The kitchen was on fire again.
Not literally—though the smoke curling out of the oven begged to differ.
Grandma yanked the tray out of the oven,
slammed it on the counter. What was once cookie dough now looked like claymore mines. Black lumps scattered, ash puffing up like she'd baked gunpowder.
"Perfect," she said, dead serious. "Just like my mother used to burn them."
Aria pulled off her bomber, flopped into a chair, boots thunking against the leg.
"Gran, those aren't cookies. Those are war crimes."
Ash, the black cat, hopped onto the counter, sniffed one, and immediately gagged like it was trying to die on the spot.
Aria smirked. Grandma didn't.
"You laugh now," Gran warned, waving a spatula like a weapon. "But when the world ends, you'll wish you had something this solid to throw."
Aria shook her head, a half-smile refusing to leave her face.
The kitchen smelled like smoke and failure, but damn if it didn't feel like home.
She stood, wrapped her arms around the old woman.
Gran was small, brittle, her bones clicking under the hug—but her warmth hit thick, stubborn, like a comforter fresh out the dryer.
"Gran," Aria muttered against her shoulder, "one day you're gonna kill me. Either with kindness… or with cookies."
Gran patted her back with flour-streaked fingers.
"Either way, you'll leave full."
Aria snorted, pulled away, headed for the sink. The faucet screamed awake, spitting rusty water. Soot swirled off her hands, dark clouds breaking apart in the basin.
That's when the mirror above the sink caught her reflection.
Eighteen, sharp brown-amber eyes, bomber zipped halfway over a crop top, ripped jeans with one leg blazing in red-and-black plaid, boots planted like she owned the floor. Black hair framed her face, green streaks burning neon in the weak light.
A tiny star tattoo glinted under her eye — fake, a decoy, like a warning label on the wrong box.
The real warning sat lower.
A thick black choker clamped tight against her throat, hiding the word carved into her skin.
DEATH.
Just seeing the leather band made her jaw tighten.
Ash padded in, tail flicking, and meowed once — sharp, judgmental.
Aria leaned on the sink, staring herself down in the mirror like it might blink first.
She smirked sideways at the cat.
"What? You think you're prettier?"
She stared down her own reflection
Sooner or later, one of them would break.
***************
Grandma leaned back in her chair, brushing soot from her hands like it was flour, not ashes.
"This city's rotting, girl," she muttered, voice sharp enough to cut. "Gangs carving it up, block by block. You know what it's like? Mold in my old fridge. Wipe it once, it comes back twice as ugly."
Aria smirked, biting the inside of her cheek. A comeback sat on her tongue—then the world answered first.
BWAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH—
The sound tore through the window.
Continuous. Relentless. Like a dying animal that found an outlet and refused to let go.
Both heads snapped toward the glass.
Down below, Tarō was pounding his scooter horn with both fists, like it owed him money. The horn shrieked back, thin and miserable, every note begging for mercy it would never get.
Grandma narrowed her eyes.
"God save us," she sighed.
She grabbed one of the blackened cookies, solid as a brick, and leaned out the window. With sniper calm, she pitched it down.
CLONK.
Right off the scooter's handlebar.
TARŌ (yelling up):
"Attempted murder by pastry?! That's a new low, Gran!"
Aria burst out laughing. She kissed Grandma's forehead, grabbed her bomber jacket, and bolted down the stairs.
Tarō was still cursing at the horn when she hit the street. She slid her arms around him from behind—quick, tight, the kind of hug that said we're still alive, don't ask how.
Then—kick. Rev. Sputter.
Her scooter coughed awake beside his. Two engines growling in unison, challenging the city's endless hum.
And just like that, they were gone—
two kids riding into a night that grinned with teeth.
***************
Taro's scooter rattled like a tin can with asthma, but the bastard always came alive. He dropped heavy onto the seat, belly pressing against his hoodie, fisherman beanie tilted like it was clinging on for dear life. Grease stains from last week's pizza runs decorated his jacket like war medals.
