The city never sleeps.
It just rots.
Neon signs hum and flicker like dying insects, spilling fake colors—electric blues, venomous greens, synthetic purples—across streets slick with oil and rain. The toxic palette reflects in fractured mirrors of standing water, creating a kaleidoscope of decay that shifts with every raindrop. The air stinks of copper pennies left too long in sweaty palms, ozone crackling like a live wire, and the faint tang of burnt circuitry—acrid smoke that catches in the back of your throat and refuses to let go. It's the scent of hybrids gone bad, their systems overheating as humanity and machinery wage war inside stolen flesh. Somewhere below me, in the maze of alleys and rusting fire escapes that cling to buildings like metal parasites, my target was bleeding. I could smell it through the chemical haze—warm, organic, cutting through the synthetic soup that passed for air.
I crouched on the skeletal frame of an old billboard, its weathered steel frame groaning softly under my weight. The advertisement it once held had been stripped away years ago, leaving only rusted brackets and the ghost outlines of corporate promises. My rifle lay strapped to my back, its familiar weight a comfort against my spine, while a combat knife rested loosely in my palm. The blade was warm from my grip, edges honed to surgical sharpness. My knees ached from the cold steel beneath them, the chill seeping through my tactical pants and settling deep into my bones, but I stayed perfectly still. Every muscle fiber held in check, every breath measured and silent. The city teaches you quick—move wrong, breathe too loud, shift your weight at the wrong moment, and someone hears it, someone sees it, and someone tries to kill you for it. Patience wasn't just a virtue here; it was survival.
Down in the alley, twenty feet below and bathed in the sickly glow of a malfunctioning street lamp, the hybrid rummaged through the corpse of a scavenger. The dead man's limbs were splayed at unnatural angles, his face frozen in permanent surprise. He was a messy kill—head half caved in like a dropped melon, skull fragments glinting wetly in the neon light, chest cavity ripped open like a garbage bag torn by desperate claws. Dark blood pooled beneath him, mixing with the rain to create pink rivulets that flowed toward the storm drains. The metallic tang grew stronger, making my mouth water with Pavlovian recognition. Hybrids didn't kill for food—their digestive systems had been rewired, their appetites redirected toward electrical current and synthetic nutrients. They killed because their processors couldn't handle human emotion, and that overload turned into violence as predictable as sunrise. The scientists in their sterile labs liked to call it "malfunction," hiding behind clinical terminology and peer-reviewed papers. I called it murder.
The comm in my ear crackled with static, Rayden's voice cutting through the white noise like a knife through silk.
Rayden: "Target confirmed. Forty thousand credits if you bring him in breathing. Half if you don't."
His tone was casual, almost bored, as if he were discussing the weather instead of a bounty that could keep me fed for months. I felt my lips curve into a smile without humor, the expression pulling at a scar that ran from my left temple to my jaw—a reminder of the hybrid that had gotten too close.
"Alive is expensive. Dead is easier."
My voice was barely a whisper, but the comm picked it up, the sensitive microphone catching every nuance.
Rayden: "So is your reputation."
I could practically hear him smirking through the connection, that insufferable confidence that made my teeth clench.
"Funny, I don't remember asking for your opinion," I muttered, my fingers unconsciously tightening around the knife's handle until the textured grip bit into my palm.
He chuckled—low, lazy, infuriating. The sound grated against my nerves like nails on metal. "Don't take too long, Kael. The rain's about to turn acidic in your sector."
As if on cue, I felt the first sting on my exposed forearm—a tiny burn that would grow worse if I stayed exposed. The city's weather had been weaponized decades ago, another gift from the corporate wars that had reshaped the world.
The hybrid's head twitched suddenly, a mechanical jerk that sent droplets flying from its rain-soaked hair. Its enhanced hearing had caught something—maybe the soft whisper of my breathing, maybe just the paranoid whispers of its corrupted programming. Those augmented senses were a double-edged sword, feeding too much information into processors that couldn't filter noise from signal. The human part of its face was gaunt, pale as old bone—like the soul had already left, and the machine was just borrowing the body for a while, wearing it like an ill-fitting suit. The other half was black chrome, polished to mirror brightness despite the rain, etched with veins of faint blue light that pulsed in rhythm with its artificial heartbeat.
