They say money can't buy happiness. Sure. But I'm not aiming for happiness. I just want a little less despair.
If I had enough credits, I could outsource all my problems to people more competent than me. Hire someone to fix Valeria's lungs. Buy a bed that doesn't fold in on itself like a dying spider. Maybe even afford one of those real eggs with yolks in the center.
But instead, I have this:
A flimsy paycheck, aching feet, and a sister with medical bills tall enough to apply for skyscraper status.
And right now, I'm dreaming—again. In this one, there's a briefcase of money under my bed. It's glowing. Angels are singing. I peel off a few hundreds to buy something warm and greasy. Maybe—just maybe—I even quit my part-time job.
"Steven."
In the dream, the briefcase speaks. Wait—
"Steven."
This time it sounds pissed.
"Steven!"
I blink out of my reverie, caught in the act of leaning on the counter like a soggy mop. My manager's face is a mix between tomato and aneurysm.
"Your shift is over," he snaps. "And I'm not paying for overtime daydreaming."
"Right. Sorry." I scratch the back of my neck and try to pretend I haven't been staring at the expired snack display for ten minutes.
He sighs, already over it, and shoves an envelope into my hand. "Monthly pay. Don't spend it all on potato chips."
No promises.
Out back, I pull on my school uniform. It's regulation gray with a necktie so thin it looks like a corporate noose. Once I'm sure the coast is clear, I open the envelope.
700credits. Exactly what it should be. Disappointingly legal.
I was hoping he'd miscount. You know, a little rounding error in my favor. Something magical. But life doesn't do charity work anymore. Not in the City of Roses.
A buzz rattles in my pocket. My phone's old—half screen, no case, barely a soul.
"Hey," I answer.
"Steven, are you still coming?" It's Valeria. Her voice is soft, but you can hear the steel under it.
"Yeah," I say. "Wouldn't miss it."
Because I never do. Not when she's in that hospital room alone. Not when her body's fighting her harder than anything out here.
The City of Roses doesn't smell like roses. It smells like hot pavement and oil smoke and filtered lies. But the name looks good on brochures. One city left in the world, and even that feels like a half-measure. Skyscrapers here stab the clouds. Corporate logos hover above streets in holographic halos. Drones hum overhead like bored bees.
I pass a beggar tapping on a virtual donation box. "Spare change for a former Hedge Knight?" he asks, voice broken. I shake my head. I don't even have enough to spare for myself.
Thirty minutes later, my feet drag me into the antiseptic air of Saint Albion General. The walls are too white. Too quiet. Hospitals always feel like waiting rooms for fate.
The nurse at the desk raises a brow. "Miss Valeria's been harassing us about you for the past ten minutes."
I give a sheepish shrug. "I had dinner," I lie.
She smirks and leads me to Valeria's room.
She's sitting up when I arrive, looking out the window like she's trying to will the sky to change color. Her black hair spills across the sheets like ink. Her purple eyes—same shade as mine—light up when she sees me.
"You're ten minutes late," she says.
"Eight," I correct, holding up my watch.
We grin at each other like idiots. Sometimes it feels like we're the only ones in sync.
"How's school?" she asks.
"I'm in college now, remember?"
"Oh, right." She waves it off. "You still look like a high schooler."
"Rude."
She giggles and pats the edge of her bed, and I sit.
After a few minutes of catch-up (me talking about essays I didn't write and lectures I didn't attend), I ask, "So. How are you holding up?"
She glances at her chest like she can see the problem there. "Doctors say I'm stable. Whatever that means."
"Have you been eating?"
She beams. "They gave me mac and cheese today. And some mystery meat that tasted suspiciously like happiness."
I raise an eyebrow. "I had spicy chicken on the way here."
"You ate chicken and didn't bring me any? Are you trying to start a war?"
"I feared hospital rules," I say solemnly.
She rolls her eyes but her smile fades just a little.
"Hey, Steven…"
"Yeah?"
"I overheard the doctors talking about the bill again. Dad's paying, right?"
I hesitate. Just a second. But she catches it.
"Of course he is."
Her shoulders sag. "That's good. I wish he'd visit."
"He's busy. Skies Board keeps him chained up, remember?"
She nods, looking unconvinced. "It wouldn't kill him to come once…"
"I'll talk to him," I offer, standing.
"Really?"
"Sure. Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"I watched a movie about them once. Same thing."
She laughs again, and for a moment, I forget the rest of the world exists.
"Be careful going home," she says, as always.
"Always am."
But as I leave, the doctor is waiting in the hallway like a judgmental ghost. He doesn't say a word. Doesn't have to. I reach into my bag and hand him the envelope.
He counts the credits slowly, like each one is a personal insult. Then looks at me with tired eyes.
"Please," I whisper. Not for me.
He nods. Walks away.
