The next morning the boy slept in a fetal curl. In his sleep he dreamed of circles made of whatever good things pizzas were made of—a hot wheel of bread and cheese. His dog was there, eating pizza with him, and Mama was there too, underground where it was safe like it always was. Their little home had been mostly long abandoned. Not many came here; only once a year or so he would see those whom Mama called maintenance men—but in the dream they stayed far away, and there was peace. As he ate, he kept muttering to himself, "First blood, first blood," because the way the System said it sounded so cool. He didn't really get what it meant, but he figured it spoke of him hitting that rat and making it go still. It was the first time he had done that, the first time he had spilled blood—kind of—though he'd had wounds before that let out blood and Mama took care of those.
Then, as he ate among his family, looking at the faces of Mama and his dog—which was his whole world—and the underground, his home, he heard the System whisper to him again:
Genesis, you can have anything and everything, the voice said, close as breath, if you are willing to sacrifice everything.
A tingle ran up his spine. He woke with his hands tucked under his chin, drool on his sleeve, curled like a dead rat. The tired star of the bulb in his solitary home burned above the split foam mat. He lay very still, blinking, checking the world around him.
Wiping away the drool, he checked his hands first and found them smooth—although not clean. The old scars and marks were gone, as if they'd never taught him what not to touch or what was too sharp for skin. He pressed his palm to his stomach and found eight small, hard bumps there—little stones under cloth. He blinked, surprised enough to smile without showing it. He was muscular now, not just in his stomach but everywhere, and what had happened yesterday was not a dream.
He pinched his hoodie up and sniffed it. The pizza from yesterday still lived in the fabric like a secret fire that quickly lit a hunger for more. His stomach growled—angry, ready for a new day and more pizza.
He sat up and looked around. The pocket between the dead conduit and the maintenance door was the same: milk crate; blanket that still held the dog's ghost; steam riser whispering its winter. What wasn't the same was the empty. Sheepy wasn't there. Mama wasn't there. Yesterday hadn't melted in the night. He let the thought pass close and then set it down where he could reach it later. Mama had said she would be back soon, so he would keep living here, and in the meantime—while he waited—he would go get food so he would survive long enough for her to return.
He tied his hoodie cord, checked the tape on his shoes, checked his dark sweatpants, took the metal pipe he had killed with yesterday, and left to get food.
He went to the ladder by the grate. It had a particular cold—the kind you remember with your hands. It was the ladder Mama had climbed to not come back. He hesitated, because memory is a kind of warning. He wondered if he would never come back once he climbed this ladder, but then again they had gone up it many times before, so why would now be different? Feeling brave, he tightened his grip and made an excuse: Mama hadn't come back because, like usual, she was probably eating all the good food first before bringing the scraps down for him to taste. Thinking of that—and of his own good food, the pizza—he set his foot on the ladder and went up.
The manhole cover fought him. It was heavy, but he was strong now thanks to the System, and soon enough he pushed it aside. Bright light fell down on him from the surface and he was instantly blinded. He froze on the rungs until brightness was only brightness again and the sun stopped hurting his eyes with morning light. Then he stuck his head out. On either side were large trash containers, and in front of him a brick wall. The hole to his secret home was well hidden here—black trash bags piled around the containers gave it even more cover. So instead of looking he listened and, hearing nothing that sounded like trouble, slid onto the alley's hard gray surface, littered with trash.
He hid behind a big trash container and watched. The alley was a narrow canyon: brick walls all around, a few doors at either end holding the back ways of some buildings, windows up above where people sometimes tossed things down so he had to be careful. Graffiti like old bruises under new paint covered the walls.
At the far mouth of it, sidewalks carried their rivers of mostly brightly dressed people. Beyond the sidewalks were the cars—glass and steel things that made low animal hums when they moved and breathed out nasty air from their backs. Above, the sky was cleaner and very blue with a few white scraps. Cutting across it was the thin shine of something Mama called an airplane, the thing she had used to come to this city many years ago when she was less fat and old.
