Mikey sat in the corner booth of a worn-out diner tucked between an auto garage and a pawn shop. Neon lights flickered lazily above the windows, casting the chrome interior in a soft blue hue. It was one of those places that had been around for decades — the kind of spot you went to either disappear or sober up.
Across from him sat the massive older man who called himself Bobo.
They hadn't spoken much since leaving the cemetery. Too much hung in the air — grief, confusion, exhaustion — all swirling in Mikey's head like static. His ribs ached from the beating. His eye still throbbed. He hadn't eaten since graduation… two days ago. And not a wink of sleep in between.
Silence hung between them. Not tense. Just... full.
Bobo sat with his thick arms crossed over his chest, leaning back in the booth like he'd carved out a permanent space for himself. Mikey's eyes flicked toward the man's right hand — metal, industrial, worn with age and use. The fingers flexed subtly with each shift in his posture. Mikey wanted to ask about it. But didn't.
The bell above the door jingled faintly as a waitress approached. She was older, wore purple eyeshadow, and had a drawl in her step.
She slid the plate onto the table. "There ya go, sugar," she said sweetly. Then she winked at Bobo.
"Don't cause no trouble now."
Bobo grinned, almost wolfishly.
"No promises, darlin'."
Mikey nodded quietly in thanks. The moment the plate hit the table, he was on it — stabbing eggs and bacon, shoveling food into his mouth like a man possessed. He downed the entire glass of water in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and kept going.
Bobo watched him for a moment, clearly amused. He let out a deep, low chuckle.
"Damn, kid. You're making me tired just watching you eat."
Mikey kept chewing. Talking could wait.
He finally slowed after a few minutes, breathing heavier, hands still trembling faintly from hunger and fatigue. He set the fork down and slumped into the booth with a sigh.
Bobo's voice came low and easy.
"That better?"
Mikey gave a small nod, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I didn't realize how hungry I was…"
"That's how it hits you," Bobo said, leaning forward now, resting his elbows on the table. "You go through all the adrenaline and pain, the blood and the heat... and then when it stops, you're just a starving, exhausted kid with a bruised face and too many questions."
Mikey looked at him. There was no pity in the man's eyes — just recognition.
"You knew my parents," he said, voice low.
Bobo nodded slowly. "I did."
"How?"
"Long story," Bobo replied. He scratched at his beard, his eyes flicking toward the window.
"And I'll tell it. But not all at once. You don't need answers right now — you need rest. Maybe another plate of eggs."
Mikey actually let out a small exhale — maybe it was a laugh. Maybe not.
"You look like hell," Bobo added, a faint smirk forming. He stood up and grabbed his jacket.
"C'mon. I know a place nearby with a bed and no questions. You can crash for a few hours. Then we talk."
Mikey looked down at the table, then up at Bobo again.
Maybe for the first time in two days... he felt something close to safe.
He stood slowly, still sore, and followed the man out into the cool dusk.
Bobo walked ahead, each of his steps landing with a heavy thud on the concrete, echoing slightly between the tall buildings. People naturally parted around him. It wasn't just his size — it was the presence. Massive, yes, but not threatening. Like a bear that didn't bite unless you made it.
Mikey followed just behind, still sore from the beating, suit slightly wrinkled from the walk. He kept his head low, eyes flicking around at the occasional billboard — most still flashing
"MICHAEL GRANT: MISSING."
Eventually, they made it to the very edge of Sector D. Just ahead was the border.
The Wall.
Eighty feet tall, seamless steel, flanked by two heavy gate towers. Soldiers in full Council armor patrolled — jet-black with crimson trim, their chrome helmets expressionless, their rifles held high across their chests. Mikey's stomach tightened. That same brand of soldier — the ones who took Nadia.
He stopped walking for a beat, swallowing hard.
Bobo barely glanced back. "Got your ID, kid?"
