Artificial rain drummed against the metal roofs like electric fingers tapping.

  The smell of ozone and burning steel filled the air.

  Z-69 opened his eyes.

  Everything around him blurred—flashes of red and purple neon reflecting on the wet pavement, where blood and garbage mixed into one.

  Beside him, John was half-carrying, half-dragging him forward.

  “Keep moving,” John said, his voice rasping through a metallic filter.

  “If you stop here, they’ll strip you clean in ten minutes.”

  Z-69 looked around.

  The alleys shimmered with flickering signs:

  Red Flower Club, Black Market – Real Blood Only, Dream Patch: Plug in and Forget.

  Everything glittered falsely, light shining on corpses.

  People shuffled by without looking at one another.

  Some wore respirator masks.

  A half-crazed zombie was chained to a lamppost, mumbling a tune through broken teeth.

  John smirked.

  “Welcome to Level Ten. Neon Hell—where even trash is dressed in lights.”

  Z-69 said nothing, following behind him.

  Each step echoed hollowly through the rain.

  He realized—this place was alive, but no one here truly lived.

  They finally stopped in front of an old building, its walls peeling, its iron doors rusted.

  A crooked sign still hung above: ZETA RECYCLE.

  John pressed his mechanical hand against the scanner panel.

  It buzzed weakly and clicked open.

  “My safehouse,” John said, eyes weary.

  “At least it still remembers my passcode.”

  Inside was dim, warm, and smelled of machine oil.

  Yellow bulbs hung low, wires twisted like vines.

  The walls were covered with bolts, gears, and torn lab coats stained brown with age.

  One corner held a cot, another a small shower.

  Lumina limped in slowly, her fur singed and dull.

  The little fox curled under the heating lamp, her glow fading like a night-light being switched off.

  John pointed toward the shower.

  “Go wash up. You smell like you crawled out of an incinerator.”

  “I did crawl out of one,” Z-69 muttered.

  “Then you have even more reason to wash.”

  Water splashed.

  The sound of the shower merged with the rain outside—a cold duet.

  Steam thickened, clouding the mirror.

  Through it, Z-69’s reflection emerged: a lean body covered in burn scars, lines of violet veins tracing down his arms like dying circuits.

  The crystal in his chest flickered faintly—its rhythm slow and heavy.

  He touched his face.

  Cold. Rough. Hard.

  His green eyes flashed faintly with electric light.

  The face in the mirror looked back—a man and a corpse fused into one.

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  “So this is me…” he murmured. “Why does this face feel so… foreign?”

  The mist hid the answer.

  He lowered his head, letting the water wash away ash, blood, and unanswered questions.

  When Z-69 stepped out, his platinum hair hung wet against his neck. The black shirt John had given him was still damp.

  John sat on the floor, reassembling the left side of his mechanical torso.

  Around him, spare parts and tools were scattered, a few old drones hummed weakly as they recharged.

  “You look better,” John said without looking up. “More human. Barely.”

  “And you?”

  “I look more machine than man,” John replied with a dry grin, lifting his newly attached arm. “But hey, at least I can clap again when I fix something.”

  Z-69 looked around the cluttered room. The yellow light painted John’s worn face—he looked like part of the machinery he worked on.

  “You’ve been living here?”

  “Only when I have business on Level Ten,” John said. “This level goes into lockdown often, so I need a place to lay low.”

  “I used to live on Level Seven. My main lab was there.”

  He chuckled. “If you’re hoping to eat the remains of that abomination we killed in the Sanctuary, you’ll have to wait till we go back up.”

  “You used to live on Seven?” Z-69 asked. “Not anymore?”

  “Not since the Collapse of Level Thirteen.”

  “When the Sanctuary fell, my plan to resurrect you hit a dead end. So I left Crimeria—to find another way.”

  “It took decades. I crossed continents, saw what was left of this dead world—and as you can see, I succeeded.”

  Z-69 sat opposite him, quiet for a while.

  “I want to ask something,” he said finally, voice low.

  “Who am I, really, that you’d spend so much just to bring me back?”

  John paused.

  The whirring of his mechanical arm fell silent.

  Then, after a long breath, he spoke.

  “You are Z-69—the Immortal Thunderlight. Humanity’s strongest metahuman. Three hundred years ago, at the Battle of Valdora, you held the city gate for seven days and nights, buying time for evacuation. When the city fell, no one ever saw you again. They say you self-detonated—unleashing a storm that incinerated the undead horde… and yourself.”

