to sign.
Not allowed.
Not permitted.
Not for people like you.
Mentor's voice drifted up, lazy as smoke.
You got it out, it said. You don't get to keep it unless you can hold it.
Kai swallowed.
"My tools aren't medical," Kai whispered. "I don't have a lab. I have a bathroom sink."
Then stop pretending you're a Hunter, Mentor replied. You cut once and lived. That was luck.
The words landed with surgical precision.
Cold. Clean. Cruel.
You just proved you can see the seam, Mentor continued. Now prove you can hit it.
Kai closed his eyes.
He saw the CSA officer's face.
He saw the scanner.
He saw the moment the beep changed tone.
If that had gone the other way, he'd be gone.
There was no time for safe.
There was only time for now.
Kai pulled out the smaller vial. He held it up to the light leaking into the alley.
The bead inside pulsed faintly, dark and wet and wrong.
His hand shook around it.
The overlay waited.
Kai chose the one that felt like a cliff.
ASSIMILATE
The red warning bar flashed.
CONFIRMATION: Assimilation is not recommended.
Possible Outcomes:
— Minor reinforcement
— Contamination backlash
— Cognitive degradation
Proceed? Y/N
Kai didn't answer out loud.
He just thought Yes.
The vial in his hand warmed.
Not like heat. Like friction. Like something rubbing against the inside of his bones.
A pressure built behind his eyes, stronger than before. His teeth ached. His stomach rolled.
Then the bead dissolved.
Not chemically.
Conceptually.
As if it stopped being an object and started being a rule.
Kai gasped into the respirator. The air tasted sweeter for a second, like the filter had been replaced.
The world snapped into focus.
Brick texture sharpened. Dust motes hung in the light like static. The distant hum of the city aligned into layers he hadn't noticed before: power lines, vents, drone rotors, human voices, each a separate thread.
His fingers stopped shaking.
Not completely.
But enough.
The overlay updated.
[ASSIMILATION COMPLETE]
Yield: Minor reinforcement
Effect: Fine Motor Control +
Note: Precision calibration improved.
A second line appeared under it, smaller and uglier.
SIDE EFFECT: Contamination backlash detected.
Contamination Load: 33% → 41%
Cognitive Strain: Severe → Critical
Kai's vision swam.
For a moment, the brick wall behind him wasn't brick.
It was layered.
Thin planes stacked like pages. Each page slightly offset, as if the wall existed in more than one position at once.
Kai's stomach lurched.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, swallowed bile.
Mentor's voice was close now. Too close.
There, it said, almost pleased. That's the door opening. Don't fall through it.
Kai forced himself to breathe.
In. Out.
Oxygen.
Pressure.
Control.
His fingers flexed. The movement felt smoother. More obedient.
He lifted his right hand in front of his face and watched it.
There was no glow.
No thread.
But he could sense where a thread would be if it existed.
A phantom awareness, like knowing where a vein runs beneath skin.
Kai looked at the second vial in his pocket—the one with the cluster.
He didn't take it out.
Not yet.
The red warning bar pulsed.
WARNING: Unstable item present.
RECOMMENDATION: Stabilize soon.
Soon.
Kai's phone buzzed again, and this time it wasn't a call.
It was a message.
Unknown number. No ID. No name.
Just text.
Nice cut.
You're not the first.
You won't be the last.
Kai stared at the screen.
His throat went dry.
"Prior interference," he whispered.
Mentor didn't respond immediately.
When it did, the tone was different—still amused, but with an edge that wasn't humor.
Someone is watching the seams, Mentor said. And now that you've looked at them… they can see you looking back.
Kai slid the phone into his pocket.
He stood, legs unsteady.
The city around the alley kept moving like normal—cars, footsteps, distant sirens. People living their lives, pretending the intersection wasn't a wound.
Kai touched the pocket where the second vial sat.
The Law-Knot Cluster pulsed once against his ribs.
Like it heard the message.
Like it agreed.
Kai started walking.
He didn't head toward home.
Not yet.
Home meant neighbors. Cameras. Thin walls. Questions.
He headed toward the part of the city where lights stayed on too late and no one asked why you needed medical supplies at midnight.
He headed toward the first place a poor man went when he needed a miracle and didn't care what it cost.
Mentor's voice followed him, soft as a scalpel whispering through cloth.
Good, it said. Now you learn the real rule.
Kai didn't slow.
"What rule?" he asked, voice low.
Mentor's answer landed like a diagnosis.
0.1 millimeters isn't skill.
It's payment.
Kai's fingers tightened around the strap of his duffel.
The overlay blinked one last time at the edge of his vision.
[NEW DIRECTIVE]
Acquire tools. Stabilize the cluster.
Time Window: Unknown.
Kai walked into the neon.
And the city—indifferent as ever—let him.