The cards weren't kind tonight. They flickered across the table like flies circling a corpse, and Rhett Korran was pretty sure the corpse was him. The dealer didn't bother to hide her smirk as she raked in his last few chips.
"It's fine," Rhett said, leaning back in his chair until it complained. "I was only betting rent money. The city can sleep outside for a night."
The Canary wasn't the kind of place that celebrated irony - just loss in different colors. The lights were too bright for comfort, the air too wet to breathe. He gave a series of slow nods, as if he'd just delivered a profound truth instead of an obituary for his wallet. Above him, the ceiling hum buzzed with the same tired rhythm as his pulse. The drink in front of him had been watered down by both the bartender and time, but he took a swallow anyway, the kind of sip that pretended to taste better than it did.
"Look at me," he said to no one in particular. "Dry as bone, dignity intact, and a stomach full of nothing but class."
The dealer pushed the next hand across the table without looking up. "You said the same thing last night."
Rhett smiled, all teeth and defiance. "Yeah, well, consistency builds character."
He shoved himself upright, jacket slouching off one shoulder, and dusted the chips' absence from his palms before sweeping the empty table with a half-hearted bow - a man trying to make a joke of defeat before defeat could make one of him.
"You're all welcome for the donation," he said. "Please, invest it wisely in my memory."
The Canary spat him out into the corridor like a bad meal. Rhett squinted against the neon buzz, the light stinging the drink from his eyes. The air hung heavy, humid enough to drag, priced like everything else in this city: per breath.
Hands buried in his jacket, Rhett walked, boots clicking like a countdown to nowhere. Every step was a reminder that he'd just traded his last Dyns for a few minutes of pretending he wasn't himself. He'd call it therapy if anyone asked; self-destruction sounded so judgmental.
Two maintenance drones drifted by, their camera eyes whirring to track his gait before deciding he wasn't worth cataloging. Rhett raised a hand anyway. "Evening, gents. Fine weather for industrial decay, isnt it?"
Neither drone replied, which made him like them more.
He passed a vendor stall advertising authentic nutrient pouches - neither authentic nor particularly nutrient. The owner, a woman with one gold eye and the patience of stone, offered him a sample. Rhett smiled and shook his head. "No thanks, I'm on a strict starvation diet. Doctor's orders."
She muttered something about degenerates and went back to scanning credits. Rhett chuckled under his breath and moved on, stepping over a sleeping vagrant wrapped in a blanket that might once have been a coat. He slowed for half a second, then reached into his pocket, dropped a coin, and kept walking.
The lower levels were honest in their ugliness. Most had no holo-ads promising better tomorrows, no glass towers pretending to touch the sky. Just pipes, rust, and people trying to outdrink the noise. Rhett fit right in.
Luck - or perhaps habit - steered him where he always ended up when things broke. The kiosk light ahead cut through the fog, a little island of blue in the grime. The sign above it blinked DEVICE REPAIR, though the R had been dead for months. Inside, bent over a workbench, was Tessa Day - surrounded by a halo of cheap light, overalls half-zipped, sleeves tied at the waist. The motion caught his tired eyes and held them.
Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe the fact that everything else in his night had gone sour; but right then, she looked like the only thing still holding shape in a city built to sag. He took a slow moment to appreciate the view, the curve of her stance, the way her pants gripped the shape of her legs, the easy confidence that came from being unapologetically attractive. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot, strands sticking to her neck in the heat. Sparks hissed from a soldering iron, and she muttered something under her breath that sounded like a threat toward the machine, or maybe toward life itself. Rhett lingered in the doorway longer than decency allowed.
"You fix things, Tess," he said finally. "Ever consider taking on people?"
She didn't look up. "You'd void your warranty on day one."
He grinned, crooked and automatic. "Not sure I came with one."
Now she glanced at him - one brow up, the faintest tug at her mouth, half amusement and half warning. The amber from her worklight turned the copper in her hair to fire. Her augmented arm ticked softly as it cooled.
"Your band break again?" she asked.
He held it up. "You and I have a complicated relationship with maintenance. How about you let me try to fix something of yours?"