Seeing it all, he watched and wondered the way a monkey might wonder at a fire. He didn't understand how there could be so many people, or where they were going, or why their clothes were bright and their faces clean. Were they hunting, too? What were cars for, really—big cockroaches you could ride inside? Were planes just pigeons you climbed into to go see the place called Paris? Why were people smiling so much up here—what was so funny about hunting for food and shelter? Thinking of it all, he felt the small alertness that comes with not knowing—the itch that names the unknown "danger" before it's understood. He let the feeling sit beside him. The world above ground was a question mark, and this question mark was loud—too loud for his liking.
But like the people on the street, he had work to do—or that's what he told himself. He had to get bait, after all, to get points and then pizza.
First he climbed, expertly and with surprising ease, into the nearest dumpster. The lid creaked open and he dropped inside—treasure hunting, as Mama called it. Quickly he found a yellow fruit that, when bitten, tasted sour and gave him little to eat and only a bad taste in his mouth, so he set the rest aside.
As he tore into one large trash bag, last night's grease and sour stink rushed up into his face. He scowled and decided to abandon this smelly container and move to the next. In the other one he sorted things carefully with two fingers. Turning and tasting, he found some, like usual, were just plastic plants. Most were useless: toys with no limbs, ripped pillows, and glass bottles filled with funny-smelling liquids that, when he drank from them, made his head spin and his stomach rise. No good.
He moved closer to the trash containers beside the corner store—the one that sold food for dollars, or money, or sometimes even cash or bucks, though he wasn't sure which was right. Mama had used many names for it, and that was confusing. What he did know was that paper bought food, and he had none of that paper.
So into the trash he went again to find treasure. This time he found goodies: a piece of something that might still be bread if you believed in it, a moldy cheese rind slick as a stone, a handful of crumbs that could teach a rat to lift its paws, maybe. He tucked the salvage into his hoodie pouch.
Then a door banged.
He froze, angled so the pipe lay along his leg, and looked without looking—ready to swing if whatever came dared to mess with him and try to take his treasures.
Then he saw him—the corner-store man, the one from the red-and-white DELI GROCERY, as Mama called it. The man stepped out with two black bags, probably filled with treasure, Genesis thought. The man's brown skin gleamed with sweat; his salt-and-pepper hair and crate-made forearms looked old and wrinkly. He didn't set the bags down—he hurled them into the trash container with surprising ease, making whatever was inside shatter. Then the man glanced once at him, coldly, and went back inside. That was all.
Genesis pouted, puffing up his now somewhat muscular chest. He had been ready for a fight, but it didn't come.
So Genesis kept sorting the trash. He even found a single angry green muscular figure—a toy of some sort. Looking at it, he did as it was doing: a silent yell, a flex, then a nod. He patted its head and put it in his pants right pocket.
Just as he did, the door opened again. He grabbed the pipe like a sword and stood up, ready to face the old brown-skinned man. But the man only smiled, faintly amused, and came out with a small paper bag and a glass bottle of milk. No words were said. The man simply set the items down before the back door—like a peace offering, or maybe he was just being careless. Maybe his eyesight was so bad he hadn't noticed the boy with his pipe just yet.
When the man went back inside and the door closed, Genesis waited behind a trash container, using it as cover. He was only a stone's throw away from the treasures the man had left. He didn't move at first. Traps could be quiet. He watched the bag. He watched the crack of the door. Nothing came—only the alley's ordinary sounds: pigeons arguing somewhere high, a far-off cough, the small ring of a bell from the shop's front.
He slid from the shadow, touched the bottle's neck with one finger—cool glass, no string. He tapped the paper bag with his pipe once, carefully, and heard only an ordinary rustle. No bite, no surprise. Then he took both and backed away fast.
He ran as if his feet were on fire, all the way to the manhole, and only then did he stop. No one was coming. Had he fooled them? Had he been too fast? He wasn't sure.
Carefully, he stuffed his treasures into his hoodie, climbed into the hole, pulled the manhole shut above him—and vanished, thinking himself stealthy like the stray cats he sometimes saw.
