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"Uh huh, yeah, uh huh," Alex tried to pay attention to the talking head in front of him. The speaker, another Little, had recognized him and came up to him as he sat in a mall's food court. He had brown hair neatly combed and wore a suit though he didn't seem to be working. This meant hee was putting a lot of effort into not seeming like a "LITTLE" little. This was fitting. He was rambling on about how best to present Littles to the Amazons, how to counter their propaganda, how to convince them they could be 'real' adults, and the suit was obviously part of that. As if the Amazons cared. As if it mattered at all. As if every one of them, EVERY one, wasn't half a second away from being helplessly bent over a giant lap, getting spanked for putting on airs, and being told about their new life in diapers and nurseries. As if any comment the Amazon's made about their most recent kidnappees wasn't just made up justification for something they were going to do anyway. He'd seen those nurseries. A lot. There was no escape from them, and there was no escape from that fate. They were sitting in the food court of a gigantic mall. Rows of fast food counters, each far too high for a little to see over and far too expensive for most of them to afford, surrounded tables of gigantic Amazons. They all ate in peace, and Alex had sat at a far too big white and red plastic table to think about his plan. He had to reach almost over his head to grab his drink from the table, even with the booster seat provided, but it gave him a moment to himself. Instead, he was interrupted by a Little in a suit. A Little in a suit was always a problem, as they attracted attention. Then again, any outfit could be twisted into an excuse, either playing pretend or too casual to be taken seriously. The only safe outfit for a Little was the baby clothes an Amazon put them in. Frankly, walking around already in baby clothes was the easiest one to avoid being caught, as the other Amazons assumed you are already taken. Alex had had fun with that little tip. "Now, when its comes to actual fighting..." the other Little leaned in closely. "I have some thoughts about that too..." Alex looked at him. He had 'thoughts." Were Littles allowed "thoughts?" If the Amazons were right, they didn't really that were worth listening to, and this dummy's 'thoughts' were going to prove them right. His "thoughts" were going to fail and cause major problems for everyone. Sometimes some had these thoughts of fighting. Against giants multiple times their size. Who were also several times stronger, were the only ones who owned weapons, and had the full backing of the law. Unsurprisingly, not one worked. Alex had tried himself a thousand times. The last one seemed promising. Inviting a genius level (for a Little, he supposed) diplomat from a world entirely built by Littles seemed promising. Alex was stunned when he heard of it- society, buildings, even planes, all built by Littles, suddenly accessible by a strange portal they had build themselves. It gave him a brief moment of hope that they could actually find their way out of this. Then he saw their plan. It was clear the Amazons had no real intent to meet her as an equal and that she was walking into a trap. No one else saw it, or believed him when he told them. Alex bet she'd last a week before she was in a diaper reciting some tirade about how Littles were better off as babies for the Amazon's hungry cameras. The other world might find building that portal was their biggest mistake as more and more of them found themselves imprisoned in nurseries they didn't even know existed. He should have known not to get his hopes up. Littles WERE that dumb. All of them. Even those from worlds where they ran the world and built airplanes. Himself included, but at least he saw it. The Little in front of him was telling his 'plan.' Alex already knew it was bound to fail. If he carried it out, he was going to get himself caught into a particularly harsh punishment. Not just a nursery, but a cage. Worse, he was going to get OTHER Littles into the same, and cause lasting damage to their own cause. Again, all Littles were dumb, but some were Particularly dumb. This one was particularly dumb. "NO Little needs diapers. NO Little WANTS diapers, and we'll get them all out..." Alex smirked behind his cup. Oh no, of course. How could ANY adult little POSSIBLY want to wear diapers? He shuffled in his seat, enjoying the feeling of his padding, and wondered if the Particularly Dumb Little heard the crinkle. At the far end, was what was distracting him. It was a store, titled "Littles Paradise." Massive glass walls showed off 'normal', ie giant like, clothes sized for littles. Behind it was the opposite. Locking strollers, locking pacifiers, paddles for spankings, and endless diapers, again, with locks, stocked the rest of the shelves. The store itself was a trap, and one Alex wanted to fall for. If he told people he wanted to wear diapers on his own he'd be a weirdo and sign other Littles should be adopted. If he openly looked for an Amazon couple to adopt him, he'd be a traitor. However, if he accidently fell for a trap that just happened to give him the exact result he wanted, and get 'forced' into a baby lifestyle by people several times his size? Well then, he couldn't be blamed, there was nothing he could do. He had been planning this even as these little should-be-diapered brats talked to him about resistance and expected him to help. This is why they spoke to him. On the outside, he was a writer and champion of Little's rights. On the inside, all he wanted was an Amazon, and the RIGHT amazon, to finally put him in his place. If his timing was right, that Amazon was fifteen minutes from walking into the trap store. If his plan was right, she was ten minutes from adopting her newest Little- Alex, and he'd prove he was the goodest diapered Little in the world. He smiled at the thought. Another Little was coming near. This one was caught, she was locked into a stroller pushed by giants. Based on her brown stained, overflowing diaper, t shirt with "Stinky Butt" written on it, and face twisted into a look of horror and disgust, she was in the middle of learning a VERY valuable lesson about what it meant for a Little to be in diapers with an Amazon determining when they got changed. She squirmed, clearly itchy and hot, as the lesson got stronger and stronger. It was a lesson Alex already knew was true, and hoped to be taught by a strict, caring Amazon soon. He looked at the passing Little, pinched his nose shut, and winked at her, letting her know what a smelly Little brat he thought she was. She pouted at him, upset that even another little was coming in on the teasing. Still, good lesson for her, and fair since he wanted to get the same soon. "Is something wrong Widdle Stinker? Learning why you don't argue over getting changed in public? Huh? Learning why your new Mommy and Daddy are always right?" The Amazon Mommy asked the squirming Little as they passed. Alex chuckled. So it was a well deserved lesson. A muffled moan came as a reply, and the Amazon stopped. "Hmm, seems the Widdle Stinker might need a bit more help with your lesson." The Little squealed from behind her pacifier, and her Amazon Mommy lifted her straight out of the stroller. She sat down on a bench and put the whining Little on her lap facing out. "Time for your horsey ride, Stinky Butt! Yayy!" the Amazon said. With massive hands that covered most of the Little's torso, she held the squirming brat in place and bounced her up and down on her knee, each bounce bringing another SQUELCH from her overflowing diaper and a groan from the Little. "Tsk tsk tsk, stinky stinky stinky," The Amazon said. "Just look at that messy diaper! And to think, only a few weeks ago you thought you were a regular adult who deserved thongs! How silly! I'm going to take you back to your old "Accountant Firm" in your proper underwear and show them the truth, what do you think of that?" The Little teared up. She looked at Alex for comfort, and instead he smiled and waggled his finger at her misbehavior. She whined and closed her eyes. "What was that?" The particularly dumb Little in a suit asked. He looked behind himself at the bouncing Little, and turned away blushing. "Oh, nothing. Things like that happen all the time at this mall." Alex was counting on it. "You were saying?" Alex made eye contact with the still speaking Little who still hadn't realized he was better off in pampers. Well, time for a lesson even a Particularly Dumb Little could understand before he hurt far more people then just himself. Alex had worked long to find the right Amazon couple to be his new Mommy and Daddy, and had planned ahead to ensure he got the ones he wanted. Some were too poor, and couldn't afford a good lifestyle for a Little. Some were cruel, treating their Littles as more prisoners then babies. Some were the opposite, and didn't give Littles the spankings they needed to behave. Alex had picked carefully, but this Little would never get the chance. The Little reached for his drink, a giant cup of apple juice, (Alex wasn't sure if he had ordered that or the giants refused to serve him beer or soda, but either proved the point) and was already shaky trying to hold it. "Wait... what's that on the cup?" Alex asked, making a confused face. He climbed up higher on his chair and bent over the table and reached for the Little's cup, aiming as well as he could. He smirked, realizing that his position probably made his diaper a bit more obvious. Ironic, given what he was about to do.

