15 years ago.
The neon towers of Neoterra Prime burned bright against the smog-choked night sky, their light spilling down into the narrow alleys of the slums like the glow of an unreachable heaven.
From the balcony of the Neoterra Prime Central Precinct, Ronnie stood in a crisp black uniform, the emblem of his new rank glinting on his chest. He was younger, his face still free of the faint lines that responsibility would carve into him over the years, but the same hard edge was already in his eyes.
Below him, a sea of police officers stood in formation. The Commissioner's voice echoed across the plaza:
Commissioner: "From this day forward, Ronnie will serve as our new High Authority—the shield of Neoterra Prime, the one who will stand between this city and the chaos that claws at its edges."
Applause rose from the crowd, but Ronnie's gaze drifted past them, out toward the city's darker edges. He knew the towers could not hide the rot at their base.
In the maze of crumbling concrete blocks miles away, a 7-year-old boy knelt beside a rickety bed. The flickering light bulb above barely lit the room, casting long shadows over the frail figure lying beneath a patched blanket—his mother.
Her breathing was shallow, her forehead damp with fever.
Elion: "Mom… I'll get the water. Just… stay still."
His bare feet slapped against the cold floor as he moved to the small metal sink in the corner. The faucet coughed up rust before water finally trickled into the chipped cup he held.
When he returned, she was trying to sit up, her thin hands trembling.
Elion's Mother (weakly smiling): "You're such a strong boy."
Elion: "I have to be. For you."
From the cracked window, Elion could see the distant gleam of the Central Precinct's tower. To him, it wasn't a beacon—it was another world entirely, one he'd never set foot in.
As Ronnie shook hands with other officials under the floodlights of the precinct, sealing his position as the city's top enforcer, Elion sat beside his mother in the dim, unheated room, holding her hand as the night crept in.
The morning light broke through a shattered window.
Elion woke up first. His arms tightly around his sick mother. Her stomach was grunting violently.
Elion: "Mother, I will get you something to eat."
Just when he was about to get up, his mother's hand grabbed his arm.
Mother (weak): "Don't go, Elion; it is okay."
Elion: "No, Mother, you have to be better."
Mother (weak): "Even when I am better, with my impairments I can't be a good mother to you."
Elion: "Don't say that, Mother; let me bring you dinner."
Elion quickly grabs a shirt, running out of the room.
The rain came down in greasy sheets, making the alleyways slick with oil and mud.
Elion, skinny and wearing a shirt two sizes too big, weaved through the crowd with his eyes fixed on a fruit stand.
His stomach twisted with hunger. His mother hadn't eaten in two days.
The stall owner turned to argue with a customer. That was Elion's chance. His small hands snatched two bruised apples from the pile—but as he turned, a thick hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Vendor: "You little rat!"
Elion yanked free, bolting down the narrow lanes, splashing through puddles. Two older boys—local street bullies—caught sight of him and cut him off.
Bully 1: "What's in the bag, Elion?"
Elion: "None of your business."
The bigger boy shoved him hard, sending him sprawling. The apples rolled across the wet pavement. Elion scrambled up, fists clenched.
He knew he'd lose if it came to blows—but he swung anyway. The first punch landed, but the second never came. They tackled him, raining kicks and jeers.
It wasn't until a passing old man shouted from a window that the boys scattered.
Bruised and bleeding, Elion gathered the apples from the mud and limped home. When he stepped inside, his mother tried to smile through her coughing fit, and Elion placed the apples in her lap.
Elion: "Told you I'd bring dinner."
Neoterra Prime Central Precinct—Night
Ronnie sat behind the massive steel desk of his new office, papers stacked like towers on every side. A digital board displayed crime statistics in the city—each bar rising faster than the last.
His phone wouldn't stop ringing.
Officer over comms: "High Authority, we've had three shootings in the Neon District, a hostage situation in the South Rails, and word of a new arms shipment moving through the Lower Tunnels. Where do you want us first?"
Ronnie pinched the bridge of his nose.
Ronnie: "Split into three strike teams. No, four. And tell Forensics I need that report on my desk tonight."
The door burst open—another officer with fresh intel.
Officer 2: "Sir, Vulture activity is spiking. We've got twenty confirmed members moving through the East Market, possibly heavily armed with tech we've never seen before."
Ronnie's chair scraped back as he stood.
Ronnie: "Then we move now. No delays. The city doesn't sleep, and neither do we."
That night, Ronnie led an armed convoy through the rain-slick streets, scanning every shadow for threats.
As they entered the East Market, a bloody shooting broke out instantly.
With lightning striking out of his body, one criminal after another fell.
Criminal: "The Vultures will never fall!"
A bullet hit the criminal in his chest.
Ronnie threw a lightning bolt like a javelin into a group of barricaded Vulture mobsters. Exploding and scattering each of them, ready to be arrested.
The raid was a major success and marked the first of many successful raids in Ronnie's career.
Meanwhile, Elion sat by candlelight in the slums, holding a damp cloth to his mother's forehead, trying not to cry as her coughing worsened.
Both were fighting battles they couldn't afford to lose.
Neither had any idea that their paths were slowly being pulled toward each other—by the very city they were both trying to survive.