The Lower Sector buzzed with life—and danger.
From rusted air vents that whined like dying beasts to steam pipes leaking acidic mist, the streets of Ely Zoan's world were far from welcoming. But this was his domain. And in the shadows of Lord Zeus City, few walked with more confidence.
Ely stood at 5'10, unusually tall for his age. His body was lean and honed—like a blade forged by hardship. His skin held a light bronze tone from years under artificial lights and sun leaks. Brown hair, cut rough and short with a jagged blade, sat atop his head in an unruly tangle. His piercing green eyes were always scanning, always measuring. They missed nothing.
He didn't smile often, but when he did, it was genuine—and rare.
He had no one he trusted completely. No friends, only acquaintances: Kex, the silent tech scavenger who ran data trades; Nira, the street medic with a limp and a heart for lost causes; and Slink, a fast-talking pickpocket who knew everyone's business.
Ely didn't consider any of them allies. They were... human connections, like training weights. Just enough to keep his social instincts sharp. Just enough to remind him he was still human.
Yet, he was no monster. As ruthless as he could be toward those who crossed him—or preyed on the weak—he had a sense of justice that ran deeper than most realized.
Once, he had seen a gang enforcer roughing up a blind vendor for not paying protection fees. Without hesitation, Ely stepped in, throwing a rock that cracked the enforcer's faceplate. A warning. When the brute came at him, Ely's reflexes—faster than even seasoned street fighters—had him duck, weave, and drop the man with a single well-placed strike.
"I don't like bullies," he had said. That was all.
The vendor never forgot. Nor did the gang.
Now, as he strolled past the flickering lights of Dead Circuit Alley, he carried a reputation. People gave him space. Not out of fear—but out of something close to respect.
His day usually started before dawn. Scouting wreckage sites. Listening in on local transmissions. Watching the flow of energy in the streets. Noticing who moved where. What gangs were shifting. What tech was flowing in the black market.
He'd eat whatever he could trade for—usually synth-rice, meat packs, and old canned goods. When he wasn't trading or exploring, he was practicing. Running. Climbing. Observing washed-up martial monks from afar and mimicking their movements with uncanny precision.
Each day, Ely Zoan grew sharper.
And the city, in all its broken chaos, had no idea a storm was rising from its very underbelly.