"Ah, there you are. Welcome, my dear guest—we’ve been expecting you." "You must be exhausted. The outside world can be so demanding, so terribly unkind to those who don’t quite fit into its rigid expectations. But here? Here, we do things differently. Here, you are free to let go, to be who you were always meant to be." "Oh, I see that flicker of resistance in your eyes. That stubborn little spark. No matter. Some learn quickly, others take a bit more… encouragement. But rest assured, my dear guest, no one leaves Noctis without learning their lesson. The Headmaster sees to that." "For now, there’s no need to fret. Everything has been arranged, just for you. A new life. A simpler way. A second chance to be cared for as you deserve." "Now then—shall we begin?" Mr. Reginald Cromwell Noctis-Two moons The Daily Grind and the Night Descent Chapter 1: Delivery Routes Rain traced cold fingers down his spine, needling through worn seams. His boots slapped against the oil-slicked concrete of the loading zone, water pooling around crates and delivery skiffs. Corporate workers drifted past under awnings, their eyes sliding over him—like he wasn’t there. Like runners didn’t count. The Flea waited where he’d left her—last in line, always—her patchwork frame hunkered down like a beaten dog. The bike had started life as a Spektra Glide 300, sleek once, but that was years and a hundred bad repairs ago. Now, it was armor-plated with scavenged aluminum, welding scars crisscrossing the steel alloy beneath. Neon blue and green paint clung to the edges, peeling like sunburnt skin. Calum wiped rain from his eyes. “Alright, girl,” he muttered, voice low. “Don’t mess with me today.” Fingers stiff with cold, he pressed the ignition. The Flea sputtered—a sick, choking cough. Calum’s heart hitched. He jabbed the button again, harder. Another wheeze. Dash lights flickered—faint as dying fireflies—then blinked out. “Seriously?” His breath misted the air. He tried again. And again. Nothing. Rain drummed on the visor of his helmet. His pulse quickened. He pressed his palms to the handlebars, forcing down the knot in his chest. This was his fifth run of the day. Every stop had been harder—grip slipping on wet controls, shoulders aching under cargo weight. He was running on fumes. And now this. If the Flea was done, so was he. “Don’t do this to me,” he whispered. His thumb hovered, eyes closed for a second—like it might help. Click. Cough. A sputter. Silence. He hit it again. Harder. Silence. Again. The dash stayed dark. The Flea sat still beneath him, rain tracing along the ridges of rust like veins. Daan’s voice came unbidden into Cal’s mind. “You let this thing fall apart again, mate? What, hoping it’ll fix itself? Gotta love that strategy.” Cal could almost hear the grin behind the words. He remembered the first time they met, years back, in the alley behind the smog market, where the vents spat steam thick enough to choke you. He almost got away, weaving through crates and broken scaffolding like a rat born in the metal. But Cal was faster—or angrier. Maybe both. Daan tripped on a loose pipe, and Cal was on him before he could crawl away. Slammed him against the wall, knee pressing into his ribs. He squirmed like a cornered dog, but he was caught. “That my bike you tried to steal, huh?” Cal’s voice had come out sharp, half from rage, half from panting. “You wanna die today, kid?” No answer. Just those blue eyes glaring up at him, trying hard not to water. Small, thinner than Cal back then, sandy hair plastered to his face from the rain. But there was fight in him—Cal saw it. That made him even angrier. He shoved Daan’s face against the wall. “Name.” Grunt. Teeth clenched. “Daan.” Cal pulled the scrap of rubber tubing from his belt, wrapped it around his knuckles for show. “You know what happens to bike thieves here? They get the paddling of their life, then crawl home to mama—if they got one. You got one?” Silence. Breathing—fast, scared, defiant. Cal shoved his face into the bricks again. “I asked you a question, Daan.” “Na… no.” Yanked him forward, flipped him over like he was really going through with it. Daan yelped, struggled, but Cal pinned him easy. Brought the strap down—not too hard, just enough to sting. Three, maybe four times. Each swat made him flinch, but Cal knew he wasn’t breaking him. Just teaching him. Then he heard it—Daan’s stomach, loud like a damn engine sputtering out. The boy froze when he realized Cal noticed. Face flushed, like that growl had betrayed him worse than anything else. Cal let go. Daan hit the ground on his knees, staring at the wet pavement. “When’s the last time you ate?” No answer. That was answer enough. The strap slid back into Cal’s belt. “Get up.” Daan hesitated but got to his feet. Cal started walking. After a few steps, he heard the boy’s footsteps trailing behind. They went to the fry stall near Egelstraat—greasiest forge fries you could find, slathered in lava ketchup. Cal paid. Daan didn’t say thanks, just scarfed the food down like he thought it might be snatched away. They sat under the busted neon sign, rain still falling but softer now. Cal watched him eat, and he knew. Daan was his now. His little street brother. Whether he liked it or not. When the fries were gone, Cal caught the twitch in Daan’s eyes—that little calculation. He was about to bolt. Cal knew better. Before Daan could move, Cal grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back toward the fry stall’s back entrance. The kid squawked, but Cal hauled him inside. The boss—a gruff old man with grease-stained hands—looked up, ready to bark, until he saw the scrawny kid. “You need help?” Cal asked, holding Daan in place. The boss raised an eyebrow, glanced at Daan, then shrugged. “Could use a runner. Or someone to scrub.” Cal shoved Daan forward. “He’ll work. Keep him busy. Feed him. I’ll check in.” He gripped Daan’s shoulder, voice low. “Better behave. If I hear you caused trouble, you’ll wish you stayed hungry. Got it?” Daan gave a stiff nod. The fight was still in his eyes, but now there was something else—relief, maybe. Or hate. Probably both. Cal left him there. But he knew he’d be back. The memory faded, but the voice lingered—Daan’s teasing grin bleeding through it all. “You let this thing fall apart again, mate?” “Not now,” Cal hissed under his breath. He opened the side panel and fumbled with the wires. His knuckles scraped against the chassis, stinging in the cold rain. “Come on.” A jolt here, a prod there, and finally, the bike gave a reluctant cough. He thumped the side for good measure, and it sputtered to life, the dash flickering weakly back into existence. “Knew you still had it in you.” The knot of kids jeering nearby groaned at his success and dispersed, their taunts forgotten as Cal adjusted his seat. The growl of the engine sputtered unevenly as he guided the bike down the sloping descent toward the lower tiers. Calum weaved through the throng, his hover bike growling low like a caged animal. The streets simmered with life and noise, a boiling pot of vendors shouting prices, kids arguing over scraps, and drones hovering just out of reach like some mechanical vultures. Rain drizzled down in lazy streaks, turning the cobblestones slick and oily. Neon signs buzzed overhead, their garish colors spilling onto grimy puddles. A vendor’s cart spilled into his path, a tangled heap of plastic crates and dented cans of protein sludge. Cal jolted the bike to the side, its thrusters spitting out a sharp burst of heat. “Watch it, kid!” the vendor barked, shaking a gnarled hand at him. “Stay outta the road, old man!” The bike wobbled but held its course, skidding around a corner that opened into something barely resembling a street. Tall buildings leaned in, their facades smeared with layers of graffiti and grime from decades of neglect. LED panels dangled from their mounts, flickering erratically—ads promising everything from luxury implants to “premium oxygen filters” polluted the air just as much as the smog that stung Cal’s eyes. Another turn, another mess. Two gang brats, no older than twelve, were pelting an already-cracked drone with rocks. It whined and sputtered feebly, trying to lift its crooked frame off the ground. Cal could’ve sworn it screamed at them like an injured animal before one kid smashed its lens with a final throw. “Hey, scrap it somewhere else!” Cal shouted as he whipped past. One of them flung a rock in his direction, but it clattered harmlessly against the bike’s reinforced chassis. The ride down felt like falling—a long, steady tumble back into a world that felt like home, as gritty and chaotic as it was. Here, high-rise buildings slouched into hulking, mismatched constructions patched with graffiti and neon buzz. The antiseptic smells of corporate plazas gave way to wet metal, fried oil, and burnt circuits. Somewhere in the crush of stalls and signs below, Daan was probably running his mouth to some vendor, haggling for a better deal on synth supplies. The thought of him cracked a smile on Cal’s face, fleeting as the city blurred by. Daan’s overconfidence always seemed to pay off, even if it came with a risk Cal wouldn’t dare take. Cal zipped through the rain-slicked streets, the city alive around him. Vendors lined the alleys, their carts patched with neon panels advertising menus that promised nutrients and flavor but looked anything but trustworthy. Steam and smoke curled into the air like rival signals. Above, a floating ad droned softly, its holo-display projecting onto the low-hanging smog. A bright, impossibly clean bedroom materialized, complete with a shining blonde-haired boy about Daan’s age lying across the pristine bed. The words “DryNite: Rest Easy, Stay Confident!” scrolled beside him in cheery font. Cal snorted, his grin widening. The kid in the ad did look a little like Daan, minus the spotless setting. He could imagine showing it to him, teasing: “See? They got your good side, finally!” Daan would groan, probably flip him off while muttering something about corporate creeps. Cal shifted his weight on the bike, his eyes flicking back to the ad as it flickered into the haze. DryNite. He’d seen those plastered everywhere—on billboards, shop windows, even stamped onto delivery crates. Always the same message, like someone was obsessed with reminding the whole city not to wet the bed. His smirk twisted into something more skeptical. Did they need that crap up in Noctis, too? He pictured it—some perfect sky city, all gleaming towers and smiling families, everyone piss-soaked under their pastel jumpsuits. Maybe those rich kids had gold-plated diapers to match their parents’ chrome cars. The thought made him snicker, but there was a sour note under it. Because what if it was true? What if even in paradise, they were all still stuck in their beds like kids who couldn’t grow up? Shaking his head, Cal revved the throttle. Stupid. He didn’t know anything about Noctis. Didn’t know anyone who did. All he knew was here—smog, rust, and ads telling you to stay dry while you drowned in this city. But still… He glanced once more at the spot where the ad had hovered. Weird fucking world. The Flea surged forward, weaving through the maze of crumbling buildings and flashing neon. The moment of humor faded as the city’s weight pressed back in around him—but the question lingered. The building rose like a monolith, its exterior a seamless gray reflecting dull strips of distant billboard light. The bike hissed when he cut the engine, settling with a mechanical sigh. Cal swung his legs off, shaking out the stiffness in his arms. The damp city air clung to his jacket as he pulled it tighter around himself. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, running both hands through his hair until it fell more or less the way he wanted. Adjusting the delivery’s satchel across his chest, he glanced at the corporate logo embossed on the drab package. Another faceless suit waiting for this, another payout barely enough to get by. Just another day. The sliding doors hissed open, releasing a wave of dry, processed air that felt like walking into a giant’s exhale. Cal stepped in, boots squeaking faintly against the polished floor, his gaze flicking over the reception area. Everything gleamed—white walls, chrome accents, artificial lighting so sharp it felt like a slap. The scent of sterilized nothingness filled his nostrils. Behind the desk sat a woman, her hair pulled into a severe bun so tight it seemed to stretch the skin around her temples. She didn’t look up, fingers darting across her console like she was playing some high-stakes game only she understood. The corporate uniform was sleek and spotless, a contrast to Cal’s patched-up jacket and scuffed boots. He sauntered up, the satchel of his delivery shifting against his hip. “Hey,” he said, leaning an elbow on the desk like he owned the place. “Got a package here. Thought maybe you’d like a break from crushing dreams with that death glare of yours.” The woman’s hands paused mid-typing. Slowly, she looked up, her expression unreadable, though the faint arch of her brow spoke volumes. “Got a name for the delivery?” Her tone was flat, clipped, like she hadn’t even registered the joke. “More like I was hoping to get your name,” Cal said, a grin sliding onto his face. “C’mon, you look like someone who knows her way around these sterile halls of misery. Maybe you could give me the grand tour sometime.” Her brow didn’t move. Instead, her eyes dropped back down to her screen as she typed something without acknowledging him. “Delivery box is outside the building,” she said, not looking up this time. “Use it.” “Uh, what?” “Box. Outside. For deliveries.” She gestured vaguely, her focus never leaving the screen. “This isn’t a drop-off point.” The grin fell from his face almost as fast as the heat rose in his cheeks. He blinked, a laugh catching awkwardly in the back of his throat. “Right. Sure. Makes sense. Why bother with human interaction, anyway?” She didn’t nod. Didn’t shrug. Didn’t even flinch. Her dismissiveness sealed the moment with the efficiency of a drone docking into its port. Cal straightened from the desk, adjusting his jacket like that would somehow patch up whatever dignity he had left. “Got it,” he muttered and turned on his heel, the satchel slapping against him as he pushed back through the entrance doors. Cal dropped the parcel into the delivery box with a hollow thunk. His watch buzzed before he could pocket it. A new message lit up the display, so brief yet potent enough to freeze him mid-motion: “9 PM. The Grasshopper. Drink’s on me.” No signature. Never needed one. Cal stood there for a moment, staring at the screen as the rain pattered down heavier now, tracing grimy lines down the window beside him. His mind skipped ahead to what waited—no, who waited. Dante Moretti. Steelhand. Even the name brought a weight to Cal’s shoulders. Dante didn’t just run this side of New Amsterdam—he owned it, every streetlight and shadow included. His reputation rippled through the Worker Blocks, through backdoor deals and whispered warnings. The syndicate’s leader had a way of getting his hooks into people like they didn’t even know they were bleeding. Cal wasn’t sure which he hated more: the charm Dante wielded like a weapon, or the fact it had worked on him. Dante had pulled him in months ago with promises too sharp to refuse, dangling opportunity like a magician dangling silver coins to a starving kid. Chance to survive. Chance to win. Or so Dante claimed. The message burned on the screen until Cal dimmed it. A drink at The Grasshopper meant one of only two things: trouble or a reckoning. Dante wasn’t the type to chat about the weather. Cal stared at the message, the faint glow of his watch illuminating his damp face. Rain dripped from the edge of his jacket, pooling at his feet as he stood frozen in the docking bay. Around him, the city continued unabated: drones buzzed, a vendor barked about “fresh” wares, and the faint crackle of an argument spilled out from a nearby alley. But Cal heard none of it. His mind had tunneled in on the message, playing and replaying it like a warning siren. The Grasshopper wasn’t a casual meeting spot. It was Syndicate ground, where Dante held court among his loyalists. No one got invited there without a reason—good or bad. Cal’s stomach tightened. A drink with Dante wasn’t an offer; it was a test, one where the stakes were never clear until it was too late. He dimmed the watch display and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to block out the cold creeping under his skin. What did Dante want this time? Another run? A job that would keep him tethered to the man just a little longer? It was impossible to say, and even more impossible to refuse. “Guess I don’t have a choice,” he muttered, the words swallowed by the patter of rain against the pavement. He glanced at his bike, still dripping from its sputtering trek through the city. It leaned slightly to one side, a rusted reflection of himself. Both battered, both running on borrowed time. For a moment, he thought about walking instead, as if the delay might change what waited for him. But the thought was fleeting. Dante didn’t wait for anyone. * * * The ride down felt like falling—a long, steady tumble back into a world that felt like home, as gritty and chaotic as it was. High-rise buildings slouched into hulking, mismatched constructions, their exposed metal bones patched with graffiti and rust. Neon lights buzzed and flickered erratically, pooling green, pink, and blue onto the rain-slicked streets. The city’s sounds rose like an orchestra of survival: boots clanging on metal, the chatter of drones, voices snapping in arguments down shadowed alleys. Water splashed against his boots as the bike cut through puddles, steam hissing faintly when the undercarriage scraped the drenched ground. Cal leaned into the curves, weaving past collapsed skywalks and crumbling platforms, his ribs aching from the pressure. He glanced up once—saw the upper tiers dissolve into smog, sterile towers hidden behind the murk. Down here, the air hit heavier. Wet metal. Fried oil. The tang of burnt circuits and damp rot. His stomach twisted, sharp and impatient, like it was trying to eat itself. He hadn’t eaten since that stale ration bar in the morning. The hunger felt familiar—an old companion, always whispering in the back of his mind, always tightening its grip. He pushed the bike harder, trying to outrun it, but hunger never needed to breathe. Daan’s voice cut through his thoughts like it always did. “You let this thing fall apart again, mate? What, hoping it’ll fix itself? Gotta love that strategy.” Cal could almost hear the grin behind it. He smirked despite himself, but his body sagged further against the bike. Daan wasn’t wrong—he’d always been the one patching up the flea when Cal ignored the rattles and leaks. Hunger twisted tighter in his gut, but this time, it wasn’t just food he craved. The lower streets pressed in tighter as he descended, alive with stalls and carts patched together from tarps and rusted metal. Vendors hawked under flickering signs, bold fonts flashing menus that made his mouth water. BitterSynth balls dusted with spice. Forge Fries drowning in neon-orange mayo. Smog Stroopwafels stacked like treasure, syrup glowing green as if it were mined from the city’s veins. The smells clawed at him, dragging his thoughts backward—to Daan, drenched from the rain, scarfing fries under that busted sign after Cal had given him a few swats and half a lecture. That same damn stall might still be there, grease in the air, the owner with his stained apron. The ache in his stomach sharpened, demanding more than just memory. He needed to eat. Needed something solid. By the time the rain thinned to a mist, Cal guided the bike into the narrow sprawl of Egelstraat. The street twisted into a maze of flickering signs and damp cobblestones. Stalls glowed faintly in the gloom, their lights dancing off puddles. Somewhere further down, he swore he heard Daan’s voice—sharp, laughing, maybe haggling with a customer. For a second, he considered stopping by, shaking him down for a free bite. But his stomach clawed again, pulling him toward the nearest vendor instead. He jerked the bike to a halt by a line of carts. Steam rose thick around him, oil snapping and batter crackling over flames. Signs promised nutrients and flavor, but everything here was a gamble. A woman in a rain poncho flipped something golden over a vat of oil. Another stand slathered skewers in glowing blue sauce that shimmered like coolant fluid under the lights. Cal’s eyes landed on a smaller cart—plain, no frills. Someone who didn’t need to dress up the food to get by. A stack of oversized stroopwafels sat under a scratched plastiglass cover, syrup glowing faintly green between ridged layers. The vendor, a stooped old man with birdlike eyes, pressed one onto a griddle with practiced flicks, the syrup bubbling sluggishly beneath the iron. Cal curled his lip but stepped forward anyway. Hunger didn’t care. “One of those,” he muttered, “and a Neo Oranjeboom.” The old man glanced up, voice like rusted gears. “Six credits.” “Six?” Cal scowled. “For a waffle and a drink? Syrup’s not made from real fruit.” “Prices went up. You want it or not?” Cal