Down the ladder he went fast—down into the breath and drip and rail-song of his familiar world below ground. He waited a long beat, listening for footsteps that never followed. Then he let out the breath he'd been holding and suddenly found courage. He took the angry green man from his pocket and looked at it, thinking he was like it somehow—though instead of green, he was pale white.
He walked to his sleeping area and there he pulled his treasures from his pants and hoodie pockets. He set them up neatly: first the cheese and other not-so-impressive treasures, all guarded by the angry green man now, and lastly the glass bottle of milk and the paper bag.
Already he could smell it. The bag held bread. Quickly, driven by curiosity and hunger, he opened it. Inside were three whole slices of bread, two perfect cookies and two broken ones—which might have been his fault. There was also a stub of butter the size of his fist, and a slice of cheese the color of a pale sun—unlike the old cheese he'd found earlier and now decided to throw away, free of charge, to the rats.
The bottle, on the other hand, shone under his home's single blinking light like a cloud in a bright sky. Yes, this was milk—his milk now—something he hadn't had in years, all cold and clean like this.
First things first: he ate the broken cookies, every little piece, though sadly there was no chocolate in them—just wheat or whatever it was called. Still treasure, though. Then he opened the bottle and drank some milk to wash the cookies down. He took the rest of the cookies and drank more milk.
He almost lost himself right there. It was nearly as good as pizza, only instead of hot, it was cold—a cold pleasure. Then he bit the bread, drank more milk, and ate some cheese, one after another. In the process of stuffing his face, he took the butter into his mouth and found that combining all these things somehow made them taste better. So as much as he could, he stuffed his face with all the ingredients from the bag and drank milk until he felt full—really full—for the first time in a long time, well except for yesterday with the pizza and all that.
He remembered not to eat the crumbs he'd picked up from the street; those were for baiting rats later. He also saved a little milk for later, just in case.
When he was done, he nodded once, lay down, and silently thanked the old man for the treasure. Then he drifted off into a quick mid-day nap, the taste of bread and milk still soft on his tongue.
He woke to the tunnel's soft breathing and the green angry man standing guard beside his mat—a plastic Hulk with one arm chewed, the best thing he'd pulled from the trash in weeks. He took it as a sign: time to hunt.
Back at the vent where he'd caught his first rat, he wiped the lip with his sleeve and set a crumb exactly where a careful rat would have to lift its forepaws. The steam riser ticked. Far off, a train drew a long breath and let it go. He crouched, breath tracking the rail, eyes level with the black circle. The cold didn't bite the way it used to; his knees held; his fingers felt quick inside themselves. This was what better meant—edges cleaned, not magic.
Whiskers would come. They always did.
He settled in to wait. A whisker wrote a question mark in the dark, then another. The rat eased forward, forepaws lifting to where he'd set the crumb.
He swung like a door deciding to close.
Iron met bone. The tunnel took the squeal and folded it. The body twitched twice and was done. Then the System spoke.
> CONFIRMED.
Target: Rat (wild) — +3 SP. Size: small. Status: solitary. Transaction complete.
For a moment he didn't move. He looked at the little thing bleeding there and felt the small sadness come. He touched the cooling fur with two fingers, the way he'd once touched Sheepy's ear.
Thank you, he told it, without sound. I'll use you right.
He carried the rat home, skinned it with the glass shard, cooked what he could on the steam riser, and saved the rest for bait. Then he took the warm scent to a second place where air moved down-wall, set the corpse in a shallow, and waited again.
Waiting was cold work and dull, but the thought of pizza kept him steady. One rat ghosted into the open and vanished. Another tested the air and left. He kept still. When hunger tried to climb his ribs, he pressed it down and watched until watching became seeing.
Two big ones came at last, shoulders high, bold with wanting. They pulled at the bait from opposite sides, snarling over their luck, too busy to remember that luck has a bill. He let them take the first mouthful and the second. On the third, he brought the pipe down in a flat arc—one skull, then a tight return into the second before the echo died.
The tunnel went quiet. Both bodies sagged at once.
> DOUBLE KILL.
PAYOUT: +3 SP +3 SP.
First-time feat bonus ×10 applied.
Chain bonus +10%.
Transaction complete.