  Z-69 looked down at his wet hand, violet veins faintly glowing beneath the skin.

  Expressionless.

  “Sounds like an idiot.”

  “You are one,” John snapped. “Who else dies by self-immolation and then does it two more times after being resurrected?”

  Z-69 felt a bit of shame but pressed on.

  “And you? How do you know me?”

  John welded the joint of his shoulder, voice grating.

  “I was one of your three apprentices. I was twelve—an orphan scavenging through the ruins. You pulled me from the rubble, brought me to Valdora. You taught me, fed me, made me believe humanity still had hope. That it could be reborn from the ashes. And I believed you.”

  “Three apprentices?”

  “Yes. One was crazier than me—he’s dead. Another vanished. I’m the only one left… barely.”

  John looked up, meeting his gaze.

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  Z-69 shook his head. “No. Only dreams—fire, screaming, and a city of light.”

  “That was Valdora.”

  “Then why did you bring me back?”

  The question stilled the room.

  John leaned against the wall, staring at the crystal pulsing in Z-69’s chest.

  “Because you made me promise something before that battle.”

  “What promise?”

  “I don’t remember. Only that I had to bring you back. So I did. Took me three hundred years.”

  Silence.

  The wind hissed through the cracks in the window.

  “You did all this… for a promise?”

  John gave a short, dry laugh. “No. Because I wouldn’t know how to live without it.”

  A drop of water from the ceiling fell onto the crystal, scattering violet light across the room.

  The entire safehouse glowed with the heartbeat of a dead man.

  John pulled a cloth from the table, revealing an old energy scanner underneath.

  “Now, my favorite part: inspection time.”

  He swept the scanner across Z-69’s body.

  The monitor flickered with unstable readings.

  “Your body’s no longer human—aside from your brain and spinal cord. Everything else runs on that crystal.”

  Z-69 glanced down at it. “And it’ll keep me alive forever?”

  “If it has enough energy. When it runs dry, the zombie virus in you wins. Then you’ll lose control, enter the Hunger—driven to feed on energy by any means.”

  “I’ve already seen it.”

  “So have I. Not a pretty sight.”

  John rummaged through a drawer and tossed him a metal bracelet engraved with the ZETA symbol.

  “Wear it. It tracks the crystal’s charge. When it turns red, stop and feed—either energy or suppressant. If not, you’ll go feral, and I’m not sure I can stop you this time.”

  Z-69 clasped it around his wrist.

  The green light blinked, then steadied.

  “You can still use electricity,” John continued. “But remember—electricity burns you. Every discharge eats away your flesh and drains your energy faster since it needs to heal you afterward.”

  “So I have to choose between strength and sanity.”

  John shrugged. “Just like everyone else in Crimeria. No one here gets a clean choice.”

  He reattached his shoulder with a sharp click.

  Lumina lay curled in the corner, breathing softly, her silver glow dimming.

  Z-69 sat by the iron window.

  Outside, Level Ten glimmered—neon veins pulsing across the city.

  Artificial rain fell, reflecting a thousand violet streaks.

  From afar came laughter, electronic music, and the moans of people in nightclubs—a chaotic symphony of decay.

  He looked down at the crystal, its light pulsing faintly with the rhythm of the rain.

  “John,” he said quietly, “I feel like… I’ve seen this place before.”

  “No. You’re just realizing it’s no different from Valdora—just cleaner.”

  John flexed his new leg, then stood.

  His mechanical arm rotated smoothly, fingers flexing.

  “Good. Now I finally have two hands to examine your body properly. You know, I was a bit short-handed before.”

  Z-69 smirked faintly. “So you don’t need me to lend you a hand anymore?”

  A distorted voice burst from the alley loudspeakers, blending with the city’s electric rhythm:

  “Announcement from the Crimeria Recruitment Center!”

  “Battle for the Ascension! Your one chance to earn a ticket to Level Nine! Whoever you are—if you’re still alive, report to the Central Arena before dawn!”

  The broadcast looped across the city, mixing with gunfire, laughter, and drunken shouts.

  Outside the window, holographic signs flashed: RISE OR ROT.

  Z-69 stared out, the violet glow in his eyes reflecting the burning city.

  John folded his arms, voice half-mocking, half-tired.

  “Looks like Crimeria’s opened the gates of heaven. The question is—who’s stupid enough to walk in?”

  Z-69 didn’t answer.

  He just watched the rain.

  The crystal in his chest pulsed stronger, like a heart remembering how to beat.