The underhive didn't sleep.
Even after the arena roared itself hoarse, the streets buzzed with neon madness. Rain hissed as it fell through holes in the towers above, carrying poison that ate rust into deeper rust. The alleys pulsed with holo-ads glitching on loop, selling drugs that rewrote dreams and prosthetics that could barely outlast the infection they caused.
And everywhere I walked, whispers followed.
Exile.
Some spat it. Some clung to it like prayer. But the sound of it never left my ears.
I should've been dead on my feet. My body still shook from the Core's fire, my chest burned like it carried a reactor too hot to contain. But I couldn't stop moving. Standing still in this city was an invitation to get gutted and sold for parts.
That invitation came sooner than I thought.
Three shadows blocked the street ahead.
Leather jackets patched with glowing circuitry, visors glowing cheap neon blue, jagged weapons buzzing in their hands. I recognized the mark on their shoulders: Circuit Jackals—a scavenger gang that fed on corpses of better fighters. Hyenas in a city of wolves.
The biggest one grinned, teeth capped in chrome. "There he is. The Vault freak. The crowd loves you, huh? Thought you could bleed our streets and walk away?"
His buddies laughed, blades sparking. One carried a jagged saw-blade prosthetic where his arm should've been, the other a chain-knife with flickering plasma teeth.
They weren't champions. They were carrion feeders. But in this place, even scavengers could kill a half-dead man.
I said nothing. My blade unfolded with a scream of tearing metal.
The Core inside me stirred, hot and eager.
The biggest came first, swinging his chain-knife. Too wide. Too desperate. My blade carved across his chest, sparks exploding as steel ribs cracked. He collapsed screaming, blood glowing neon as it pooled across the rain-slick street.
The second lunged with his saw-arm, teeth buzzing inches from my throat. I caught his wrist, metal grinding against metal. Sparks flew as I forced the blade away, my muscles screaming.
Then something inside me shifted.
The Core pulsed.
A shock of fire raced through my veins, my grip tightening without thought. The saw whined louder, then died, its teeth grinding to a halt. His prosthetic cracked, glow fading. And in that instant—I felt it.
The augment wasn't his anymore.
It was mine.
My blade punched through his gut, and as he fell, something tore from his dying body into mine. Circuits, heat, power—all of it screaming inside me, rewiring, reshaping. Pain lanced through my chest as the Core devoured what wasn't meant for me.
I dropped to one knee, coughing blood that glowed faintly neon. My body shook, shuddered, then steadied.
When I stood, I realized the truth: my right hand wasn't just steel anymore. Pistons flexed sharper, faster. My blade hummed with a stronger resonance. The Core had fed.
The last Jackal froze. He dropped his weapon, eyes wide. "Y-you're not… human."
He ran. His neon visor disappeared into the dark.
I stood in the rain, chest still burning, hands trembling. The Core whispered in the rhythm of my heartbeat, hungry, insistent.
Not human.
Maybe he was right.
But the blood glowing at my feet told me something else.
Not human.
Not machine.
Something worse.
--
The rain never stopped in the underhive.
It soaked the blood at my feet, diluting the glow until the puddles looked like dying stars. Steam rose off the corpses, their broken augments hissing faintly before going cold.
I leaned against the wall, blade retracting back into my arm with a shriek of metal on bone. My chest still burned where the Core had devoured the saw-arm's power. The taste of it lingered—raw, metallic, addictive.
It terrified me.
But terror wasn't enough to stop the hunger.
Somewhere deeper in the maze of alleys, voices rose. Not chants, not the roar of the arena. Whispers.
"He killed the Jackals."
"Didn't just kill—took their augments. Ate them."
"Exile's no fighter. He's a parasite."
Their words crawled across the walls like the graffiti that already carried my name. I clenched my fists, jaw tight. Whatever I had become, the underhive was already deciding what story it wanted to tell.
A scrape echoed above me. Metal claws scratching against a pipe.
I looked up, blade ready.
He dropped from the shadows with a squeal of rust, landing in a crouch. Short, wiry, wrapped in a patchwork coat of stolen fabrics. His skin was sallow, eyes replaced by mismatched lenses that clicked and whirred, glowing in shifting colors. A tail of synthetic tubing dragged behind him, twitching like a rat's.
He grinned, sharp and yellow.
"Well, well. The monster walks my alleys tonight."
I kept my weapon folded but ready. "Name."
"Milo," he said with a bow too dramatic for the filth around us. "Milo Ratling, if you're fond of titles. Sewer informant, scavenger, peddler of whispers. And now, humble admirer of the Crimson Exile."
The way he said it made my skin crawl.
"You've been watching me."
"Watching? No. Listening, yes. And trust me, the underhive talks faster than fire spreads." His mismatched eyes whirred, zooming in and out as if he were studying my Core. "They say you don't just kill. You consume. That your blood glows with neon fire. That VoidNet can't track you. That you're…" He leaned in, voice dropping to a hiss. "…not entirely human anymore."
The Core inside me pulsed, hot, angry, as if it resented the truth spoken aloud.
"What do you want?" I growled.
"Want?" He laughed, shrill and broken. "Exile, everyone wants something from you. The gangs want your head for prestige. The cults want your blood for their altars. The children want your face painted on their walls. But me…" He tapped his chest. "I just want to be close enough when the legend burns bright. Rats always survive in the fire."
He circled me, movements jittery, unpredictable. "You don't understand, do you? You were born tonight. The crowd christened you. The gangs already scheme. And the corps? Oh, they're watching, Exile. From their towers, from their drones, from the endless eyes of VoidNet. Your face was on half the billboards before they wiped it clean."
He stopped in front of me, grinning with too many teeth. "You can't walk these streets like a man anymore. You're a symbol now. An infection. And infections spread."
My hand twitched toward my blade. "Careful, rat."
He only laughed harder, bowing low, his synthetic tail dragging sparks across the wet street.
"Oh, I am careful. Careful enough to know this city is already yours, whether you claim it or not."
I stared at him, chest heaving, rain hissing against my skin. Part of me wanted to drive my blade through his heart and silence his shrill voice. But another part—an uglier part—knew he was right.
The name wasn't mine anymore. It belonged to the alleys, the gangs, the cults.
Exile.
And it was spreading faster than fire.