He spotted Aria, waved like it was a block party instead of three in the morning.
"C'mon, queen," he called, grinning.
They rolled out onto wet streets, neon lights fracturing across puddles. The city stretched ahead—not just concrete and alleys, but a battlefield, stitched together with invisible borders. Every block owned by someone. Every corner tagged with symbols, rituals, warnings.
First stop: a busted side door of what used to be a pizza franchise. Now it was a greasy lifeline for hustlers who never slept. That's where the delivery kids clocked in.
Jarvis was already there, slouched on the bench like it was his throne. Dreads hanging, smile baked in place, eyes glowing red like hazard lights. A joint smoldered between his fingers, stinking up the whole block. On his lap—an open pizza box, only crusts left, like the good parts had been robbed.
"Yo, my family," Jarvis wheezed, smoke curling out his nose. "Watch yourselves tonight. Word is serpants and crows heating up again. You don't wanna be the pepperoni in that sandwich."
Taro waved him off.
"Man, I'm Switzerland. Only thing I deliver on time is margherita."
Aria smirked, shaking her head.
Neutral Zone or not, she knew the truth: lines were closer than they looked, and the city had a way of dragging you past them.
Nobody stayed unmarked forever.
A moment later, the jarvis shoved a slip into her hand—address scrawled messy, way across town. Practically the far edge of the map.
Aria groaned under her breath. Long run. Wrong side of the night.
Taro caught the look and winced in sympathy.
"Other side of the city, huh? Damn. Guess I'm riding shotgun 'til halfway. Ca
n't let you die alone"
***************
The scooters rattled awake like two dying lawnmowers. Smoke coughed out of the pipes, cheap gas stinking up the street. Aria tugged her hood tight, fingers brushing the thick choker at her throat, and swung onto the seat like she was mounting a warhorse.
Taro waddled onto his, belly first, fisherman beanie tugged low. The engine squealed like it hated him. He cursed it back.
He shot her a sideways grin, crooked and easy.
"Y'know, you don't gotta do the far runs alone."
Aria adjusted her gloves, eyes dead ahead.
"They don't scare me."
"Yeah, that's the problem." He sighed, then raised his voice in mock drama:
"At least let me ride half the way. Don't make me tell your grandma you vanished delivering pepperoni."
She smirked under the hood.
"Relax, Tarō. If I vanish, you can have my cut of the tips. Big payday."
He groaned, beanie bobbing.
"Damn, girl. You joke about death like it owes you rent."
Her laugh was quick, sharp.
"That's 'cause it does."
Engines grumbled. Tires slapped through neon puddles. The city unfolded around them—sirens whining in the distance, bass rattling windows, a drunk shouting at no one. But the walls spoke louder. Graffiti screamed where the streetlamps only buzzed.
Taro pointed at a mural—snake coiled around an anchor.
"Every block's a zoo exhibit."
Aria jerked her chin toward it.
"Serpents. Docks and markets. They tax you just for breathing."
Taro squinted at the art.
"Great. Amazon Prime with knives."
Aria almost smiled. She nodded upward, to black feathers sprayed across the rooftops.
"Ash Crows. They own the high ground. You don't see them coming. Blink—and you're bleeding out."
A caw split the night. Just a bird, maybe. It made Taro shiver anyway.
"Perfect. Ninjas with feathers. Love this town."
They turned another block. Air thick with burnt metal, factories coughing smoke. On the warehouse shutters, jagged teeth had been stenciled in thick black paint.
"Iron Fangs," Aria muttered. "The muscle. The brawlers. Cross them, you don't walk away—you get carried."
Taro rolled his eyes.
"Sounds like my uncles at a barbecue. Only scarier. And with fewer teeth."
Aria barked a laugh. But her eyes never left the road.
The deeper they rode, the heavier the city pressed—like every gang's shadow leaned in to eavesdrop.