I know it's not enough. It never is. But for now, he takes it.
Outside, my stomach growls loud enough to startle a passing drone. I ignore it. Home's thirty minutes away, and there's one pack of instant noodles left in the cupboard.
I'll make it stretch.
I always do.
I used to think college would be my salvation. Just grit through the lectures, nod at the right times, and someday I'd get a stable job with a desk and a salary big enough to suffocate all my problems. Simple. Clean.
But that was before I got expelled for being poor.
"Steven," a familiar voice says behind me, sharp as a test score I forgot to submit.
I turn. Miss Hok, my favorite lecturer—well, the only one who remembered my name—holds a stack of papers like she's clutching a funeral notice.
"We need to talk."
That's never good.
Ten minutes later, I'm outside the administration building, holding my own academic death certificate. Kicked out. No tuition, no second chances, and—oh yeah—apparently working a job to survive is against college policy now.
"They caught me working," I mutter to myself, squinting into the orange dusk. "Do they expect me to eat vibes?"
There's a message from Valeria, my sister.
VALERIA: [*heart* *smiley face* :D]
Translation: "Don't forget to visit me, mmkay?!."
I smile bitterly and start walking.
The City of Roses is beautiful the way a corpse in a glass coffin is beautiful—preserved, untouched, but undeniably dead inside. The sky's a dim LED purple, the streets lined with holographic billboards screaming at me to invest in dream homes I'll never afford. A group of Agent is walking among the civilians. It was rare to see bunch of them in one place.
I try not to think about it.
When I get to Mister Yi's convenience store, he's already yelling.
"You want what?"
"A full-time job," I say, bowing my head. "I need more hours."
He grunts. "College dropout now?"
"Temporarily…"
He leans back, squinting at me. "Kid, this place barely pays enough to keep me alive, and I'm the boss. With your sister in the hospital again, you'd make more money joining a deathmatch. Or better yet, become an Agent."
I force a smile. "I'd rather keep my limbs attached."
He snorts. "You'd make a fine Pawn."
That's supposed to be funny. Pawns are cannon fodder. Disposable. One Move short of dying gloriously for the Corporation. No thanks.
An hour before my shift ends, disaster walks in.
The guy's wearing a mask and bad intentions. The kind of eyes that haven't slept in a week. He pulls a knife.
"Money."
I freeze. He steps closer. My manager's gone. No customers.
"Can't you hear me? Money!"
If I give it to him, I lose my job. If I don't... I might lose a kidney.
"MONEY!"
In the end, I give him the drawer. He runs. I'm safe.
But Mister Yi calls ten minutes later.
"You're fired."
Click.
That's it. That's all it takes.
The hospital smells like bleach and false hope.
Valeria greets me with a salad bowl and too much energy. "Brother! Guess who ate vegetables voluntarily?"
"You?"
"Yeah, how you guessed?"
"Well, ignoring a lot of them are still there, I can see a piece is missing from your plate."
"So how's today?" she asks, voice light, hopeful.
I sit down beside her, peel off my jacket, and lie through my teeth. "Doing good."
"Really?" Her eyes light up. "That's awesome… you deserve a day without any worry, Brother." She tilts her head, pokes at a cherry tomato. "Hey, can you cut me an apple?"
"Sure thing."
I open the drawer beneath her nightstand, rummaging for the plastic knife we stashed last week. Valeria watches me like I'm performing brain surgery. When I finally find it, she laughs like I just pulled a rabbit from a hat.
And then—she smiles.
Soft. Honest. The kind of smile you'd bottle up if you could. It's the kind of thing that says you're here, and that's enough.
That was when it started.
Her breath catches—just once.
"Hey."
Then she jerks.
Clatter.
The salad bowl crashes to the floor, forgotten. Her eyes roll back. Her whole body convulses, limbs flailing in angles that aren't natural.
"Valeria?!"
I lunge forward, grab her shoulders, but she's heavy and limp and shaking all at once. Her name tumbles out of my mouth again and again.
"Valeria! Hey—HEY! Somebody! Help!"
The room explodes with motion. Doctors rush in, blue coats and red lights, a rolling gurney materializing like magic. Hands pull me away. I try to follow, but someone presses against my chest. A nurse. A wall. I don't know.
"She was just fine!" I shout. "She was talking to me!"
"Sir, please step back—"
"She was SMILING, damn it! She was just—just EATING—"
The doors slam shut. She's gone.
And I'm alone in the hall with a puddle of salad and an apple I never got to slice.
The hospital waiting area is cold. Not physically—just wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. The air hums with vending machine buzz and fluorescent lights that haven't blinked in a decade. The bench beneath me is plastic and hard. My leg keeps bouncing. I don't know how long I've been sitting here.
They say the surgery was successful. Her heart's stable.
But now they say she can't leave.