He didn't know the numbers, only that the mark in his head jumped like it had been yanked by his hands. He breathed out and bowed his face to the dead, the way you bow to work well done.
I'll use you right, he told them, and meant it—in his small way. Which, tonight, meant two circles of heat instead of one, because he didn't know what else was worth buying and the same choice felt safe.
> Confirm purchase? SMALL CHEESE PIE — 7 SP.
> PURCHASE CONFIRMED. DELIVERY: proximal.
> Confirm purchase? SMALL CHEESE PIE — 7 SP.
> PURCHASE CONFIRMED. DELIVERY: proximal.
Two hot wheels landed on his legs as he sat, clean as if they'd never touched a street or even a bad oven. He ate like the little newly-strong creature he was, until his stomach made complaints and he kept going anyway, until it couldn't take another bite. He drank the last of the milk, lay back, and pressed both hands to the ache with a small, ridiculous smile. Now he knew what too full felt like, and it hurt; maybe best to avoid that later. Still, no regrets. Sleep took him with the new word—Double Kill—folded neatly into his pocket for later.
Morning came the way mornings do. He surfaced, slid to the alley, and was seen by the corner-store man, who set out a bottle and a small bag without questions. Genesis took them when the door shut, ran the sky off his shoulders, and dropped back into the dark.
Nap, then hunt, then pizza—then sleep with the angry green toy standing watch: the chewed-arm Hulk he'd rescued from the trash.
Days began to turn like gears, each one much the same. In the light: milk, cookies, sometimes a piece of fruit he had to taste around the brown. Underground: crumbs on stone, and with crumbs came whiskers, and with whiskers came kills. Some days only two—because rats learn a smell fast. Some days four—because he learned their runs faster. Sometimes he hunted along the slow brown water where he'd given Sheepy to the current. Sometimes in the notch by the tracks, counting the rail's four notes until the world thinned to listening.
Once, topside, he tried the pigeons. He left a line of bread like a promise and waited. They pecked, watched him from the side of one bright eye, and then laughed themselves skyward just as he swung—only air. They returned fire in messy little bombing runs. Mama had once told him about planes and wars and bombs; he didn't really understand and pictured cities splattered the way the alley was now. He told himself he'd get those birds later.
At night he sometimes perched by the dumpsters, watching the back door. Sometimes the man came and left food again. When he did, Genesis waited for the door to close, snatched the bottle and the small box, and vanished down the ladder before doubt could find him.
Weeks passed like this—quiet work and small answers—but no Mama. He waited the way she had told him to wait, and still there was only the angry green man figure always holding an angry little face and the smell of pizza and the place where her voice wasn't.
He didn't know the word for it at first. Then he did. Lonely. The kind Mama had sung about under her breath. He'd told her then she wasn't alone—she had Sheepy and him. She hadn't answered.
Maybe this was that feeling. Lonely like a person who has to hold their own hand. He hummed a made-up tune about it—lonely boy, no one of my own—quiet enough that the pipes could keep their secrets.
And sleep came.
Then one night something felt wrong. The alley had no milk and no bag and there had been no door slam. He couldn't even find anything good in the trash. Still, he perched in the dumpster's shadow, pipe across his knees, and listened to the thin sounds of a street almost asleep. To pass the time he practiced swimming with his arms and made little brave battle noises—"ha jaa, ha jaa, wazaa."
Then voices came from the DELI GROCERY's back door—through metal, through air—harsh and close. Not the old man's alone. Another voice. Demands. "Yo, grandpa—open it." "Just give me the money!" The kind of words that tightened breath even when the night was warm.
Genesis tilted his head and let the rail-song inside him go still. He crept toward the sound, pressed his ear to the locked back door, and listened. "Please, no more. I already gave you most of what I had last time—if you take what I have now I won't be able to pay rent." In response came harsh laughter and mocking words. "What, you think we give a fuck about your feelings or your life, grandpa? Now just give it all here or you'll never get a chance to pay rent again—'cause I'll slice your fucking throat, bitch."