At the crossroads, Taro braked hard. Serpent graffiti curled in the dark ahead, the docks hissing like something alive.
"That's your stop, queen. I ain't suicidal."
Aria revved once, flashing him a grin.
"Guess that makes one of us."
The scooter coughed forward, peeling her into the dark. His laughter and the faint glow of his headlight shrank behind her.
Alone now, the night pressed closer.
And the city spoke in tattoos.
***************
The scooter's whine cut off outside a washed-out sign that once read SUNBLEACH LAUNDROMAT. Half the letters were dead, the sun icon a scorched half-circle that looked more like an eclipse. Fluorescents hummed through the glass doors, but the automatic in automatic door had retired years ago.
Aria shoved it open with the pizza box, the smell of grease and oregano crashing into a room that reeked of incense.
Rows of empty washers lined the walls, each machine chalked with broken-sun sigils. A radio in the corner bled static and an ancient pop song about walking on sunshine. The irony landed like a slap.
A boy in a robe two sizes too big shuffled forward, a tiny dot tattooed between his brows. He blinked at the box as if it had grown fangs.
"We're fasting," he said, voice flat.
Aria slid the box onto a folding table.
"Congrats. Someone forgot."
She thumbed her phone, hit speed-dial. Jarvis's voice spilled out tinny and baked.
"Ariaaa. Delivery goddess. You at the Suns?"
"Yeah. And they don't eat after dark, genius."
A pause. A cough. Then: "Right address, wrong calendar?"
Aria's jaw clenched. "You sent me to a cult on a fast."
Jarvis, wheezing with laughter: "My bad. Tell them it's on the house. Peace offerings are… spiritual, yeah?"
The boy's eyes widened at the phrase peace offering. He whispered it once, twice, then slipped into a back room.
Moments later, the air shifted. A man emerged: tall, linen jacket clean as bone, head shaved smooth. On his forehead burned the sigil of a cracked sun, inked black and sharp.
He extended a hand like it weighed nothing.
"I am Deacon," he said softly. "The Suns speak through me."
Then, with the same calm tone that could pass for kindness or a threat:
"Cheese is a veil. People think they worship flavor. What they really worship is fullness. The Sun teaches with subtraction. Emptiness between bite and breath—that is where we find truth."
He flipped the lid an inch, sniffed, and smiled like it was poison—then, almost absently, plucked a tiny rolled note tucked against the grease-stained corner.
Aria kept her hands in her hoodie pocket. "Look, Deacon, if you don't want it, I'll take it back. Jarvis'll eat anything, stoned or sober."
"Jarvis." The name rolled off his tongue like a verdict. "Tell him the Sun remembers."
His gaze flicked up—and caught. The star under her eye, small, sharp, impossible to miss this close.
"An old mark," he murmured, tilting his head. "Speed. Flight. I haven't seen one in years."
Aria's mouth twitched. "Door-to-door service. Limited time offer."
"Marks migrate," he said gently. "But meanings don't. Who set your ink? Which dawn did you swear to? Do you carry only the star?"
Her fingers tightened around her pocketed phone. "I carry debt and a hot box. That's it."
The Deacon leaned closer, voice still calm, but heavy now, weighted with intent.
"No one wears an old road for fashion. If you tire of veils, come at dawn."
He closed the box, slid it back across the table, untouched. His acolytes watched in silence, their foreheads glowing with black suns.
Aria lifted it, backed toward the door. The radio still chirped about sunshine, obscene in its cheer.
Outside, the night air felt colder. She kicked the scooter to life, chest tight, hands steady only because she forced them.
Her phone buzzed. Tarō.
Alive?
She typed back: Wrong pizza. Right enemies.
And tore off into the dark.
***************
The night spat her back into the neutral block. Neon bled on wet pavement, and the air smelled of fried dough and burnt oil—the perfume of survival.
Taro was parked outside the pizza joint, helmet balanced on his knee, grin stretched like he'd been waiting hours just to deliver the punchline.
