Morning in Sector Four arrives quietly, like it’s hoping no one notices.

  The rain has eased into a thin mist that clings to metal and concrete instead of falling outright. Everything looks exactly the same—grey, tired, pretending yesterday never happened. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear the city had simply hit reset.

  Keene knows better.

  He sits on the edge of his bunk, tying his boots slower than usual. His fingers hesitate at the laces, stiff and reluctant, as if they’re still waiting for something to drop out of the sky and finish what the Panther started. The room feels too small this morning. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a warning.

  Across the room Razan is already dressed—too dressed. Jacket zipped to the throat, straps pulled tight, posture ramrod straight like he’s bracing for a hit that hasn’t come yet. His jaw is set, eyes scanning the door every few seconds.

  “You slept?” Lsael asks, leaning against the doorframe with that lazy, theatrical slouch of his.

  No one answers.

  Lsael sighs theatrically, throwing his head back like the universe has personally offended him. “Right. Dumb question. My bad. I’ll just go back to being the only one with personality in this room.”

  Arin rolls over on his mattress, face still half-buried in his arm, voice muffled but warm and sweet like always. “If anyone asks, I slept great. Amazing, actually. Dreamt I was rich and this city didn’t exist. There were beaches. And snacks. Real ones.”

  Lsael snorts. “That’s not a dream, buddy. That’s a crime against the universe. They’d arrest you for thinking that loud.”

  Marek sits near the window, dismantling and reassembling a small training blade for the third time. Click. Turn. Click. His movements are calm, almost meditative, like the blade is the only thing making sense right now. “Training tonight,” he says without looking up, voice cool and even.

  Razan nods once, sharp. “Uncle said so.”

  “Uncle says a lot of things,” Arin mutters, finally sitting up and rubbing his eyes. His smile is soft, a little crooked, the kind that makes the whole room feel less heavy. “Like ‘don’t look at the Wall’ and ‘don’t piss off patrols’ and ‘try not to die.’ He’s very inspirational. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”

  Keene exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He doesn’t say anything. He never needs to.

  Lsael grins wide, satisfied, and points straight at him. “See? He smiles. He lives. Miracle achieved. Someone write that down before the city eats it.”

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  They eat quickly. Too quietly. The kind of silence that forms when everyone is thinking about the same thing—Panther masks, blood on pavement, the way the night had looked at Keene like it knew his name—and no one wants to be the first to say it out loud.

  Uncle doesn’t come with them.

  He never does.

  “Market,” Uncle says from the doorway, voice steady and practiced, carrying the weight of too many mornings like this. “Get what’s on the list. Stay visible. Stay together.”

  “Yes, sir,” Razan replies automatically, chest puffing out just a fraction—loyal to the bone, even when it chafes.

  Uncle pauses, eyes lingering on each of them a second longer than necessary. Then he nods once and steps aside.

  Outside, Sector Four is awake.

  Vendors shout. Metal shutters rattle open. A patrol drone hums overhead, scanning faces with bored indifference. The world keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.

  Arin stretches, hands laced behind his head, voice light and sweet. “You know, if today ends without someone almost killing us, I’m calling it a win. We could even celebrate. With actual food that doesn’t taste like regret.”

  “Don’t say that out loud,” Marek replies coolly, adjusting his collar. “You’ll attract attention.”

  “From what?” Arin grins, bright and hopeful. “The universe? Come on, it owes us one.”

  Lsael bounces up beside Keene and taps him on the shoulder, all goofy energy. “Bet you ten credits something stupid happens before lunch. Loser buys the stale chips next time.”

  Keene doesn’t take the bet. He just shakes his head, quiet, eyes on the ground. The mist feels heavier today.

  The market is crowded—too crowded. People push past one another, voices overlapping, tension woven into every hurried glance. Keene feels it immediately. The wrongness. The way every movement doesn’t quite line up, like the whole street is holding its breath.

  Then he hears it.

  Running.

  Shouts.

  A group of men bursts through the far end of the street, knocking over a stall in a crash of wood and fruit. Multiple thieves—faces panicked, desperate. Behind them, government runners give chase, feet glowing faint blue.

  Vein placed into motion. Speed traded for everything else.

  “Whoa,” Arin breathes, eyes wide, voice still carrying that sweet edge of wonder even now. “That’s… new. And kind of terrifying. But mostly new.”

  Razan steps forward instinctively, shoulders squared, temper already flickering. “Stay sharp. I’ve got point.”

  The thieves split, scattering through the crowd like startled rats. People scream, scatter, curse. One barrels straight toward them, blade glinting.

  And then—

  A man steps into the thief’s path.

  No warning. No rush.

  Just presence.

  He plants his feet, calm as stone.

  The thief swings wildly.

  The officer moves once.

  He places his Vein into the underside of his palm and drives it upward—

  CRACK.

  Bone gives way.

  The thief collapses, blood spraying across wet pavement, nose destroyed in a single precise motion. Silence ripples outward like a shockwave.

  The officer doesn’t pursue the others.

  He straightens.

  Then he turns his head.

  And looks directly at the boys.

  Not angry.

  Not impressed.

  Measuring.

  The world seems to hold its breath.

  And then—

  The officer’s gaze lingers on Keene longest. Cool, calculating, like he’s already filed him under “problem.” Keene feels it in his chest—quiet, heavy, the same pressure from last night. He doesn’t look away. He can’t.

  Razan bristles beside him, short temper flaring hot. “What the hell are you staring at?”

  Marek’s hand lands lightly on Razan’s arm—cool, steady. “Easy. Not the time.”

  Lsael tries to defuse it with a goofy grin, but his voice wavers just a little. “Hey, officer guy! Nice move. Ten out of ten, would watch again. We’re just, uh… shopping. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.”

  Arin steps half a pace closer to Keene, sweet worry threading through his words even as he tries to joke. “Yeah, we’re good. Promise. No crimes. Well… maybe against fashion, but that’s it.”

  The officer doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak. He simply studies them one last time—eyes flicking across each face like he’s memorizing every flaw, every flicker of Vein that hasn’t even woken up yet.

  Then he turns and walks away.

  The market noise rushed back in all at once—too loud, too fast, like the city was embarrassed it had paused at all.

  Keene let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hands were still trembling slightly at his sides. Introverted, always watching, always feeling the weight before anyone else. He didn’t say a word.

  But inside, the same quiet thought kept circling:

  Whatever just happened…

  It wasn’t over.

  The officer had looked at him the way the Panther had.

  Like he was already marked.

  And the city kept pretending nothing had changed.