"Band," she cut in, palm up.
Rhett hesitated, then dropped it into her hand. "Handle with care - she's temperamental."
"Must run in the family."
"Hey, I'm low-maintenance!" Rhett exclaimed. "I just need love, attention, and a steady supply of bad decisions."
She smirked. "I take it that you lost again?"
Rhett leaned against the counter, mouth still crooked with his drunken smile. "Depends how you define lose. I'm still standing."
"So, yes."
"Technically. But it was a dignified defeat. I tipped fate on the way out."
She glanced up. "And now you're here, broke, drunk, and charming. Pick one."
"If I pick charming, do I get to stay?"
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. "Depends if you start making sense."
He chuckled, rubbing a thumb over the rim of an empty glass. "Making sense is for rich people. The rest of us just breathe what they exhale and hope it's not toxic."
Tessa paused, one eyebrow raised.
"Sovereign City says hard work builds character. I've been working hard my whole damn life, and I'm pretty sure the only thing mine built was someone else's penthouse."
"That was almost smart," she said.
"That's the danger of sobriety trying to claw its way out, Tess," he mused, half asleep on his feet.
"Okay, well tell it to quit while it's behind."
She popped the new node into place, the click sharp in the quiet. The glow from the bench light spilled across her freckled cheek and the chrome of her arm, and for a moment Rhett thought she looked too steady for a world like this - like someone the city hadn't managed to ruin yet.
"There," she said finally, holding the band up. "It's as good as it's gonna get. Try not to punch any walls with it, okay?"
He took it back, sliding it over his wrist. The vibration steadied, a small miracle. "You're a saint, Tess."
"Wrong line of work," she said, packing away the tools. "Go home before you find new trouble to buy."
Rhett straightened, tugging at his jacket. "Trouble's the only thing still taking my calls."
She gave him that look - the one that balanced between fondness and warning. "Keep talking like that, and you'll start to believe it."
His smile returned, lazy and honest for once. "Already do."
The door hissed shut behind him, sealing her light away. The band hummed steady on his wrist, the only thing in his life that still kept rhythm.
The corridor outside Tess's shop had gone quiet. The fog hung heavier now, dense enough to bead on his jacket. Rhett shoved his hands into his pockets and started the long walk home, head still buzzing from the whiskey and from Tess's voice telling him, as always, to get his act together.
He'd made it maybe three blocks when a pair of shadows peeled off the wall ahead. Big shapes, the kind that filled the space before words did.
"Evening, Korran." The first one's voice was smooth, practiced - the kind of silk that came with debt collection. "Thought you'd skipped town."
Rhett stopped, blinked, and offered a half-smile. "Skipping? Never. I've got bad knees."
The second man stepped closer, trench coat creaking, a black visor glowing faint red across his eyes. "We had some drones a few blocks back that flagged your ID. You owe DynTech Finance four cycles past due. Mr. Hadran doesn't like when his investments wander."
Rhett gave a sympathetic nod. "Mr. Hadran sounds like a lovely guy! I was actually just on my way to pay him back. Got the whole thing squared away. Crossed my mind on the walk, really - today feels like a good day for financial responsibility.'"
Neither of them laughed.
"Thing is," the first said, "we can't let you leave empty-handed. Policy states we collect something."
Rhett rocked on his heels, eyes half-lidded, grin growing like a bad idea. "Oh, I've got something you can take."
They both waited.
He sighed. "But I don't think you're gonna like it."
The first enforcer frowned. "What - "
Rhett swung.
The punch wasn't elegant, but it was honest. It landed square on the man's jaw with a crack that sounded more like surprise than pain. For half a glorious second, Rhett thought he might actually get away with it - then the second enforcer's baton cracked across his ribs.
He went down hard, breath leaving him in a series of ragged wheezes.
"See," he eeked out, "told you I've got bad knees."
The first man crouched beside him, lip bleeding, voice cold. "Mr. Hadran's patience doesn't run on charity, Korran. So we'll take a guarantee instead."