He didn't know what "fuck" or "bitch" meant, but he knew the sounds of fighting when he heard them. He couldn't let the milk man be hurt—not after the milk. He'd been living better than before, and he wasn't going to let the man who made that possible be bullied into giving everything away.
The front bell would ring if he pushed it, and the back door was locked. He needed to see first. He moved to the mouth of the alley where the shop's glass let him peer inside without showing him.
The store was mostly dark. He saw the milk man and another man—taller, black-clad, face covered—pressing a knife to the milk man's back and forcing him to grab papers from a hidden locker.
Something in him moved. He slid forward, braver than he felt, and stepped onto the sidewalk—the first time he could remember doing that. He kept low. The street was quiet. He crossed to the front door and let the glass be his eye.
Inside, the man in black wasn't satisfied with the papers; he had the milk man by the throat now. Genesis eased the front door and slipped through on tiptoe. The bell tried to talk but he moved so slowly it only made a faint cling. The door shut behind him.
They were right there, behind the counter—closer than he liked. He could reach them with a few running steps. Then a new voice rang out from a shelf-shadow: another looter, his head snapping up. "Hey, what the fuck!" The man saw Genesis, then the pipe, and most of all the witness. He charged.
Genesis acted like he had with the rats. He lifted his pipe and swung. The pipe struck the man's left leg as he charged, and the man went down—stumbled and crashed into Genesis like a car hitting a small, muscular rabbit. Genesis flew hard against the counter and was nearly crushed under the man's weight. The pipe skittered somewhere into the dark of the shop in the commotion.
The attacker's left hand found Genesis's throat and lifted him into the air. "Ah, you fucking little shit—you dare hit me? Well, payback is a bitch. I'm gonna hurt you now, you little shit," the man spat, pinning him against the countertop. Cold metal kissed Genesis's chest through cloth. "Do not move. I'll just cut you a little bit—kill you—"
Genesis didn't move. The knife pressed and slowly began to tear through fabric. Then another voice yelled, "Hey, what the fuck are you doing, dude?" The man glanced away, distracted—and Genesis saw his chance. He grabbed the robber's wrist and twisted. By some miracle of his new, strange strength the robber's arm folded in on itself. The blade found its mark: a short, wet sound—just under the ribs.
Shock blew the man's mouth open. Instinct made him wrench to pull the knife free. Genesis got there first—ripped the handle back, and before the breath returned to the robber's chest, cut once across the throat where the skin thins. He felt blade meet skin, then muscle, then something softer; warm red sprayed his face as the man's neck spat like rain. The robber clutched at it and made a drowning sound with no water in it. Genesis kicked hard and shoved him off—still alive, but leaking fast.
Behind the counter, the knife came off the milk-man's back. "Holy—what did you do to my brother, you little—" the hooded one yelled, then really saw the floor going red and the kid with the blade.
"I'll kill you for that!" He shoved the old man aside and lunged around the counter.
The old man didn't let him go. He latched onto the robber's back with both hands and hung—deadweight that bent angles. They toppled over the counter and hit tile in a tangle. "Not the kid," the shopkeeper snarled through his teeth. "Not tonight." The robber hissed, drove an elbow back, and spun. Steel flashed. The old man went stiff, hands clamping to his gut where the blade had gone deep.
Then the robber came straight for Genesis. No talk. Just murder in his eyes.
The first swing aimed at Genesis's head. He ducked under it—caught a brutal kick to the ribs that sent him rattling into a shelf. Pain flared. No time. The robber crashed on top of him, heavy, knife already lifting for a finish.
Genesis rolled his head at the last blink. The point punched his shoulder instead, then skated down across his stomach, cutting deep. His breath caught; no sound came. He clamped both hands on the knife wrist and twisted. The man was strong; the hand wouldn't budge.
So Genesis changed the rules. He snapped his forehead forward—headbutt to the bridge of the nose. The robber reeled. Genesis surged with him and bit, hard, teeth closing on cartilage. The knife jabbed again—once, twice, three times into his back—before the robber tore loose with a howl, nose half-ripped and bleeding.
The blade fell. Both of the robber's hands flew to his face as he stumbled. Genesis planted his feet, aimed for the inside of the knee, and kicked sideways with everything his small frame could find.