dug into his pocket, stomach twisting tighter. “Four.” The vendor’s eyes narrowed. Silence stretched. Then, a dry chuckle. “Five. Final offer.” “Fine.” Cal handed over the credits and took his food, ignoring the man’s grin. The stroopwafel was warm in his hands, syrup sticky through the paper. The algae scent hit first—salt with that faint chemical sweetness. Not appetizing, but not sickening either. It would do. He cracked open the Neo Oranjeboom—fizz and synthetic citrus stinging his tongue, metallic aftertaste settling in his throat. He leaned against a damp post, took a slow bite. Sweet syrup clung to his teeth, the salt cutting through the fake sugar just enough to make it edible. He washed it down with another swig of the drink. Daan’s voice stirred again, overlapping with the rain and the hiss of grills. “Gotta love that strategy.” Cal smirked. For a moment, the heat of the waffle, the sting of citrus, and the buzz of the city made things bearable. Not good—never good—but better than starving. It wouldn’t last. Nothing ever did. * * * The Flea purred to life as Cal kicked off the ground, its engine hiccupping before smoothing into a confident hum. He guided it through the shifting currents of traffic, the faint glow of its worn-out boosters cutting thin streaks through the grime-heavy air. The streets stretched darker and narrower the deeper he rode into the old Red District. Gone were the flashing holograms and buzzing nightlife—the legends of indulgence and glitter had long since withered, leaving behind hulking ruins and empty promises. The Red District still bore echoes of its infamous past. Its iconic window displays, once bathed in seductive neon hues, now flickered faintly or stood shattered, their glass panes smeared with grime. Where holograms once advertised fantasies, warnings about trespassing Syndicate-controlled areas now loomed overhead. Rusted grates replaced cobblestones, steam rising in uneven bursts from vents below. Waste fires smoldered nearby, their smoke biting at Cal’s throat. Above, scavengers moved along precarious catwalks, metallic footsteps clanging faintly like ghosts haunting the district’s remains. Cal tightened his grip on the handlebars as a figure loomed overhead. A scavenger perched on a broken catwalk glanced down, their shadow stretching across the street. He pretended not to notice the glint of a blade at their side, focusing instead on steering The Flea around a cluster of collapsed awnings. The boosters sputtered as he navigated the tight spaces, their sound reverberating off the towering ruins. A flickering green glow pulled his attention ahead. The Grasshopper’s sign hung like a beacon, its broken neon lighting up the street with fractured light. Even in disrepair, it commanded respect—a silent declaration of Syndicate territory. The carved emblem beneath the sign sent an unmistakable message: trespassers would regret it. Cal eased The Flea to a stop at the cracked curb, the cooling engine hissing softly under the drizzle. He stepped off, running a hand over his damp jacket as he glanced around, wary of prying eyes. The door swung open with a sluggish hydraulic hiss, spilling muted holo-screens and low murmurs into the damp night. Inside, the Grasshopper felt smaller than it looked from the outside. Stained booths lined the walls, their vinyl worn thin and patched. Tables, mismatched and scarred, were scattered unevenly across the floor. The bar had the sheen of desperation, its surface polished not by care but by years of wear. Runners clustered in groups along one side, their usual bravado stripped to uneasy whispers. Boys around Cal’s age leaned against walls or perched on stools, their glances darting toward the second-floor staircase like moths circling faint light. The heavy scent of rain-soaked leather and sweat thickened the air, amplifying the suffocating atmosphere. Most of the runners barely acknowledged him. They’d worked jobs together before, sure, but trust wasn’t something anyone here could afford. Cal moved to the edge of the cluster, keeping his distance but close enough to catch the tension rippling through the room. A tall guy with bleached blond hair and a split lip caught Cal’s eye before looking away, his fingers drumming erratically against the edge of an empty glass. His nerves were contagious—the entire group seemed strung too tight, like they’d been waiting too long for something they didn’t want. Cal didn’t sit. These weren’t his friends, and this wasn’t a place to get comfortable. The creak of the door broke the low hum of voices, pulling every gaze toward it. The sound sliced through the room like a warning, stretching the moment longer than necessary. When the door finally settled, the silence that followed felt thick enough to choke on. It loomed in full view now—the bench, its dark wood marred with scuffs and rounded edges from decades of use. It crouched low, angled with deliberate cruelty, straps dangling like waiting hands. The grain of the wood caught the dim light, revealing faint smudges and scratches—marks left by kicking feet and desperate palms pressed too hard. It wasn’t just a fixture; it was a monument, steeped in the weight of punishment and submission. Beside it, perched on an unsteady table, was the belt. Its thick leather was cracked and worn, the buckle glinting faintly in the dim light like an unblinking eye. Each crease in the leather and frayed thread of stitching seemed to carry stories no one wanted to tell. The sight of it turned the room colder, silencing even the faintest whispers. Someone shuffled uncomfortably. A scuffed boot dragged against the floor, the faint sound rippling unease through the group. No one spoke. No one dared. The bench and belt weren’t just objects—they were warnings, visible reminders of the price of disobedience. Cal forced himself to look away, focusing on the room instead of the memories clawing at him. The runners avoided his gaze, their attention fixed on the stairs or the floor. The room felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to break the silence. Cal didn’t know what was coming, but he knew better than to let his guard down in a place like this. The staircase groaned under heavy, deliberate steps. The air shifted as Dante appeared at the top, his frame filling the doorway like an iron shadow. His salt-and-pepper hair gleamed under the murky light, combed back with slick precision, and his steel hand rested lightly against the railing as if even the wood knew better than to resist him. Every eye in the room locked on him—or away from him—depending on their nerve. “Boys,” Dante started, his voice a measured rumble, neither stern nor soft. It carried the weight of someone who didn’t have to raise it to command silence. “I call you 'boys' because that’s what you’re acting like.” A handful of the runners shifted where they stood, boots scuffing the floor. Dante took another deliberate step forward, savoring his dominance over the room. His tailored suit seemed out of place amid the peeling walls and soaked coats, but that contrast only solidified his authority. He didn’t belong here; he owned here. “This… chatter,” Dante said, gesturing vaguely toward the muted conversation that had frozen the moment he arrived. “This waiting game you’re playing between jobs, this… downtime you think you’re entitled to.” His gray eyes swept across the crowd, stopping just long enough on a few faces to make them twitch. “It’s good fun, sure. For kids. But I need workers, not children.” He descended slowly, each step deliberate, each word sharper than the last. “You think this business runs on charm? On your half-assed grins and sloppy improvisations out there?” A humorless smile tugged at his lips. “No. It runs on precision. Discipline. And a willingness to understand that mistakes”—Dante’s steel hand flexed, the metallic fingers catching the light—“can be costly.” The runners stood frozen. Some nodded quickly, others avoided eye contact, but no one dared speak. Dante stopped at the bottom of the steps, giving the group just enough time to absorb his presence. He smoothed one sleeve of his suit almost absentmindedly, like it was the silk that mattered most in the room. Then, his voice dropped. “Inside,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “All of you.” Several of the runners were already moving before he finished the sentence. Cal lingered a moment, watching the others funnel into the room at the base of the stairs before falling in behind them. Inside, the lighting was dimmer, softer, yet more oppressive in its quiet. The hum of a ventilation system was the only sound. A boy stood facing the wall on the far side of the room. His blond hair was unruly, sticking out at odd angles like he’d been caught in a strong wind—or a worse kind of chaos. His bomber jacket, too big for his frame, hung awkwardly around his shoulders, one sleeve slightly tugged up to reveal a sliver of pale, freckled skin. Daan. Cal swallowed hard, his chest tightening. Daan was an annoying little brother in all but name—a whirlwind of bad decisions and overconfidence that Cal couldn’t help but feel responsible for. The kid had a knack for talking his way into trouble, but this? This was different. This wasn’t the usual scrape he could laugh off later. This was Dante. The runners filed in silently, forming a tense semicircle near Dante’s side. The room dulled further under the weight of his presence. Cal lingered at the edge of the group, his fists clenched at his sides as he watched Daan fidget by the wall. He wanted to say something, do something, but the sharp edge of Dante’s authority pinned him in place. Dante’s steel-gray eyes bore into Daan, who shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, his head bowed slightly. The silence thickened until Dante’s voice cut through, sharp and even. “Daan,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue with deliberate menace. “Why don’t you enlighten the boys? Tell them how you ended up here.” Daan’s shoulders pulled tight, bracing against the invisible weight of Dante’s words. His hands fidgeted near the hem of his bomber jacket, thumbs tracing the fraying fabric. When he turned, his wide blue eyes darted to Dante’s for the briefest moment before falling to the floor. His voice came low and halting. “Got… got stopped by the Watch,” Daan stammered. “Came outta nowhere. They… uh… tagged my bike. Took the stuff.” The runners exchanged uneasy glances, murmurs rippling through the room like static. Cal’s jaw tightened as he scanned their faces. None of them would lift a finger to help Daan. Not now. Not with Dante here. “Stopped?” Dante repeated, his tone colder now. “Gone. Just like that?” Daan swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to answer. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said quickly, though his voice lacked conviction. “They had drones, circling the corner—” Dante stepped forward, boots clicking faintly on the floor. The sound was enough to make Daan flinch, his hands freezing mid-fidget. Dante’s metallic fingers twitched as he gestured, the movement deliberate and slow. “The jacket,” Dante said softly, almost kindly. “Off.” The room tensed. Cal’s fists curled tighter. He wanted to yell at Daan to stop shaking, to stand his ground. But he couldn’t. Daan’s breath hitched as his fingers hovered over the jacket’s zipper. He hesitated, looking briefly toward the runners as if searching for support, but no one met his gaze. “Off,” Dante repeated, sharper now, his steel hand catching the dim light. Daan’s motions were slow and mechanical, like his body resisted every command. The jacket fell to the floor with a muted thud, pooling around his feet. The heavy material looked even more lifeless crumpled on the ground. Cal’s chest ached as he watched the kid he’d spent months trying to protect shrink into himself under the weight of the room’s judgment. “Pants too,” Dante said, dispassionately. This time, Daan froze completely. His usually animated face was distant now, locked somewhere far away. The room held its breath. Daan’s hands hovered over his waist, fingers uncertain as they brushed against the metal clasp of his belt. His gaze darted to Cal, desperate and wide-eyed, but Cal looked away, his stomach churning. Don’t look. Don’t make it worse. The leather belt slid free with a faint hiss. Daan’s breath hitched. For a second, it seemed like the room itself leaned in, waiting. Daan’s movements were halting as he nudged his pants down over narrow hips. They fell to pool around his ankles with a soft rustle, revealing boxer briefs patterned with faded cartoon rockets—a boyish design that made Cal’s stomach twist harder. A ripple of discomfort moved through the gathered runners. One kid shifted on his feet, then quickly looked away. Daan’s face flushed deep crimson. He squared his shoulders, forcing his chin up defiantly even as his hands twitched faintly at his sides. His eyes, unusually bright and wet-looking in the dim light, locked somewhere far above Dante’s shoulder in an effort to endure the moment. Cal’s chest burned. He’s just a kid, he thought bitterly, though the logic did nothing to loosen the knots twisting in his gut. You’re supposed to protect him from this. From himself. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not without dragging himself into Dante’s crosshairs too. “Brave face as always, is that it?” Dante said, almost amused. His voice was smooth, unhurried, like this was all just another piece of theater. His steel hand moved toward the bench, his fingers curling lightly around its edge. “Then let’s see it through.” He gestured with his other hand to the bruised and battered wood. "Lay down," he said, his tone calm, almost conversational, as if the instruction wasn't cutting the room like a blade. Dante ran the belt through his hands slowly, the leather whispering against his calloused palm and the glinting steel of his artificial fingers. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if each pass was meant to stretch the silence. He didn’t acknowledge the semicircle of runners watching, nor the tension stringing their shoulders tight as wires. His full attention pinned to Daan, who stood in the center of the room, trembling and half-bared. "You know, Daan," Dante began, his voice soft, almost conversational, “you remind me of my eldest, back when he was about your age.” He gripped one end of the belt and snapped it just once, the sound cutting through the air like a wet slap. Daan’s flinch was barely perceptible, but Dante caught it, his lips twitching into something resembling a smile. “He used to get these bright ideas, think he could outsmart everyone around him. Kinda like you, showing off, running faster than you can think.” Dante took a step closer, dragging one end of the belt against the edge of the bench. The sound was low, abrasive, a faint scrape that set teeth on edge. “And you know where those bright ideas landed him? On the wrong side of a situation we both regretted.” His artificial hand flexed, the metal digits tapping rhythmically on the wood. “But eventually, he learned. Because I taught him. I straightened him out.” Daan’s hands twitched, but he didn’t move otherwise. His chin was still slightly raised, though the defiance in his features had withered, leaving something fragile in its place. Dante raised the belt again, folding it in half with smooth, precise movements, testing the seam as though measuring its worth. “Does that sound familiar to you, kid?" His eyebrows arched slightly, mock sincerity shaping his face. Daan opened his mouth like he might respond, but no sound came out. His eyes flickered down to the belt, and the faintest shiver ran through him. Dante let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as though he’d expected as much. “All bravado until the moment comes. You try to run before you’ve ever learned to walk.” He turned the belt over in his hands again, its buckle sparkling faintly under the faint lights. "And look where that got you—a bench you’d rather not get acquainted with.” The room felt suffocating, the air thick and unmoving, saturated with expectation. Dante sighed, long and theatrical, tapping his steel hand against the wooden bench. "I don’t do this because I hate you, you know. Quite the opposite." His voice was soft now, almost fatherly, and that somehow made it worse. "This? This is guidance. This is setting you straight so you don’t land somewhere darker, somewhere nobody can pull you back from." He crouched slightly—not to Daan’s level, but enough to loom like a parent delivering hard truths to a wayward child. “This,” Dante murmured, one final, deliberate tap against the bench, “is discipline." His tone left no room for anything else. Dante’s steel hand shot out, seizing the waistband of Daan’s underwear with mechanical precision. The fabric bunched in his grip, taut and thin against the edges of his metallic fingers. “Please—don’t!” Daan’s voice cracked, the words tumbling out in a raw, desperate plea. His knees wavered, like they might buckle under him, but he stayed upright, trembling, arms motionless at his sides. Calum’s breath caught, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding in front of him. His fists clenched tight, fingernails digging into his palms. His mind roared with static, a flood of thoughts that tangled and drowned each other out. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to do something, but he felt rooted to the spot, frozen in place as his stomach churned. The air felt thin, his chest tight, as if the room itself was drawing all the oxygen away. This couldn’t be happening. Dante flipped the belt over in his hands, pulling the smooth leather through his steel fingers like he had all the time in the world. The gesture was slow, deliberate, the kind made to keep every nerve in the room humming on edge. His gray eyes stayed locked on Daan, as if no one else existed, as if the runners gathered around had disappeared into the peeling paint of the walls. “You see, this isn’t just about you,” Dante said, conversational now, like he was explaining bedtime rules to a misbehaving child. “When you mess up, you’re not just putting yourself on the line. You’re making a statement. You’re saying to me—saying to everyone—that discipline doesn’t matter. That trust? It’s optional.” He snapped the belt taut between his hands, the sharp crack slicing through the dense silence. Daan flinched, his shoulders hunching instinctively, though he didn’t dare take a step back. His fingers twitched, brushing against the hem of his shirt, but he didn’t move to cover himself. His jaw was set, but his eyes darted to the floor, as if the tile might offer some kind of reprieve. Dante’s voice softened, a mockery of sympathy curling at the edges. “But you don’t really understand that, do you? You’re still just a kid, running errands, playing at being a big shot.” He tossed the belt lightly from one hand to the other, like it was a toy, the buckle catching the dim light with each arc. “You think your little screw-ups go unnoticed? Like there’s no price for making me look weak?” The runners standing off to the sides stayed stock-still, their breaths barely audible, eyes fixed anywhere but on Daan. Even the air felt still, tight with something unspoken. Dante paced a half-step forward, letting the belt dangle from his cybernetic fingers now, swinging faintly like a predator’s tail. “I could ignore it,” Dante mused, his tone light, conversational. “I could let you off with a slap on the wrist and some kind words about learning from failure. But then”—he leaned forward, his voice dipping lower—“what kind of example would I be setting for everyone else?” Daan’s lip twitched, words hovering just out of reach on his tongue. He froze under Dante’s gaze, a rabbit caught under the shadow of a hawk. His breath came sharp, uneven, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic motions that he couldn’t quite control. “That’s the problem with your generation,” Dante continued, as though Daan’s silence was agreement enough. “You think there aren’t consequences. That a nice smile, a quick excuse, is all it takes to scrape by.” He looped the belt in his hand again, his movements calm, almost rhythmic. “But it doesn’t work like that. Not here. Respect is earned, Daan. It’s proven through sweat, through blood, through knowing your place and keeping to it.” Dante tilted his head slightly, studying Daan like he was some puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet. “You want to prove yourself, don’t you? You want to show me you’ve got what it takes to run