I flipped the knife into a reverse grip, feeling the blade's weight shift against my fingers. The movement was smooth, practiced—muscle memory earned through countless nights like this one. I leaned forward, perched on the edge of the billboard frame like a gargoyle preparing to drop, and let gravity take me.
The drop was fast—three stories of free fall with nothing but rain-slick air rushing past my face. My stomach lurched, that familiar moment of weightlessness before impact. I landed in a puddle with a splash that echoed off the alley walls like a gunshot, knees bent to absorb the shock, knife ready and gleaming in the neon light. Cold water soaked through my boots instantly, the chill shocking my system fully awake. The hybrid froze, its head snapping toward me with mechanical precision, processor likely recalculating the unexpected threat. Digital eyes—human brown on one side, camera lens on the other—focused on me with predatory intensity. Then it smiled—a slow, broken grin that showed too many teeth, some real, some synthetic replacements that gleamed like polished steel.
"Bounty hunter," it rasped, voice glitched and metallic, each word layered with digital distortion that made my skin crawl.
"Guilty," I said, and lunged.
The alley erupted into violence like a dam bursting.
It swung its mechanical arm like a sledgehammer, servos whining with the effort, aiming for my skull with enough force to crater concrete. I ducked under it, feeling the rush of air that would have been my death, the wind from its passage ruffling my hair. My muscles coiled and released as I slashed upward, carving a line through its shoulder plating with surgical precision. Sparks spat into the rain like angry fireflies, the shower of light accompanied by the screech of metal on metal. The acrid smell of burned circuitry flooded my nostrils, mixing with the copper tang of blood where my blade had found the soft junction between armor and flesh. The hybrid didn't scream—they never did right away. Pain lagged behind in their system, filtered through processors that couldn't quite translate physical damage into the language of suffering.
I pivoted on my heel, boots splashing through the crimson puddle, aiming for its legs. The knee joint was exposed, a vulnerable point where the designers had prioritized mobility over protection. But before I could strike, metal fingers closed around my collar like a vise. The hybrid's grip was crushing, servos adding inhuman strength to already powerful hands. It slammed me into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of me, my back hitting the brick with a wet thud that sent shockwaves through my spine. The impact drove the air from my lungs in a painful wheeze, stars exploding across my vision like tiny fireworks.
I tasted blood—warm, metallic, familiar. It leaked from my split lip and ran down my chin, mixing with the rain.
It lifted me, metal fingers crushing my throat with calculated pressure. Each mechanical digit felt like a steel rod pressing against my windpipe, and I could hear the soft whir of motors adjusting their grip with deadly precision. My vision darkened at the edges, the neon lights blurring into abstract smears of color. Panic tried to claw its way up from my chest, but I forced it down, channeling desperation into action. My free hand shot to my thigh holster with practiced speed, fingers wrapping around the familiar weight of my compact plasma pistol. The weapon hummed to life in my grip, its capacitors charging with a sound like angry wasps. I shoved it against the soft flesh under its jaw—the one place where human vulnerability still showed—and fired.
The discharge was brilliant white, brief as lightning, followed by the smell of ozone and cooking meat. The hybrid staggered back, jaw smoking like a poorly maintained engine, synthetic skin blackened and peeling away to reveal the chrome infrastructure beneath. Coolant leaked from severed tubes, hissing where it hit the hot pavement. Not dead—these things were built to take punishment—but damaged.
Rayden: "Kael, status?"
His voice crackled through the comm, slightly distorted by the electrical interference from my weapon.
I spat blood onto the wet ground, watching it spiral down a nearby drain. "Still breathing. Can't say the same for him."
The hybrid's face contorted in what might have been rage if machines could truly feel. Warning lights blinked behind its optical sensors like tiny red stars.
It roared, the sound warping like a corrupted file—part human scream, part mechanical screech, all predatory fury. The digital distortion made my teeth ache, the frequency tuned to maximum psychological impact. It charged with hydraulic precision, each step calculating impact points and attack vectors in microseconds. I sidestepped, my body moving on instinct honed by years of survival, grabbed the back of its neck where wet hair met warm chrome, and drove my knife into the seam where human tissue met machine casing. The blade hit resistance—armor plating designed to protect vital systems—then gave with a satisfying pop as it found the gap between plates.