The joint cracked. The man screamed and went down. Genesis scooped the dropped knife, stood over him, and drove it straight and hard—through the left eye and into the brain. The deep stop of it turned his stomach, but his hands didn't let go until the notifications came.
> DOUBLE KILL.
2 × small-time criminals: calculating Net Liquid Value (NLV) and Intrinsic Soul Value (ISV)…
Result: Target A = 5,017 SP | Target B = 3,671 SP
Chain bonus applied. Transaction complete.
Soul credits earned (total): 8,688 SP.
Across the aisle, the first robber's spasms slowed and ended. A heavy silence fell over the store.
Genesis dropped to one knee. His vision smeared; pain came in layers—shoulder, back, ribs—everything burned. Warmth crept along his belly where his own blood glued the hoodie to his skin.
The voice returned, dry and certain:
> LEVEL UP. ROGUE — Level 2
Lifetime earnings surpassed: 4,000 SP
Progress to Level 3: 5,080.16 / 8,000 SP
Attribute gains: STR +1 · TOU +1 · DEX +2 · PER +1
Effects: regeneration ↑ (minor); pain-gating ↑ (minor); balance/coordination ↑
Note: Levels unlock from lifetime SP earned. Spending SP does not reduce level.
The words stitched him from the inside.
Heat threaded his shoulder; the cut along his belly cinched, tugging until the seep slowed. Pain took two steps back and watched instead of shouting. His hands steadied. Aisle edges sharpened; the dark wasn't as dark. Air moved deeper into his lungs without catching. The world lost a layer of blur.
Not like the first time—the first time had opened a hidden door in his bones. This was smaller, cleaner. A hinge oiled. A screw tightened. The same boy, only better at being the boy.
He flexed his fingers and made fists. He felt good again—steady the way he'd been before the store. He was also red and sticky with blood, his clothes torn and ruined, and the copper reek climbed into his nose and stayed.
He blinked, and the stitching heat of the level-up let go. The world came back: checkerboard tile, copper stink, two men cooling on the floor with dark lakes spreading from them. The shopkeeper—milk man—lay crooked near the snack aisle, both hands pressed to his belly, breath hitching.
"Boy—are you okay? You're not bleeding, are you? Please—tell me you're okay." His voice was steady the way stone is steady, until it wasn't. A hiss of pain cut it short.
Genesis nodded. The milk man tried a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Cardamom and frying oil clung to him under the cold bite of metal. "Good. Okay. I'm… hurt. Don't think I can move. Get me the first-aid kit?"
First-aid meant nothing; kit was just a nice mouth-shape. Genesis tilted his head at the red seeping between the man's fingers and did the only thing that made sense—he reached to press his palm there, the way you clamp a rag on a leaking pipe.
"No—no—no." The man caught his wrist and pushed his hands aside. "Phone, then. Get me the phone. I'll call help. I'm bleeding bad, kid. Please—hurry."
Phone… he knew the idea but not the thing. Boxes people talked into, as if they were people. The word help tugged at him instead—hard and simple. He knew help. Like how he'd helped himself with pizza: think, want, get. Maybe that could work again, not for hunger this time but for closing holes.
He shut his eyes and drew the picture: not food, not warmth—healing, fast and strong. The dark behind his eyes bloomed blue, and a panel slid forward.
> MEDICAL — EMERGENCY
Stimpack (field-grade): 5 000 SP
Rapid tissue knit • vasoconstrict • pain-gate override
Warnings: cardiac load ↑↑; contraindicated in hypertensive/elderly; not suited for anyone except the user.
Safety: Assent required.
He didn't know numbers or warnings; he knew the first mark—a five—and that the system had brought good pizza. Good would be good again. He breathed the smallest "yes."
> PURCHASE CONFIRMED. DELIVERY: proximal.
Ghost-white light hiccuped in the air. A heavy, clean thing dropped into his hands: a metal syringe with a red sight-window in its barrel, a dial-face gauge on the neck, two thin wire loops like ears. The needle winked like a thorn.