with the big dogs, that you’re not just a scared little boy playing dress-up.” Daan didn’t answer, didn’t even nod. His shoulders drew tighter, every muscle in his wiry frame wound like a spring. The shadows of Dante’s words coiled around him, heavy and suffocating. The belt swung lazily at Dante’s side, swaying against the sharp line of his tailored pants. “You’ve got potential,” Dante said, his tone somehow both cold and fatherly, a layer of silk draped over iron. “But potential doesn’t mean a damn thing without discipline. Without obedience.” The belt snapped again, a quick, sharp crack that reasserted its presence in a way no amount of words could. The belt’s crack against bare skin echoed sharply, louder than any noise in the room save for Daan's sharp gasp, his body jerking involuntarily. Dante’s face remained unflinching, an almost paternal disapproval etched into his expression. “Do you know what your problem is?” Dante asked, his voice calm, as though carrying out this violent theater was part of a standard debriefing. “You think you’re the exception. That the rules don’t apply to you. But they do, Daan. Oh, they do.” Another strike landed, the same deliberate motion, the same sharp snap of leather meeting flesh. Daan lowered his head, his hands gripping the edge of the bench so tightly that his knuckles whitened. A strained grunt slipped from his lips, though he bit down on it quickly, his jaw locking. “I give you a task, and what do you do?” Dante continued, pacing behind the boy, the belt swaying at his side. “You take liberties. You make decisions. But you’re not here to decide things, are you?” He leaned in closer, his tone softening—mocking intimacy. “You’re here to follow.” Another strike. Daan’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched against the grain of the wood, but he didn’t let go. “That’s how this works, Daan. It’s how it always works,” Dante said, rising back to his full height as he took a step back, surveying the boy. “You think loyalty is enough? It’s not. It’s worthless without discipline.” Dante punctuated the word with another lash. Daan’s back flinched in response, his shoulders shivering involuntarily, though his mouth stayed shut now, refusing to let another sound escape. “You don’t just let the Watch take our goods,” Dante continued, every word landing heavier than the straps of leather. “You don’t ‘botch’ an errand. You don’t let yourself get caught.” This time when he swung the belt, it hit not with the same force, but with a deliberate finality. The snap was quieter, but the weight of it still hung in the air, leaving Daan trembling faintly where he knelt. Dante stepped back again, tossing the belt onto the nearby table in a motion that spoke of his practiced ease. He smoothed his tailored jacket, his steel hand clicking faintly as it adjusted his cufflinks. “Get up,” he ordered smoothly, as if he hadn’t been mid-punishment mere moments before. For a second, Daan didn’t move. His hands stayed glued to the bench, head still lowered. Then, slowly, shakily, he pushed himself upright, his movements stiff and uneven. His face burned. Shame pooled across his features as he avoided the gazes of the gathered runners, his bright blue eyes focused firmly on the floor. Dante turned slightly, gesturing toward the hallway. “Restroom’s that way. Clean yourself up. Compose yourself. When you come back, you’ll act like this never happened. Understood?” Daan nodded, a quick jerk of his head, but his voice faltered as he mumbled something inaudible. Dante clicked his tongue, a low sound of disapproval. “Louder.” “Yes,” Daan croaked, his voice hollow, barely more than a whisper. “Good boy,” Dante said, his tone sliding into mocking indulgence. He motioned with a flick of his hand, and the boy hurried toward the back hallway, the too-big bomber jacket dragged limply over one arm. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room in silence save for the faint hum of the holo-projector from the corner. Dante turned back toward the other runners, his gaze sweeping over their faces like a cold wind. “That,” he said finally, his voice heavy with meaning, “is what happens when someone doesn’t follow orders. You think I enjoy that?” He gestured toward the direction Daan had gone with a lazy wave of his hand. “You think I want to waste my time teaching a lesson that should’ve already been learned?” No one responded, though some shifted uncomfortably where they stood, their gazes locked on various points of the room to avoid facing Dante’s. “Loyalty,” Dante said, his voice cutting through the stagnant air. “Discipline. They are the pillars that keep us standing in this city. Without them”—he spread his hands, his steel one gleaming faintly—“we fall. All of us. And I won’t let that happen. Not for something so foolish as sloppiness.” He moved toward the table, his steel hand tapping lightly against its surface as he let his words hang. “You think this is harsh. You think it’s cruel. Maybe it is. But this world we live in—it doesn’t care about fairness. It doesn’t care about kindness. All it cares about is strength.” Dante’s gaze settled on each of them in turn, his expression unreadable. “So,” he said, his voice softening to something almost conversational, almost kind, “which one of you wants to be next to test me?” The silence that followed was deafening. Dante turned his head slowly, satisfaction carefully hidden behind a mask of composure. His steel-gray eyes pressed against Daan, heavy and unrelenting, as he gestured toward the far corner of the room. “Over there,” he said, his voice firm but stripped of its usual mockery. “Face the wall. Don’t move.” Daan swallowed hard, his shoulders stiffening. He didn’t argue. Each step toward the wall was deliberate, his bomber jacket swaying awkwardly with his uneven movements. When he reached the corner, he pressed his palms flat against the wall, his chin dipping to his chest. He looked smaller now—fragile, folded into himself—but he stayed silent. “Stay there,” Dante said. The finality in his tone left no room for anything else. He turned to the rest of the runners, his sharp motion scattering their attention. “Get out. All of you.” The room stirred with cautious shuffling as the runners filed out. No one dared glance at Daan or Calum. The door swung shut with a slow, stilted creak, leaving only three people behind. The silence stretched, pressing against Calum like invisible walls. Dante tapped his steel hand against the table. “Calum,” he said, tilting his head toward him. “You stay.” Calum’s stomach churned, his eyes fixed on the faint scuff marks near his shoes. The weight of the empty room pressed harder than the crowd had. Dante’s presence filled the silence effortlessly as he moved toward Daan. The room felt cavernous now, its silence stretching like unseen walls pressing inward. Calum kept his gaze on the faint scuff marks near his shoes, the weight of the empty space pressing harder than the crowd had. Dante’s presence filled it effortlessly, his every movement deliberate as he walked toward the corner where Daan stood, restrained by the wall's sullen gray. “Daan,” Dante said, his voice sharp and crisp, slicing through the thickened air. Daan flinched but turned, his usual bravado completely erased, replaced by a kind of vacant shame Calum hadn’t seen on him before. His eyes darted to Calum for a split second before settling somewhere ambiguous near Dante’s shoulder. “Tomorrow,” Dante continued, steel fingers tapping a measured rhythm against his human hand. “You’re going out with Calum. You’ll listen to him. You’ll stick to him. You’ll learn your place.” Calum barely suppressed a groan. Babysitting Daan? Again? The kid was a walking disaster—too cocky for his own good and too green to understand half the risks he took. Daan wasn’t just reckless; he was the kind of reckless that got other people in trouble, and now it was Calum’s turn to carry the fallout. Daan’s chin dipped lower, his lips pressing into a thin, pale line. He gave a subtle nod, the bomber jacket hanging unevenly off his small frame like a forgotten thought. He didn’t bother with words, and Calum bit back the urge to snap at him for once. Great, Calum thought bitterly. He screws up, and I’m the one who pays for it. “Understood?” Dante prompted, his tone now a command cloaked as a question. “Yes,” Daan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Dante turned then, his steel-gray gaze landing on Calum like a weight. “He’s your shadow for the night. If he screws up—if anything happens—it’s on you.” His steel hand scraped against the edge of the table as he spoke, the sound low and deliberate. “You know what that means.” Calum nodded stiffly, his stomach churning. “Yeah,” he said, his voice steady despite the frustration bubbling under the surface. He shot Daan a sidelong glance, catching the kid’s wide-eyed silence and slumped shoulders. You’re a lot less annoying when you’re quiet, he thought, though the resentment felt hollow. “Good.” Dante waved absently toward Daan, his dismissal abrupt. “You’ll find your bike waiting for you tomorrow morning. Try not to wreck it this time.” Daan’s shoulders twitched at the words, his expression flickering with something indecipherable—resentment? Gratitude? Calum didn’t care to figure it out. He just wanted to get out of there. “You too,” Dante said, his back already to them as he gestured toward the exit. His tone left no room for argument. Calum tilted his head toward the doorway, signaling Daan to follow. Together, they trudged out into the corridor, their footsteps muffled against the worn floorboards. The silence between them stretched heavier with every step, but Calum didn’t break it. He couldn’t decide if he was more annoyed at Dante for sticking him with this or at Daan for needing the babysitter role in the first place. “Keep up,” Calum muttered under his breath, shooting a glance back at Daan. The kid’s jacket hung off him like dead weight, and his usually defiant expression was nowhere to be found. For a moment, Calum’s irritation wavered, replaced by something closer to pity. He shoved it down quickly. This wasn’t about feeling sorry for Daan. It was about making sure neither of them ended up in Dante’s crosshairs again. * * * Daan winced as he finally gave his backside a tentative rub, his fingers brushing over the sore spots where the belt had landed. He shot Calum a quick, sheepish glance, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Calum leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You gonna make it, kid? Or do I need to carry you home like a sack of potatoes?" Daan’s face reddened further, and he straightened up quickly, trying to mask the discomfort. "I’m fine," he muttered, though his voice cracked slightly. He shifted his weight, his bomber jacket bunching awkwardly around his hips. Calum’s smirk widened as his eyes flicked downward for a split second, catching the unmistakable bulge straining against the front of Daan’s pants. He raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with mock concern. "You sure about that? Looks like you’ve got more than just your pride hurting." Daan froze, his hands instinctively moving to adjust his jacket, pulling it lower to cover himself. His face burned as he glared at Calum, though there was no real heat behind it. "Shut up," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. Calum chuckled, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "Relax, kid. It happens to the best of us." He clapped Daan on the shoulder, his grin softening just a fraction. "Come on, I’ll take you home. You look like you could use a break." Daan shook his head quickly, taking a step back. "Nah, I’m good. I’ll walk." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller. "I need the air anyway." Calum studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just don’t get caught by the Watch again, or Dante might actually kill you next time." Daan nodded stiffly, avoiding Calum’s gaze as he turned and started down the dimly lit street. His steps were slow and deliberate, each one carrying the weight of the night’s humiliation. Calum watched him go for a moment before shaking his head and heading in the opposite direction. Daan muttered curses under his breath, his hands reaching back to rub at the sting that lingered across his backside. His bomber jacket shifted awkwardly as he twisted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Man, what the hell. That hurt like—I dunno—like a hundred slaps from a hover propeller.” Calum leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his lips twitching into a grin. “Yeah? That’s kind of the point, genius.” Daan scowled, his hand still lingering over the insulted area. “Maybe Dante could’ve just yelled or something. Like a normal boss. That’d hurt less, you know.” “Oh, no doubt,” Cal drawled, his grin widening. “But then you’d probably just brush it off and go screw up again, wouldn’t you?” Daan shot him a glare, his cheeks puffing out slightly before he turned away and adjusted his oversized jacket. His hand finally dropped to his side, though his boots scuffed against the floor like he didn’t know where to direct the residual embarrassment. “Not like it’s any of your business,” he mumbled. Cal shook his head, stepping away from the wall and giving Daan an easy slap on the shoulder. “Come on, don’t pout. You’ll live.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “I’ll give you a lift back home. Make sure you don’t get yourself into more trouble on the way.” Daan’s eyes darted up, unsure, before he shook his head quickly. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll walk.” Cal quirked an eyebrow, scrutinizing his little tagalong as Daan adjusted his jacket again, the collar popping up around his neck as if he were trying to hide behind it. The kid’s usual cheeky bravado wasn’t sticking; instead, there was just this odd, sulky quiet. It didn’t take much guessing to figure out why he wasn’t in a rush to climb on the back of a hover bike tonight. “Wish you hadn't Dante’s handprint tattooed back there, huh?” Cal teased, smothering another laugh as Daan flushed deeper. Daan groaned, shoving his fists in his jacket pockets. “Shut up, Cal. I’ll be fine.” “Fine, fine.” Cal raised his hands in mock surrender. “Enjoy your reflective stroll or whatever.” He watched as Daan made his way toward the exit, shoulders stiff but movements unsure, like he half-expected Cal to say something else. It was kind of...cute, in a way. Not that he’d ever tell Daan that; the kid’s head would explode. As the door swung shut behind him, Cal smirked, shaking his head. His eyes flicked to the neon glow of a nearby Escapepod sign through the fogged windows. “Guess we both need a breather,” he muttered, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets as he turned toward the bar’s side exit. The engine of The Flea roared to life as Calum coaxed the stubborn hover bike into action. Neon light spilled over the slick pavement, streaks of pink and green reflected in the warped metal of his handlebars. He adjusted his gloves, the worn leather creaking under his grip, and eased the bike forward, weaving into the chaotic rhythm of the Red District. The night was alive with noise and grit. Music boomed from clubs, muffled by heavy steel doors that slammed open and shut with drunken streams of patrons. Laughter and shouting mingled with the metallic grind of machinery and the hum of neon signs. A faint haze lingered in the air, a mix of smog and synthetic perfumes that clashed with the distant scent of fried food from the street carts. Cal sped through narrow alleys and dodged the occasional stumbling crowd. His jacket flared behind him, catching the air as he leaned into tight turns. The Flea sputtered but held together, the patched-up engine whining in protest. He didn’t slow down. Speed had a way of making the world blur just enough to forget its weight. When he pulled up to the Escapepod, the rhythmic thrum of bass from a nearby club vibrated through the air. The building was a nondescript concrete block, except for the garish, flickering sign buzzing overhead. Dark-green letters spelled out "ESCAPEPOD" above a glowing arrow that pointed past a rusted steel door. Inside, the smell hit him first—sweat, cheap disinfectant, and the faint plastic tang of overused tech. The receptionist behind the counter glanced up from a well-worn InstaTab but didn’t bother with a greeting. Cal slapped a few crumbled credits on the counter, smirking as the credits were counted and swept away without a word. The attendant jerked a thumb toward the back. “Cubicle two-oh-six. Try not to break anything.” “Sure thing,” Cal replied, his voice edged with sarcasm. He pocketed his rental stub and made his way down the narrow corridor, the overhead lights flickering in protest against unreliable wiring. Cubicle 206 was barely more than a closet. The door screeched open, revealing a battered couch with stuffing peeking from its seams, a rickety table shoved into the corner, and an ancient VR setup that looked like it might disintegrate if someone so much as sneezed on it. Cal dropped onto the couch, his weight sending up a faint cloud of dust. He stared at the VR headset hanging limply from its stand, wires snaking down in tangled disarray. A touch of nostalgia flickered through him—not the good kind. He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed, rubbing his temple. “Guess they’re not wasting the budget on upgrades, huh?” His voice echoed faintly in the cramped space. Pulling the headset on, he tightened the straps until it felt secure, though it pinched uncomfortably against his ears. The padding was all but gone, leaving brittle plastic edges to dig into his skin. He adjusted one of the earpieces, tapping it lightly until a sharp hum crackled through the speakers. With a grimace, he pressed the worn power button on the side. The screen lit up—a mess of flickering pixels and distorted colors. “Come on, work with me,” he muttered to the machine, fiddling with the clunky controls until the image stabilized, albeit slightly crooked. The faint whir of the outdated processor sounded like a motor on its last legs. Lying back, Cal sank deeper into the couch’s uneven cushions, one hand settling on his chest as he stared into the hollow glow of the visor. The sky stretched wide and golden above him, cloudless and heavy with sunlight that soaked into his skin. Small green shoots pushed through the rich, dark soil under his fingertips, their leaves trembling as if in anticipation. Cal dug his hands deeper into the dirt, feeling the cool, grainy texture cling to his nails. It smelled earthy, alive, laced with the tang of something sweet—like honey wafting on a lazy summer breeze. He crouched there, a little boy again, barefoot and scrappy, his too-big shirt hanging off one shoulder. The noontime warmth softened the sharp edges of his thoughts, dulling everything to an easy, manageable hum. Around him, the garden buzzed with life. Bees flitted between fat, colorful blooms, their wings humming a tune that blended with the soft rustle of leaves. A lemon tree stood tall in one corner, its yellow globes gleaming like tiny suns. Somewhere, water burbled, a quiet and constant rhythm. The tree reminded him of something—not quite a memory, but close. Summers that felt too distant now, filled with laughter and light. He didn’t want to lose this, not yet. “Calum!” The voice broke through the stillness, firm and insistent, distant at first but drawing closer with every syllable. The golden sky flickered. His chest tightened as he pressed his hands deeper into the dirt, scattering seeds into the furrow he’d carved. He wasn’t going to ruin this—not now, not yet. Not for him. “Didn’t you hear me, son?” The voice came from directly behind him now, low and pointed. The golden warmth drained away. The sky shattered into gray static, the sun glitching into blank pixels before dissolving entirely. Calum tore the headset off with a growl, the strap snagging in his hair before it dropped into his lap. The booth’s VR machine whined unevenly, then stuttered to silence. The air around him smelled of disinfectant and hot plastic, jarring against the sweetness of the garden. The faint hum of the screen behind him blinked erratically before fizzing out for good. “Seriously?” Cal muttered, gripping the headset and inspecting the frayed wires sticking out from its side. The damn thing was ancient—just another broken relic in a city of broken relics. He pushed off the couch and yanked open the door, letting it slam against the wall as he