The scream was part-human, part-machine, all rage—a symphony of biological anguish and digital protest that echoed off the alley walls like the death cry of some impossible creature. Sparks cascaded from the wound, accompanied by spurts of dark fluid that might have been blood or coolant or both. I yanked the knife free, feeling the slight resistance as it pulled away from severed cables, and kicked the thing into the puddle it had been standing in. Water met exposed wiring in a shower of electric blue light that turned the entire alley into a photographer's flash bulb. The smell of ozone intensified, mixing with the acrid stench of fried electronics.
The hybrid twitched like a broken marionette, clawing at the ground with desperate, uncoordinated movements. Its systems were shorting out, the careful balance between organic and synthetic thrown into chaos by the water damage. Steam rose from its body as internal temperature regulators failed. I crouched over it, feeling the heat radiating from its malfunctioning systems, and pressed the blade to the hollow just above its heart—another design flaw, another place where humanity had been preserved. "Breathing, remember?" I muttered into the comm, my voice hoarse from the strangling.
Rayden: "Alive, Kael. Or I dock your pay myself."
His tone carried just enough threat to be believable. I knew he'd do it too—business was business in this city.
I rolled my eyes, pulled a cable restraint from my belt—military grade, designed for exactly this purpose—and bound the hybrid's arms behind its back. The restraints were smart-wire, adapting to resist whatever force was applied against them. It fought weakly, systems shorting from the water, movements becoming increasingly erratic as its processors struggled with conflicting signals. I hoisted it up, muscles straining against dead weight that felt heavier than it should—all that machinery adding bulk to what had once been human. Synthetic skin was slippery in the rain, making my grip uncertain, but I managed to drag it toward the street where my ride waited like a mechanical beast.
The armored truck was a dented, rust-streaked beast that had seen more action than most soldiers—each dent and scratch a story, each replaced panel a near-death experience. Bullet holes pocked its flanks like metal acne, patched but not hidden. The engine rumbled with barely contained power, a diesel heart that burned dirty fuel and cared nothing for environmental impact. I shoved the hybrid into the containment cell at the back, watching it slump against the reinforced walls, locking the reinforced door until I heard the magnetic seal engage with a satisfying thunk.
Rayden was leaning against the side, arms crossed, looking far too amused for someone who hadn't lifted a finger tonight. Rain beaded on his jacket—real leather, expensive, the kind that said he made his money from other people's risks. His dark eyes held that familiar mixture of amusement and calculation that had kept him alive in a business that killed most people before their thirtieth birthday.
"You enjoy this too much," he said, his voice carrying over the sound of rain drumming on metal.
I wiped a smear of blood from my cheek, feeling the sting where the hybrid's claws had found skin. "Enjoyment doesn't buy food. Dead hybrids do."
The words came out flat, emotionless—the tone I'd perfected for conversations that got too personal. Blood and rain mixed on my fingers, washing away in pink streams.
He gave me that tilted-head look, the one that said he was trying to figure me out like a puzzle he'd already lost pieces to. Rain dripped from his hair, darkening the leather of his jacket. "Sometimes I think you're more machine than they are."
The observation hit closer to home than I liked. I could feel my expression hardening, the mask sliding back into place.
"Machines don't bleed," I said, brushing past him toward the driver's side. The words were simple, final—a conversation ender wrapped in undeniable truth.
We drove in silence for a while, the truck rattling over cracked asphalt that had been bombed, rebuilt, and neglected so many times that the street looked like a patchwork quilt stitched together with good intentions and municipal corruption. The suspension creaked with every pothole, a familiar rhythm that had become the soundtrack of my life. Rain hammered the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it, turning the world beyond into an impressionist painting of light and shadow.
The city outside was a blur of steel and shadow, neon bleeding through the moisture like watercolors on wet paper. Holographic advertisements flickered between buildings, selling dreams to people who couldn't afford food. The smell of the truck's interior was familiar—gun oil, leather, the faint chemical tang of the containment cell's air recyclers, and something else. Something that might have been fear, or might have been the lingering scent of all the things I'd transported in this metal coffin.