The milk man stared. "How did you—" His pupils were glassy; his breath came short. "Is that… morphine?"
Genesis didn't know the word. He extended the tool, both hands up like an offering.
Old training moved the milk man's fingers even as confusion wrinkled his brow. He palmed the cartridge, turned his hip, and—because there was no time—drove the needle into the thick of his glute and thumbed the stud.
For half a second: nothing. Then it hit—heat, pressure, a drum waking inside a drum. The gauge on the head twitched. Color ran up his face like paint tossed from a bucket. The wound cinched under his palm; the bleeding throttled down. He rocked to his knees with a small, startled laugh.
"What is this? My heart—God—" He pressed his chest and grinned despite himself. "It's racing. I feel—twenty. I feel—"
His gaze found the floor again: the red islands, the two bodies, the boy shining with other people's blood. Memory snapped back into its track. "Police. Yes. First things first." He angled his body to block the boy's view. "Kid, close your eyes, okay? I'll get help. We'll get you cleaned up."
He staggered behind the counter—the narrow bottleneck he knew by heart—snatched the beige handset from its cradle, and started the numbers with sure, fast taps.
"Nine-one-one—this is Rama at the corner deli on—"
He stopped. His free hand went flat on his sternum, fingers splayed like they were trying to hold a bird inside the cage. "I think—"
The word fluttered once, then failed.
The phone thumped tile. His eyes rolled white like coins. He folded from the middle without catching himself and hit the floor hard, breath gone. For a long beat nothing moved but the lazy rock of the bell on the front door, swayed by the building's old draft.
Genesis didn't understand. Why had the man fallen? Why wasn't he getting up to hand over milk and cookies with that shy grin? Foam bubbled—yellow-white, chemical-bitter—from the milk man's lips. The syringe lay on its side, a smear of ghost-light drying along its window. Genesis felt the wrong of it on his skin the way he felt train wind in his bones: a sickness in the air that made the new strength inside him step back.
The voice arrived without pity, confirming what his fear already knew.
> ASSISTED SUICIDE — first-time feat.
Target: Rama Khanna (civilian)
ISV: 1 350 SP (veteran discipline + community anchor + non-violent ethos)
NLV: –8 600 SP (high debt; assets encumbered)
Harvest payout credited: +1 350 SP (ISV only)
Feat bonus ×10: +13 500 SP applied
Numbers leapt somewhere he couldn't see. Somewhere he could, the milk man did not move.
Genesis slid on his knees and shook the shoulder once, twice. "H…hello," he managed, but no word came back. He pressed his ear to the chest, listening for breath, for any sign of life. Only tile-cold met him, and the slow creep of the robbers' blood finding his shins. A new hurt pricked under his breastbone—sharp, mean, nameless. He pulled his hand from the man's chest and stared at his palm like it had betrayed him.
The yellow foam edged toward his fingers. His body said what his head could not: danger. He rocked backward, crab-walked away, soles slipping on blood-slick tile, eyes too wide. The store felt suddenly crowded—belly-glass coolers watching, candy wrappers open like little mouths, two men who would never rise, and the milk man who had just learned how not to.
He stood. The front door looked impossible and also the only thing the world was offering. He left his pipe wherever it had skittered. He took nothing—no milk, no cookies—stepping over the robber with the ruined eye and the one who had tried to drown him in air. He didn't look down. The bell gave a small, shameful ring as he passed, and the street outside turned its head.
Faces found him—one, two, three. Concern, alarm, questions. Voices reached, but guilt made his ears hard. He ran. Corner. Alley. Manhole. The map he knew.
Down the ladder, grate shut with a too-loud clank, into the pocket of concrete and steam where the bulb burned like a tired star. He curled on the mat, the angry green man pressed to his chest. He did not make sounds; he had never learned the big ones. Tears slid anyway—hot tracks on a face trained to be still.
Above, the pipes spoke their old language—hiss, tick, lull. Inside that noise, something else waited: a quiet that wasn't the tunnel's. He tried not to hear it.
The System did not comfort. It recorded. It waited. And the rail-song inside him would not find its rhythm for a long, long while.