"Press on that one," Kira said, pointing to an app with a money sign labeled 'Virtual Wallet'.

  He pressed it. A 'PIN Required' screen appeared, but below it: USE BIOMETRICS

  A balance appeared.

  8932?.

  "Quite the savings," Kira murmured, looking over his shoulder.

  They checked a few more apps. Every one now opened with Arthur's biometric data.

  Defragg handed them the data shard from the table and waved them out of his room with a vague thumbs up, already looking back at his screens.

  "Thank you," Arthur said politely.

  "Yeah, sure," Defragg said, clearly disinterested.

  * * *

  They were almost back to the Sump's exit when two figures stepped out of a shadowed alcove, blocking their path.

  Kira stopped dead.

  Arthur almost collided with her. He saw her entire body go rigid, her hand dropping instantly to her side.

  She shoved him back a step—a clear command to stay put and shut up.

  Arthur's gaze moved to the two men.

  One was a mountain of scarred chrome and synth-muscle. His face was a patchwork of pale flesh and riveted steel plates bolted to his jaw and skull. Where his eyes should have been, there was only a single, horizontal, glowing red visor.

  The other was the exact opposite. Small, wiry, absurdly normal. He wore simple, clean street clothes that looked freshly pressed. His face was sharp, eyes organic and intelligent.

  Arthur's energy sense flared unbidden.

  The chrome mountain was a chaotic inferno. His energy signature was messy, agitated—blazing from heavy-duty mods. Arthur could see the thick bundles of power in his arms and legs, the glowing root of a reinforced spine, the jagged plates clamped onto his skull. The red visor was the most powerful signal—a piercing, angry line.

  But the normal man... Arthur's breath caught. The man was a lie.

  Beneath simple clothes, the hollow void of his body was filled with a blindingly complex, perfectly ordered lattice of high-end, covert mods. A forest of light. Arthur could see a brilliant "crown" of energy wrapped around the dark void of his brain. From it, a trunk of pure, clean, blue-white light ran down his spine, branching out to wrap around unseen muscles in delicate webs.

  Arthur's mind supplied.

  The small man smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes.

  "Kira," he said, his voice smooth, almost polite.

  "Vector," Kira replied, voice flat. She didn't move an inch. "This isn't your usual turf."

  "Business brings us all to unpleasant places," Vector said, taking a single, measured step closer. His eyes flicked to Arthur's hooded form, assessed, dismissed, then settled back on Kira. "My boss... he's a pragmatist. He appreciates yours. But he's concerned."

  A sudden, heavy silence fell over the alley—a pocket of dead air where distant sounds seemed sucked away. The only sound was the drip... drip... drip... of water from a rusted grate above.

  "He's heard you're... sniffing around," Vector continued, voice dropping, almost conspiratorial. "Asking questions about the NovaForge job. The one that got your crew flatlined."

  Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. He watched Kira, saw her jaw clench so hard a muscle jumped.

  "That wasn't street biz, Kira," Vector said, voice a soft, reasonable warning. "That was corporate. The kind of high-level, scorched-earth shit that doesn't just get people like you and me erased—it gets places like this sanitized. You keep kicking that hornet's nest, you're not just bringing heat down on yourself. You're bringing it down on all of us." He gestured to the grimy walls. "The boss doesn't like that. It's bad for business."

  "The fixer..." Kira began, voice a low, dangerous growl.

  "The fixer is a non-entity," Vector cut her off smoothly. "Gone. A loose end that's been tied. His trail is cold. Leave it that way." He gave a small, polite nod. "It's just a kind warning. From my boss to you. For your own good."

  He turned to leave. The mountain of chrome beside him hadn't moved a muscle.

  As Vector stepped past, the enforcer took a half-step toward Kira, a cruel, leering grin splitting his scarred face. His voice was a low, digitized rumble.

  "Yeah, listen to him, little girl," Rhino growled, red visor boring into hers. "You're tough, but you're not that tough. You don't want to end up like your sister, do you?"

  Arthur saw Kira's hand clench into a fist, knuckles white.

  Rhino's grin widened. "All snapped and dark."

  The air didn't just crack. It ignited.

  Arthur saw it, felt it. Kira's body vibrated with white-hot, murderous rage. Her cyan eyes blazed, no longer just glowing but .

  He instinctively took a step back, raw fury rolling off her in waves.

  His own power flared in response—a brief, uncontrolled shimmer of nova light across the back of his hand.

  Vector turned back instantly, face a mask of annoyance. "Rhino," he snapped. "That was unnecessary. We're done here."

  Rhino's grin widened, but he obeyed, giving Kira one last dismissive look before following his boss.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The two disappeared into the Sump's shadows.

  Kira stood frozen. She was shaking. Not from fear, but from rage so profound it was all she could do to keep from screaming.

  The silence was absolute, heavier than any sound.

  Finally, after an eternity, her hand unclenched. She let out a single, shuddering breath.

  She didn't look at him. She just started walking, steps fast, aggressive, shoulders rigid.

  "C'mon, Art," she said, voice a low, terrifyingly calm monotone, flat and sharp as obsidian. "We're leaving. Now."

  * * *

  The heavy door slid shut behind him, the thud echoing with finality.

  Arthur stood in the darkness, the corridor sounds now gone, replaced by the faint hum of ventilation. The apartment was silent.

  "I need a shower," he said aloud, voice raspy.

  A few minutes later, he stood under weak, lukewarm spray, head against the tiled wall, water plastering his hair to his skull. He let it run over him, trying to scrub away the unreality. It didn't work.