Ever.
If she does, she won't make it.
That's the price of survival now—endless bills, endless stays, endless rules.
I press my hands together, grip them so tight my knuckles turn white. I stare at the floor like it'll offer a solution. It doesn't.
I don't cry. I don't have time to do that. I have to think.
I just sit there, grinding my teeth, chest hollow.
I have to make money.
At any cost.
Outside, the hospital is surrounded by corporate towers and flickering holograms. The night is moonless, starless, as if even the sky gave up.
You're not supposed to be out in the city after dark. Too dangerous, too unstable. "Let the Agents handle whatever it is," the PSAs say.
But I don't have time to be safe.
I need money.
I need my sister to live.
She's all I've got.
And I'll do anything to keep her breathing.
Even if it means becoming entirely something else she don't like.
The bridge is quiet.
Too quiet.
No cars, no drones, not even the hum of a late-night delivery truck. Just me and the concrete under my feet, cracked and slick with dew. Overhead, the city's glow can't quite reach the clouds. The sky's just a dull bruise.
In my pocket: the kitchen knife I borrowed from Valeria's drawer. Not even sharp. Just something to wave around.
I don't plan to hurt anyone.
I just need to scare someone. Flash the blade, say money, repeat if necessary. They hand over their wallet, I run. That's it. No one dies. I get to keep my sister.
I walk the length of the bridge, pacing like a ghost.
Then I see her.
A figure approaching slowly from the other end. A woman. Alone.
She's wearing a long coat that brushes the tops of her boots. Pale blue hair tied messily at the nape. Something long sticks out behind her shoulder—too slim to be a bag. A cane? A weapon?
It's too dark to tell.
But she's alone. And small.
An ideal victim.
I inch closer, footsteps muffled by the wind. She doesn't look up. Maybe she's tired. Maybe she's just numb. She moves like someone who's forgotten how.
We meet in the middle.
One foot away.
She finally looks at me.
Her eyes are… deep. Not in a poetic way. In a tired ocean swallowing you whole kind of way. Her face is unreadable, but there's a heaviness behind it, like she's seen more than I ever will.
I pull the knife.
"Mo—Money," I stammer.
Then I see it clearly: what's behind her back isn't a cane.
It's a katana.
Sheathed. Strapped over her shoulder like it belongs there.
Agent.
My stomach drops.
But I've already pulled the knife. I can't back out now. She hasn't drawn her sword. She doesn't look ready. Maybe I can still—
She speaks.
"What kind of life do you want to live, dear stranger?"
The question freezes the air.
"Eh?"
She tilts her head slightly. "What do you need to have, to have the life you want to have?"
What the hell kind of question is that?
I blink. The knife in my hand suddenly feels stupid. Heavy.
"M—Money," I blurt.
She nods slowly, like I just confirmed something. "Is that so?"
Her eyes drift to the cloud-covered sky. "Not a single one tonight, too. Unlucky."
"Money," I say again. Firmer. Desperate.
She doesn't flinch. "I don't have any."
I tense.
She continues, voice calm. "Would you be satisfied… if I gave you my sword instead?"
I glance at the katana. The sheath looks ancient—black lacquer chipped at the edges, wrapped in faded cords. Not military-issue. It's older. Personal. Maybe valuable.
"Do you want to carry my weight?" she asks, tone like wind through dead leaves.
"…What?"
"If you take this sword… your life will turn upside down."
She steps forward, unslinging the weapon from her shoulder. No fear in her. No hesitation.
Just sadness.
"So," she says softly. "You've decided."
I don't know why—but I hold out my hands.
She sets the katana into them like she's handing off a child. The second I touch it, my fingers go numb.
The scabbard is cool. Heavier than it should be. A rough symbol is etched near the hilt—something I can't read, but it stirs something uneasy in my gut.
I don't even realize I've dropped the kitchen knife.
I crouch. Slide the blade free.
It happens the instant I unsheath it.
A soundless, searing slash—like the air itself is torn apart.
And then—
Everything unravels.
The world fractures like glass. The bridge cracks open, beams groaning as steel twists violently in every direction. The wind howls. Invisible blades tear through space like swarming flies, slicing stone, steel, flesh—everything.
I put the scabbard back in. Only then it stops.
What... just happened...
The woman collapses in front of me. A spray of blood blooms across her chest. Her eyes widen—but there's no scream. Just a breath.
And then nothing.
The wind dies.
Silence.
Everything is still.
The bridge behind me is shredded—railings cut clean in half, lamps dangling by wires, the road gashed open like paper.
And me?
Still standing.
Still breathing.
Katana in hand.
She's at my feet. Still. Cold.
She lays there, unmoving.
She…
She…!!
I vomited.
Blood inching across the pavement.
No matter how you look at it… there's only one conclusion to be found here.
I killed her.