Rayden finally spoke, his voice careful, testing. "Kael, you ever think about—"
"No."
The word came out harder than I intended, cutting through the cab like a blade. I kept my eyes on the road, watching raindrops race each other down the windshield.
"You didn't even let me finish."
There was hurt in his voice, buried under the casual tone but still audible to someone who'd learned to read people like maps.
"That's because I know where your questions go. I don't care about what I've lost, who I've killed, or how much the world hates me. I care about getting paid, eating, and waking up alive tomorrow."
The words felt rehearsed because they were—a mantra I'd repeated so often it had worn grooves in my mind like water wearing away stone.
He didn't argue. That's one thing I liked about him—he knew when to shut up, when to let the silence fill the spaces between us like cotton padding. The only sounds were the engine's growl, the rain's percussion, and the soft hum of the containment cell keeping our cargo sedated.
The drop-off was at a bounty station tucked between a weapons depot and a cybernetics shop—the kind of place that stank of gun oil and desperation, where hope went to die and credits changed hands for blood and violence. Neon signs buzzed overhead, advertising services both legal and questionable, their light painting everything in harsh, unforgiving colors. The clerk was a thin man with nervous eyes and cybernetic implants that twitched when he was stressed—which was always. His fingers danced over holographic displays as he scanned the hybrid, confirmed the ID through databases I didn't want to think about, and transferred the credits to my account with digital precision.
Forty thousand. The number appeared on my personal display like a blessing, glowing green against the darkness. Enough for ammo, food, and maybe some whiskey strong enough to burn through my nightmares—the kind of liquor that could make you forget what you'd done, at least for a few hours.
As I stepped back into the rain, I pulled my hood up, the fabric rough against my scalp, ready to disappear into the city's veins again. The alley stretched before me like an open mouth, full of shadows and possibilities and things that preferred the darkness.
That's when I saw it.
At the far mouth of the alley—a shape.
Tall, motionless, watching with an intensity that made my skin crawl. The rain fell around it but never seemed to touch it, as if the drops were afraid to make contact.
It wasn't a hybrid. I could tell by the stillness, the way the air didn't seem to bend around it the way it did with machines—no electromagnetic field, no heat signature distortion, no telltale hum of electronics. But it wasn't human, either. My instincts screamed something else, something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up like I'd been touched by a live wire. The thing radiated wrongness, a sense of displacement that my nervous system recognized even if my mind couldn't categorize it.
The figure didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Even at this distance, I could feel the weight of its attention like a physical pressure against my chest.
I took one step toward it, my boot splashing in a puddle that reflected neon and starlight. The rain hissed harder, bouncing off steel and skin alike, creating a white noise backdrop that should have been comforting but only made the silence from the figure more pronounced. My boots splashed through shallow puddles, each step echoing in the narrow space, my fingers twitching toward the knife at my belt. The blade felt warm against my fingertips, familiar and ready.
The figure tilted its head—slow, deliberate, like a predator studying prey. The movement was too fluid, too controlled, lacking the small imperfections that marked living things.
And then… it was gone.
The street was empty. The only sound was the rain hammering on the rooftops like bullets on metal, creating a symphony of urban percussion that had become the city's heartbeat. Where the figure had stood, there was nothing but empty air and the faint afterimage of something that might have been fear.
Still, the back of my neck prickled with that primitive awareness that had kept humans alive since they'd first crawled out of caves. The sensation crawled down my spine like ice water, and I had the uneasy feeling that whatever that thing was… it knew my name. More than that—it knew things about me that I'd tried to forget.
I stood there a moment longer, staring into the empty space where it had been, rain soaking through my jacket and running down my spine in cold rivulets. The alley mouth gaped like a wound, offering no answers, only more questions that I didn't want to ask.
Finally, I turned away, letting the city swallow me again in its maze of steel and shadow. But the thought stuck like a shard of glass embedded in my mind, sharp and impossible to ignore:
Something's coming.
And when it gets here, I'm not sure if I'll be the hunter… or the prey.