The second enforcer grabbed Rhett's wrist and jammed a black module onto his ID band. It hissed once, the screen flashing red before stabilizing into a dull corporate logo.
Rhett flinched. "What the hell did you just do?"
"Forced transfer authorization," the man said. "Next time you get paid, every credit goes straight to DynTech until your balance clears."
Rhett blinked, pain and disbelief mixing in his tone. "So you just rob my future?"
"Technically," the enforcer said, "we've secured it."
They stood, leaving him on the ground. "Stay local, Korran. We'll be watching your progress."
Rhett coughed a laugh, clutching his side. "Progress. That's adorable."
They walked off into the fog, their silhouettes swallowed by the city's hum.
He lay there for a moment, staring up at a flickering sign overhead: LIVE SECURE. LIVE SOVEREIGN.
"Yeah," he rasped, touching the scorched skin beneath his band. "Working on it."
He rolled to his feet, brushed the grime from his jacket, and started limping toward home, the ID band pulsing faintly, a reminder that even his bad luck was now on a payment plan.
Or at least… he should've gone home. That would've been the smart move - patch up, pass out, pretend tomorrow might be better. But smart moves were for sober people. His apartment didn't come with painkillers, cold packs, or conversation.
Home was a few sectors east. Cheap walls, loud neighbors, and a landlord who smiled like all debt collectors do. He could already hear the eviction notice singing to him from the door. His brother's place, though - that was Sovereign living. Climate control. Real glass. Maybe even compassion if he timed his visit between lectures. A man of that living could almost forget what ring he came from, and Rhett was very good at forgetting.
So he turned right instead of left, following the hum of cleaner air and better decisions that never belonged to him. He arrived at his brothers home, buzzed the door, then leaned into the intercom. "Hey, open up. I brought the party."
There was a pause. Then Niko's dry voice crackled through. "You sound winded."
"Good ear, little brother."
The lock clicked.
"I'm older," Niko said as Rhett stepped inside.
"Yeah, but I've got more experience being a disappointment," Rhett shot back, grinning as he limped in.
Niko Korran's apartment was tidy to the point of insult - bare walls, clean counters, air scrubbers humming like polite company. Rhett felt out of place just existing in it.
"Do you make it a point to always show up after hours, or is this a special occasion?" Niko asked, crossing his arms. His shirt was pressed, his ID band gleamed silver - an accountant's shine.
Rhett dropped into the nearest chair, wincing. "Well I ran into a couple of DynTech's finest. Figured I'd stop by before the swelling made me unphotogenic."
Niko gave him a long look. "You hit them first, didn't you?"
"Define first."
"That's a yes."
Rhett grinned through the pain. "They installed a forced transfer on my band. Next time I get paid, my glorious career in poverty continues."
Niko exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You're unbelievable. You know, most people try avoiding that kind of attention."
"Unbelievable? I prefer consistent. Tess says it builds character."
"Well, she's right about the first part."
Niko opened a cabinet and retrieved a cold pack, tossing it to him. Rhett caught it with a wince.
"You need medical?"
"I need a drink."
"You smell like one."
"See? I'm ahead of schedule."
They sat in silence for a moment. The apartment hummed softly with the sound of machines doing what people couldn't anymore: keeping things stable.
Rhett broke it first. "You ever look around, all this comfort, all this clean air, and still feel like you're waiting to fall?"
Niko frowned. "No. That's just you."
Rhett smiled weakly. "Guess I'm overachieving again."
He leaned back, pressing the cold pack to his ribs. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather crash here tonight."
Niko didn't look up from the datapad he was scrolling. "Again?"
Rhett shrugged. "You're older. Feels traditional."
Niko sighed but didn't argue. "My couch is clean, Rhett. Try not to bleed on it, please?
Rhett smirked. "No promises."
He stretched out, ribs aching, eyes half-closed against the sterile light. The room smelled too clean, like it belonged to someone else's life.
Niko spoke without looking up. "You know you don't have to do this to yourself, right?"
Rhett's laugh was quiet. "Sure, sure," he said, voice trailing off. "But then what else would I be good at?"