Mikey nodded quickly. "Yeah. It's in the pants." He opened the small funeral bag Pat had given him and pulled out his old, torn clothes. From the pocket, he fished out a thin metal card — no bigger than a driver's license, its surface covered in etched QR-style patterns and blinking microchips. He held it close.
They joined the short line of people at the gate — mostly workers, engineers, transporters. Few dared leave the inner Capital unless they had a reason.
Mikey looked up at the towering wall again, then glanced over at Bobo. His voice was quiet.
"We're going to the slums?"
Sectors A through E made up the Capital Core — sleek, polished, government-controlled. Safe.
Sectors F through N were the outer rings — officially "peripheral sectors," unofficially… the slums. Places people like Mikey never set foot in. Places whispered about in schools and dinner tables.
Bobo nodded. "Yeah. You ever been?"
Mikey shook his head.
Bobo let out a booming laugh, deep and full of life. The kind of laugh that had weight to it. For a brief second, Mikey saw something in it — a flash of Desmond. That same half-crooked smile, that same unbothered ease.
"You'll love it," Bobo said with a grin.
"Ain't that bad. Some of the best food in the world. Real people too. Not made of chrome and policy like in there."
He jerked his thumb back toward the glittering towers of the inner city.
Mikey looked down at his ID. Looked back at the gate.
This was it — crossing the line.
Literally.
He breathed in.
And stepped forward
They reached the gate at last — a massive bulkhead sealed shut with reinforced steel. An automated scanner hummed nearby, pulsing with soft red light. A soldier stood next to it, armor polished but worn at the edges, his rifle held diagonally across his chest. His voice was flat and clipped:
"IDs."
Bobo stepped forward first, calm as ever. He fished a dented metal card from the inner pocket of his coat and handed it over. The soldier fed it into the scanner — a faint beep, then a flash of green light.
"Next."
Mikey's throat tightened.
He approached, card in hand. For a second, his legs felt heavy — like his body didn't want to move forward.
What if Payne had already blacklisted me?
What if the moment it scanned, alarms would blare and guards would swarm me?
He slipped the card into the scanner.
Silence.
A pause that lasted far too long.
Then—beep. Green.
The soldier nodded. "Go ahead."
Mikey didn't even realize he was holding his breath until it rushed out of him. He quickly stepped forward to catch up with Bobo, who was already moving into the long corridor ahead — a passage that ran straight through the body of the wall.
It was a tunnel of metal and shadow, nearly twenty feet high and lined with thick piping along the upper ridges. The deeper they went, the more it swallowed the sounds behind them. It felt less like a passageway and more like stepping through a vein in the body of the city.
And then—
PSSHHHHT.
The far door slid open with a hydraulic hiss, blinding light pouring in.
Mikey shielded his eyes. Then the light settled.
And there it was.
The slums.
Sector M.
The dirt beneath his shoes was dry and cracked, scattered with gravel and dust. The air was warmer here, thick with smoke from open flames and steam vents. The buildings weren't steel or chrome, but concrete and wood — some stacked high with scavenged material, some leaning precariously against others. Shanty towers scraped the sky, maybe twenty or thirty stories high, built from mismatched bricks, old cargo crates, and the remnants of pre-war structures.
If the Capital was a metal jungle — gleaming, symmetrical, and cold — the slums were a concrete labyrinth. Messy, alive, and pulsing with chaos.
Narrow alleys twisted like veins between buildings, packed with vendors, repair stalls, shouting merchants, children darting past with bare feet and stained shirts. Neon signs flickered above doorways, though many letters were burnt out or sparking. Colors bled into each other — faded reds, chipped yellows, rusted teal — all baked under a hazy orange sky, stained by pollution.
The scent hit Mikey next — a blend of frying meat, engine oil, burning trash, and sweat. And yet… under it all, something warm. Real. Human.
It wasn't clean.
But it was alive.
"Welcome to the outside, kid," Bobo said beside him, grinning wide.