[??? | First-Person POV]
They always say the city's beautiful in the morning. And it is.
The sky bleeds gold through the cracks of the highrise towers, sunlight reflecting off the chrome skin of buildings. Hover-bikes zip between floating lanes, leaving bright, flickering trails like digital brushstrokes. Ads float mid-air, selling glowing energy drinks and instant sleep pods. Even the smog has this... honey-warm shimmer to it.
But beauty's a lie.
Because when night comes, the same glass buildings glare down like eyes. The lights flicker red. The shadows crawl longer. And everyone disappears indoors. Not because they're tired. But because they're afraid.
I know. I'm one of them.
It's been three months since I escaped the Facility.
Three months of pretending I'm normal.
Three months of not wearing that awful clinic gown.
Now I wear shorts, a white crop top, and this black hoodie jacket I… "borrowed" from a corner store. The alarm never even screamed. I'm not proud of it. But when you're running from something, anything's better than walking around dressed like a test subject.
I keep the hood up always. Hiding my dark red, shoulder-length bob. I stand out too much already.
Today's no different. I tug the jacket tighter and walk into the station. Not sure why my hands are sweating—it's not like I haven't done this before.
The train station buzzes with the neon rhythm of the city. Glowing lines on the ground guide people to their platforms. Ads blare soft jingles over speakers. I avoid the cameras. Always.
The Receptionist Man sits behind his usual desk. Chubby, with a greying beard, always in the middle of eating something. He's perched there now, sandwich in hand, but I catch him sighing the moment he sees me.
Receptionist Man: (sigh's, drooping the sandwich on the table)"Listen… kid—"
Me: (stepping forward fast) "Please! Please… this will be the last time I ask—"
Receptionist Man: ( cuts in, voie tired) "That's what you always say." (He leans back with another sigh) "Listen, kid. I really want to help you. But I can't this time. My boss found out I've been giving you free tickets for the past month. And he's not happy…"
Me: "I'm so sorry, Mister. But I need this. I really do. I need to get to Emprise."
He blinks. His face freezes a bit.
Receptionist Man: "Emprise!? A trip to that place isn't cheap. It's literally triple what I earn!"
I try to hide how my shoulders fall. But I think he sees it anyway.
He softens. Just a little.
Receptionist Man: "I would help you with anything, kid. You're a good kid. But I can't do this anymore. I've got kids of my own. If I lose this job, they don't eat. I hope you understand."
I nod, head bowed.
Me: "I do."
I really do. But that doesn't make it hurt less.
I walk away. A chill follows me down the steps of the station.
Outside, I flick open my map. A hologram spirals up from my bare wrist like liquid light, projecting blue grids and glowing city names into the air. Every location has a red X slashed over it. Except one.
Emprise.
The last place. The final lead. If my theory's right—if I can just get there—I might finally understand what I am.
But I can't even afford the ticket to try.
I wander the lower blocks. The city's underbelly glows with vending machines and neon noodle stalls. Rain glistens on the ground like broken glass. I use the last credits I have to buy a lukewarm snack cube and sit next to a tiny snack shop. It smells like engine oil and spice.
I feel... defeated.
Not just tired. But cracked inside.
I clutch the warm cube in my hands and watch the world rush past like it doesn't care. I can't even get to Emprise to see if my theory is true. If the truth I've been chasing—running for—actually means anything.
That's when I see it.
A poor guy—maybe early twenties, lanky, nervous—stumbles out of a nearby alley. And behind him, a shadowy figure lunges.
There's a scuffle. And then I see it—the glow.
The victim screams as his Energy Valor is ripped from him.
A ghostly gold chain, inked like a tattoo, stretches across his skin from wrist to shoulder. But the thief grabs it, palms glowing red, and yanks. The chain glows violently… then fades.
The man collapses.
People glance. But they don't stop. No one ever does.
Because they know what just happened.
They know the system.
We all do.
A long time ago, no one cared about Energy Valors.
They were strange chain-like tattoos we were born with—etched into our skin from wrist to shoulder. They glowed slightly, pulsed like a heartbeat. And inside each hoop of the chain was a number.
The average? 70.
That was your lifespan. Seventy years, give or take. At first, it was just a cool genetic quirk. But then scientists discovered they could be shared. Borrowed. Even absorbed.
It changed everything.
The tech was developed. Transferring a bit of your Energy Valor could add years to someone's life. Doctors used it. Parents donated years to their dying children. Heroes shared with victims.
It was supposed to be beautiful.
Until it wasn't.
Greed poisoned everything. Why share when you can steal?
If you took someone's Energy Valor by force, you added those years to your own. But the person you stole from? They lost those years. Sometimes instantly. Sometimes slowly. But always fatally.
It was murder. Legal or not.
Now the streets are quiet after 5:00PM. Because that's when they come out—the leeches. The predators. Looking to live forever by taking what isn't theirs.
And it works.
Some people have hundreds of years now.
But not me.
Mine's… different.
I pull up my sleeve and look down at my wrist.
Where most people have long glowing chains crawling up their arm, mine has just one hoop. A single gold ring inked onto my skin. And inside it, one number:
0.
Just zero.
No years. No time. No life… apparently. But I'm still breathing, aren't I?
I don't know what it means.
But I want to find out.
I walk home quickly, hugging my jacket close. The streets are near silent. Neon signs buzz over shuttered shops. Holographic ads glitch in mid-air. A drone scans from overhead, and I duck into a shadow.
My boots slap against the pavement a little too loud.
That's when I hear footsteps.
Behind me. Matching mine.
I don't look back—I run.
And the footsteps pick up speed too.
My heart jackhammers. Not home. I can't lead them home. If they know where I live, I'll never sleep again. I swerve into a side alley, fast and sharp, slipping into the dark between buildings.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
I press my back to the wall, trying to control my breath. Listening.
Nothing.
No more footsteps.
Maybe I lost them.
Minutes pass. I count them.
One. Two. Three—
Then—a hand grabs me from behind.
A cloth slams against my mouth and nose. It smells sharp—chemical—burning. My scream dies in my throat.
Everything turns to static.
Then—darkness.