  He stepped out, drying himself with a thin towel, and sat on the couch edge wearing a clean blue shirt and shorts. The apartment was filled with flat, grey light, the shutters raised. The holographic ads outside cast faint, restless colors.

  He retrieved his phone from where he'd dropped it earlier, thumbprint unlocking it.

  17:23.

  He swiped through apps, now his but not his. He opened "Photos" again. The man with his face, smiling at a party. A ghost. He felt nothing.

  He checked messages. The rent notification.

  RENT DUE: TUESDAY. 8 JUNE 2083. AMOUNT: 4200 NEX. AUTOPAY FAILED.

  He stared at it. Then clicked on "Virtual Wallet."

  8932.

  He navigated to the rent payment screen, confirmed the amount, and pressed PAY NOW

  PAYMENT SUCCESSFUL. BALANCE: ?4732.

  He stared at the new balance.

  4,732 credits. The math was brutal. He had enough for a month. Then he was on the street.

  he thought, a knot tightening in his stomach.

  He thought of the note in the box. The idea of calling them surfaced. He played with the thin black tracker-band on his wrist, its green light pulsing.

  He scoffed. No. That was a door he wasn't ready to open.

  His gaze landed on the laptop, still whirring softly, data shard plugged in.

  He picked it up, placing it on his lap. He didn't open the file immediately. He felt that twisting in his gut again. What if the journal was worse? What if the "old" Arthur was someone he would despise?

  But he had no choice.

  He opened the shard. Just a folder of text documents. He opened the first: Journal_Yr1_HighSchool.txt

  The screen filled with text.

  Arthur stopped, blood running cold.

  "Celina?" He said the name aloud, hollow and unfamiliar. "I have a sister."

  He opened "Photos," scrolling until he found her. She looked nothing like him. Bright, artificial platinum blue hair. Startling, intelligent green eyes. In every photo, she was the center—laughing, gesturing, drawing the light.

  He felt no connection. No brotherly affection. Just a cold, clinical fact.

  He noticed the casual, toxic comparison. The fake-sounding "Hah."

  He skipped ahead: Journal_Yr3.txt

  A sick alienation washed over him. He was reading the diary of a smiling servant. The people-pleasing mask in its prime.

  A hot flash of anger at the journal's author—at himself.

  "Why didn't you just say something?" he muttered at the screen. "Why did you just... smile?"

  He clicked on College_Final_Semester.txt

  A week later:

  Arthur stopped breathing.

  He reread the line. Twice. Then a third time, willing the words to change.

  Arthur let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

  The anger was gone, washed away by profound, aching pity.

  He understood the hollowness. He understood the feeling of being a ghost in his own life.

  The new Arthur—the blank slate—felt terrible, piercing empathy for the man he used to be. A terrible, shared loneliness.

  He closed the laptop.

  The apartment was filled with flat, grey afternoon light. The sun was still high, but its weak light was choked by smog and towers outside. Drones buzzed past his window, indifferent. The only color came from that relentless, silent ad, painting walls in shifting, artificial hues that felt impersonal.

  He finally saw it. The "Helper" mask. The "supportive" brother. The crushing expectations. The sister who was a "future leader," a perfect, engineered creation, while he was just... reliable. The parents who praised his "support" while celebrating her "success."

  He realized why the "old" Arthur had joined the Ghost Crew. Not for money or thrills. To find a place where he could be genuinely useful on his own terms. Where he wasn't just a shadow.

  The new Arthur felt a sudden, crushing weight of exhaustion—weariness that felt centuries old. The weariness of the man who wrote the journal.

  He didn't have the energy to pace.

  His gaze drifted across the room. The laptop. The comics on the floor. The black blanket, neatly folded on the arm of the couch.

  And somewhere out in the city, a silver-haired woman who'd vanished like smoke. Another mystery. Another impossible thing.

  His mind made a connection, sharp as a blade.

  "A designer baby," he whispered to the empty room.

  His eyes moved to the bathroom door.

  "And a machine built to look human."

  He wasn't alone in being an anomaly.

  And him? What was ?

  The question hit like a punch to the gut.

  The wave of secondhand grief, pity, and rage from the journal—decades of someone else's pain—crashed into his own hollowness.

  It was too much.

  His chest tightened. His breath came short and sharp.

  The strand of hair above his eye flared, brilliant and sudden, casting prismatic light across the dark apartment. The overhead panel flickered once. Twice.

  And the craving returned.

  Not from the city outside, not from cables in the walls, but from . A desperate, clawing need born not from his body but from his fractured, overwhelmed mind.

  He clutched his stomach, a low, involuntary groan escaping.

  Beneath his shirt, beneath his skin, he felt it—the veins along his arms beginning to pulse with faint, shifting light. Emerald to violet to cyan, a slow, hypnotic wave rolling from his hands to his shoulders.

  His skin rippled. Just for a moment. A gentle, undulating shimmer, like water disturbed by a stone.

  Then, as quickly as it came, the light faded. The need dulled to a throb. The apartment lights steadied.

  Arthur slumped onto the couch, curling into a fetal position, his back to the window, facing the dark, empty room. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding.

  He was too exhausted to be afraid. Too hollowed out to process what had just happened.

  As the chaotic, silent lights of the city's ads danced on the walls, he finally, mercifully, fell asleep.

  The black blanket lay beside him, a silent witness to the ghosts that haunted his waking and his rest.

  End of Chapter Three