"You're alive," he said. "Tragic. I had the playlist ready. Heavy on the bass drops—something tasteful for your funeral."
Aria shoved the pizza box into his chest hard enough to knock the smirk sideways.
"Don't. Laugh."
He lifted the lid, peered inside. "Untouched? You risked your ass for charity?"
The door chimed. Jarvis stumbled out, hoodie strings uneven, eyes glowing red enough to light the sidewalk. He spread his arms like she'd just marched back from war.
"My star deliverer returns! So—did the Suns devour the offering?"
Aria's glare could've cut steel. "They were fasting."
Jarvis blinked. Twice. "Oh. That… explains the vibe check."
"The vibe check?" Her voice snapped. "You sent me across three territories with a pizza no one wanted. Ever heard of a suicide run?"
Jarvis winced like she'd landed the punch herself, then shrugged, helpless. "Multitasking, babe. Orders, inventory, playlist curation… Okay, ninety percent playlist."
Tarō groaned. "You've got one job. And Spotify ain't it."
Jarvis raised a finger like a preacher about to deliver gospel. "Correction. I have many jobs. Feed the people. Spread the vibes. Occasionally bring enlightenment through pepperoni. Tonight? Two outta three."
Aria jabbed him in the chest, each word sharp as glass.
"They remembered your name. The Hollow Suns. Ring any bells? Because congratulations—you just made me their Uber Eats prophet."
For once, Jarvis's grin cracked. His tongue pushed against his cheek like he was chewing on a bad idea.
"Shit," he muttered. "They don't usually… remember names."
Silence pressed in. Even the neon buzz sounded nervous.
Aria yanked her hood lower, growled, "Next time you hang me out like that, Jarvis—I'll feed you to your damn playlist."
She stalked inside. Taro lingered with the cold box, then called after her:
"So… do I get to keep this? Or is it cursed now?"
Jarvis didn't answer. Just stared at the ground, for once sober in all the wrong ways
***************
The rest of the shift blurred into snapshots, like a reel of bad jokes the city told just for them.
A stoner with eyes red as brake lights opened the wrong door, stared at Aria, then at the pizza, then at his neighbor's horrified face. He shrugged, tried to hand her cash anyway.
Two blocks later, a couple fought over coins in the doorway, cursing loud enough to shake the windows. Then, like the city flipped a switch, they kissed hard—still clutching the crumpled bills—and dragged the pizza inside like it was foreplay.
At the edge of the neutral zone, a kid barely taller than the box hugged it like treasure. His mother yanked him back, muttering about grease stains, but the glow in his eyes said Aria had just handed him a crown.
By the time the scooters dragged themselves home, the night was thinning. Both of them reeked of cheese, gas, and cheap adrenaline.
---
Tarō's loft was a one-room disaster: peeling posters, socks that could qualify as biohazards, and a couch that looked like it survived three divorces. The TV flickered with an old cartoon, the kind where nothing made sense and nobody asked questions. Smoke curled lazy from the joint passing between them.
Aria melted into the cushions, hood down, boots kicked off. For the first time all night, she almost felt light.
Taro exhaled a dragon's worth of smoke and squinted at her, beanie tipped back. His tone was casual, but his eyes weren't.
"So… they ask about your tattoo?"
The cartoon yammered on, but the room thickened.
Aria tapped ash into an empty soda can. A laugh slipped out—small, bitter.
"They saw the star. Not the rest."
Taro leaned forward. Didn't let it go.
"Yeah, but how long you think you can keep it that way?"
The black TV glass threw her reflection back at her. She touched the choker at her throat like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"I was marked before I was loved,"
she said. Voice low, even.
"Somebody inked me before anybody held me. Gran's the only one who ever tried to make that… not the whole story."
On-screen, the cartoon cackled, high-pitched and absurd. Neither of them laughed.
The night swallowed the sound, leaving only a mark the world had yet to read.