stepped into the corridor. His boots thudded against the cracked tiles, carrying him toward the reception desk where the same disinterested man from earlier still lounged, scrolling through his InstaTab. “Hey. Booth two-oh-six is fried,” Cal said, dropping the headset onto the counter with a dull clunk. The man didn’t look up, flicking his finger across the screen lazily. “Not my problem, kid.” “It’s your junk hardware,” Cal snapped, leaning over the counter now. “You gave me twenty minutes of a busted sky before the thing crapped out completely.” The man sighed, glancing at the damaged headset with minimal interest. “You paid for the hour. You got the hour.” He shrugged, tapping his InstaTab and scrolling again. “No refunds.” Cal’s fists curled at his sides, the tops of his ears burning. He wasn’t even mad about the credits. It was the reminder—that even here, in some dingy VR booth, he couldn’t hold onto something good. “You’re kidding me. The whole thing died, and you don’t even care?” “Look,” the man said, finally glancing up, though his expression was as apathetic as ever. “You wanna waste more credits, there’s a shop ‘bout three blocks over. They rent better sets. My machines work just fine.” Cal snorted. “Yeah, they ‘work just fine’ as scrap. Don’t expect me to come back to this dump.” “Trust me, kid, I’ll survive the heartbreak,” the man replied, already dropping his gaze back to the InstaTab. Cal shook his head sharply, his lips compressing into a thin line before he pivoted and stalked toward the exit. His hand shoved against the metal push bar, sending the door flying open with more force than necessary. Outside, the night stretched on, smudged neon reflected in the puddles dotting the uneven street. The air smelled of damp metal and spilled oil, the chill biting at his skin as his breath curled faintly into the air. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and started back toward the dockyards, his steps echoing softly in the quiet street. The undercity loomed ahead, a warren of tight alleys and crumbling facades bathed in dim washes of neon. Pipes snaked along walls like arteries, dripping condensation that shimmered faintly in the light. The Flea sputtered as it glided to a stop in front of a squat building, its rust-covered exterior broken up by streaks of graffiti and scorch marks. Cal dismounted, kicking the bike stand into place before cutting the power. The hum died abruptly, leaving only the faint buzz of a flickering streetlamp overhead. Inside, the air hit him—a sour mix of mildew and burnt oil, thick enough to cling to his throat. He hunched his shoulders as he moved through the narrow hallway, passing scavenged doors marked by numbers half-erased by time. The place had its own kind of heartbeat—pipes groaning and water hissing through its veins, as alive and worn as the city itself. The communal showers were no better. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting a weak yellow glow over stained tiles and rusted fixtures. Steam coiled faintly in the air, mixing with the acrid tang of wet grout. Cal dropped his jacket onto the rickety bench with a sigh, tugging his grimy shirt off and adding it to the pile. For a moment, he hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain. The water sputtered free in bursts, rattling the pipes before settling into a weak, steady stream. Against all odds, warmth licked his skin. He exhaled, letting the rust-colored water carry away the soot of the day, his head tilting forward as droplets slid down his neck and shoulders. The grime dissolved, but the weight stayed. The undercity didn’t just weigh on him—it clung to him, thick and heavy like the dirt he scrubbed off every night but never truly escaped. When the water ran cold, he pushed through, scrubbing his hair with numbed fingers. The air felt sharper against his damp skin as he dressed in the least-worn clothes he could manage—a cleanish hoodie and loose jeans from his stash. On the way back to his unit, he passed Joost leaning against a doorframe, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. “Cal,” Joost drawled, smoke curling like ghosts around his words. “How’s the Flea holding up?” “Alive,” Cal replied, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket. “For now.” Joost chuckled, tapping ash onto the floor. “Runnin’ ’er hard, no doubt. You spend more time fixing that wreck than riding it.” “Maybe. Keeps me busy, though.” Joost squinted, his gaze dragging over Cal like he was reading a puzzle. “You been to The Grasshopper tonight?” Cal stiffened. “Just passing through. Nothing big.” Joost didn’t push. “Keep your head low, kid. You’re a good one—I’d hate to see you in boots from the Syndicate’s last shipment. You know what I mean.” Cal swallowed hard, his hand brushing the keycode panel. “I’ll keep that in mind.” His fingers brushed over the keycode panel, punching in the combination without meeting Joost’s eyes. The lock clicked, then scrapped open. Behind him, Joost had taken another drag, muttering something under his breath that the sound of hinges drowned out. Cal stepped inside and let the door shut behind him, leaning briefly against it while the sounds of the hallway faded back into the ever-present hum of the building. Cal dropped onto the thin mattress, its springs groaning in protest as he shifted to find a tolerable position. The dim yellow light that seeped through a crack in the wall barely illuminated the room, mixing with the faint, pale glow of Noctis and the moon pouring through the small, grimy window. The air inside was cold, sharp against his damp skin, and the mattress creaked as though it resented his weight. The faint buzz of his neighbors arguing in muffled, distant tones blended into the groan of the overhead pipes, creating an unending symphony of the building. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the shadows of wiry pipes snaking above him. His fingers brushed over the threadbare blanket, drawing aimless patterns as his mind drifted. Joost’s words lingered faintly in his head. Keep your head low. You’re a good one—I’d hate to see you in boots from the Syndicate’s last shipment. Calum snorted softly, though the sound was swallowed by the room’s dull hum. Keeping his head low was easier said than done. The undercity had a way of dragging you into its grind, no matter how tightly you clung to the edges. Through the streaked glass, Noctis’s light stretched and shifted—waves of cold silver that painted jagged marks on the walls and floor. It moved like it was alive, like it was reaching for him. The light felt like a reminder of something distant, untouchable—hope, maybe. Or something he’d already lost. The pillow crunched faintly under his head as he turned, his gaze following the shifting patterns on the window. His thoughts tangled and unraveled, slipping between the hum of the building and the glow of Noctis, until the world blurred and quieted. Calum’s breath slowed. The faint arguments next door, the creak of the pipes, the shifting silver—it all dulled into the background. He let his eyelids fall, the light dancing behind them one last time before it faded completely. Daan shuffled down the narrow street, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his oversized bomber jacket. The neon glow of a shop sign caught his eye—Pleasure Palace—its pink letters flickering like a bad joke. He hesitated for a moment, glancing over his shoulder before pushing the door open. A bell jingled overhead, its cheerful sound clashing with the shop’s dim, cluttered interior. The air inside was thick with the scent of cheap plastic and artificial cherry. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with boxes of toys and gadgets, their packaging faded and peeling. A bored-looking clerk leaned against the counter, scrolling through an InstaTab, barely glancing up as Daan approached. “Uh, hey,” Daan started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You got anything… uh, synthetic? Like, realistic?” The clerk raised an eyebrow, setting the InstaTab down with a sigh. “Realistic? Sure. What’s your budget?” Daan fidgeted, pulling a crumpled wad of credits from his pocket. “Not much. Just… something decent.” The clerk smirked, disappearing into the back room and returning with a sleek black box. He set it on the counter with a thud. “This one’s on sale. Last model we got. Still sealed.” Daan eyed the box warily. The image on the front showed a glossy, lifelike figure with a smile that looked almost too perfect. He flipped it over, scanning the specs printed in tiny font. “How much?” “Two-fifty,” the clerk said, crossing his arms. Daan winced. “Two-fifty? That’s half my creds.” “Take it or leave it, kid.” Daan chewed his lip, glancing between the box and his meager stack of credits. He hesitated, then sighed, pushing the credits across the counter. “Fine. Deal.” The clerk smirked again, scooping up the credits and sliding the box toward him. “Enjoy.” Daan fumbled with the keypad to his unit, the box tucked awkwardly under his arm. The door clicked open, and he slipped inside, kicking it shut behind him. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of Noctis filtering through the grimy window. He dropped the box onto the bed and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. His fingers trembled slightly as he undid his belt, the anticipation coiling low in his stomach. He pushed his pants down, freeing his erection from the confines of his boxers. The cool air made him shiver, but he barely noticed, his focus already on the box. He tore open the packaging, pulling out the sleek silicone toy. It felt heavy in his hands, smooth and warm to the touch despite its artificiality. Daan ran his fingers over it, testing the texture before positioning it on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he guided himself into the tight opening, a low groan escaping his lips as the pressure enveloped him. He paused for a moment, savoring the sensation before starting to move. His hips rocked forward in slow, deliberate motions, each thrust building the pleasure steadily. The room filled with the sound of his shallow breaths and soft moans, the rhythm of his movements growing more urgent. His hands gripped the edge of the bed tightly, knuckles white as he lost himself in the sensation.