The "Exchange Plaza" of the Iron Lung was not a place for commerce; It was a place for survival.
Located in a hollowed-out cavern beneath the residential stacks, the market was lit by flickering, dying neon signs that cast the wet ground in shades of sickly green and red. The noise was deafening—the shouting of vendors, the hissing of steam pipes, and the constant, wet chopping of cleavers hitting blocks.
Victor and Kyle walked through the crowd, their boots squelching in the mud that was suspiciously dark.
"Protein blocks! Fresh!" a vendor screamed, holding up a gelatinous, gray slab that wobbled. "Made from real... organic matter! No rats! Maybe!"
Kyle grimaced, clutching his stomach. "I'm starving, Victor. But that thing looks like It was scraped off a boot."
"It's mostly algae and recycled waste," Victor murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd, analyzing threats instinctively despite his memory loss. "But It has calories. And calories mean we don't die today. We have three copper coins. That's enough for two blocks."
They approached a stall run by a woman known as "The Butcheress." She was a mountain of a woman with a cybernetic arm that ended in a rusted, spinning saw.
But before they could reach the counter, three shadows detached themselves from the wall.
They were "The Breathers"—a local gang that controlled the air filtration In this sector. They wore makeshift gas masks painted with skull teeth, and they carried lead pipes wrapped In barbed wire.
The leader, a wiry man with jagged scars across his chest, stepped In front of Victor.
"Ticket," the leader hissed through his mask.
Victor adjusted his cracked glasses. He stood straight, despite being half the size of the thugs. "We paid the breathing tax yesterday. The cycle hasn't reset."
The leader laughed, a wheezing sound. He poked Victor's chest with his pipe. "That was yesterday, Fixer. Today, the air Is heavier. Requires more filtration. The price went up."
He held out a greedy, filthy hand. "Five coppers. Or you stop breathing."
Victor looked at the coins in his hand. Three coppers. If he gave them up, they wouldn't eat. If they didn't eat, they wouldn't have the strength to work. If they didn't work, they couldn't pay tomorrow.
It was a death spiral.
"No," Victor said calmly. "The posted rate Is two. I will pay two."
The market went silent. The vendors stopped chopping. People backed away. In the Abyss, you didn't argue with the Breathers. You paid, or you bled.
The leader tilted his head. "No?"
"No," Victor repeated.
The violence was sudden and brutal.
The leader didn't shout. He simply swung his lead pipe.
CRACK.
It hit Victor's right forearm—the arm he had raised to protect his face. The sound of the radius bone snapping echoed through the quiet market.
"Victor!" Kyle shouted.
Victor fell to his knees, clutching his broken arm. He didn't scream. He bit his lip until it bled, his face turning ghostly pale. The pain was blinding, white-hot agony that shot up to his shoulder.
"That was for the 'No'," the leader whispered, standing over Victor. He raised the pipe again, aiming for the skull. "This Is for wasting my time."
He swung.
But the pipe never landed.
A hand—large, calloused, and shaking with rage—caught the weapon In mid-air.
The leader froze. He looked up. And up.
Kyle stood there. The "confusion" that usually clouded his eyes was gone, replaced by something ancient and terrifying. A red vein pulsed in his forehead.
"You…" Kyle growled, his voice vibrating like a subterranean earthquake. "…broke him."
"Let go, you giant idiot!" the leader shrieked, trying to pull his weapon free.
He couldn't. Kyle's grip was like a hydraulic press.
CREAK. SNAP.
With a simple twist of his wrist, Kyle bent the solid lead pipe Into a 'U' shape. The barbed wire bit into his own skin, but he didn't seem to feel it.
The gang leader stumbled back, terror flooding his eyes. "Get him! Kill the freak!"
The other two thugs lunged. One swung a chain; the other slashed with a knife.
Kyle didn't know martial arts. He didn't remember the "Breaker Style" or how to wIeld a gravity hammer. But his body remembered violence.
He took the first thug's blow on his shoulder without flinching. Then, he punched.
It wasn't a technique. It was a piston firing.
THUD.
His fist connected with the thug's chest. The man didn't just fall; he was launched backward, flying five feet through the air before crashing into a stack of crates. He didn't get up.
The second thug, the one with the knife, slashed Kyle's arm. A shallow cut.
Kyle looked at the blood. Then he looked at the thug. He didn't punch this time. He grabbed the thug by the face, lifted him off the ground with one hand, and slammed him Into the mud.
SPLAT.
The market was dead silent. Even the neon lights seemed to dim.
The leader, now alone and unarmed, backed away, trembling. "You… you're dead! The Boss will hear about this! You're dead meat!"
He turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows.
Kyle stood there, his chest heaving, his knuckles bruised and bloody. The red rage slowly faded from his eyes, replaced by the familiar confusion and concern.
He turned to Victor.
"Victor…" Kyle dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over Victor's broken arm, afraid to touch it. "I… I didn't mean to..."
Victor looked up. His glasses were askew, his face wet with sweat and pain. But hIs eyes—his eyes were clear.
He looked at Kyle's bloody knuckles. Then he looked at the terrified crowd around them. For the first time, no one looked at them with pity. They looked at them with fear. And respect.
Victor used his good arm to push himself up, leaning heavily on Kyle.
"Don't apologize, Kyle," Victor whispered, spitting blood onto the muddy ground.
He looked at the copper coins still clutched In his hand. Then he looked at the unconscious thugs.
"I tried to use logic," Victor hissed through the pain. "I tried to use currency."
He looked Kyle in the eye.
"But down here… gold doesn't buy you space." He nodded at Kyle's massive fists. "Strength Is the only currency they accept. And we… we just became rich."