"The silence after the shot is louder than the shot itself."
Rain whispered across the ruins like static over an old transmission. The city had been dead for years, but it still made noise—creaking towers, shivering cables, the distant hum of machines that refused to die. Ash drifted down with the drizzle, coating the streets in a gray shimmer.
Less Vogue crouched on a crumbling overpass, one knee pressed against concrete slick with oil. Her rifle rested on the railing, long and black as a shadow. Through her scope, the world narrowed to crosshairs and breath.
Three scavengers picked through the carcass of an armored transport below, their movements jerky and desperate. Their laughter carried up the bridge, thin and hollow. One of them reached into the wreckage, pulling out a glowing Helix crate.
Less exhaled.
A heartbeat later, thunder cracked—but it wasn't thunder. The first scavenger dropped, his head folding inward as the bullet found its mark. The others froze, eyes darting, too slow to understand what had already ended.
Two more shots. Two more bodies. Silence again.
She lowered the rifle. Her reflection stared back at her from the puddle beside the corpse—a woman in a rain-slick combat coat, scarf coiling crimson at her neck, gray hair plastered to her face. Her eyes, faintly gold beneath the shadow of her hood, didn't blink.
One shot, three kills. Still clean.
She slung the rifle across her back and started down the overpass. The smell of ozone and iron thickened as she neared the bodies. The Helix crate still glowed, its blue light flickering like a heartbeat.
She crouched, pressed her gloved hand to the lid. The biometric sensor pulsed. A voice, soft and feminine, emerged from the crate's speaker.
"Subject L-01 authenticated."
Her breath caught. L-01.
The name—or number—rippled through her like an echo she couldn't place. The crate clicked open. Inside was a data chip sealed in glass, small enough to vanish between her fingers.
For a moment, she stared at it, and memory stirred like static at the edge of hearing: the hiss of a respirator, a woman's voice saying her name—not the number, the name.Less… live, even if the world dies.
She snapped the chip into her coat's inner pocket and rose. The scavengers' eyes were open, blank mirrors reflecting her face. She closed them one by one.
By dusk, the storm had worsened. The skyline shimmered in the rain like a drowned cathedral. Less took shelter inside a derelict subway station, the kind that still bore Helix propaganda on every wall.
HELIX CORP: REBUILDING TOMORROW FROM THE BONES OF TODAY.
The slogan glared at her in cold blue light. Beneath it, someone had scrawled a message in red paint: TOMORROW IS ALREADY DEAD.
She sat against a concrete pillar, rifle across her knees, and finally took the chip out again. Her small portable holo-console sparked as she slotted it in.
Static filled the air. Then—images.
White walls. Tanks filled with glowing liquid. Figures floating inside, their bodies thin and unfinished. Technicians in black uniforms moving like ghosts.
"Subject L-01 shows neural synchronization at 89%.""Stabilize the cortex—no, wait—heart rate dropping—""Increase the dose!""Lysandra, we're losing her!"
Then a scream—a woman's voice. Everything went white.
Less tore the chip from the console, gasping. The echoes clung to her skull, sharp and heavy. The name Lysandra pulsed in her head, carrying weight she didn't understand.
She leaned back against the wall, letting the cold of the concrete ground her. Her fingers trembled once before she stilled them.
Don't think. Just breathe.
Outside, thunder rolled again.
She packed her things and moved before the drones came. She could already hear their engines overhead—the slow metallic buzz of recon models sweeping the ruins. Their scanners would find heat, breath, anything that moved.
Less climbed the emergency ladder to the street, boots silent, breath steady. The city above was all ghost light and fog. Drone beams sliced through the rain like surgical knives.
She crouched behind a toppled truck, waited for one to drift close, then raised her rifle. The world slowed. Her finger rested on the trigger like a whisper.
A single shot.A burst of light.The drone collapsed in flame.
Instantly, alarms shrieked through the storm. More drones swarmed.
She ran.
The chase wound through a maze of alleys where neon signs still flickered, advertising products no one would ever buy again. She ducked through a broken window, sliding across shattered glass, and emerged in what had once been a department store.
Mannequins stood frozen in the dark, dressed in the tatters of civilization—business suits, gowns, a child's school uniform. Their faces were blank, except for one with eyes painted red.
Less moved between them, steps light, breathing shallow. The drones' hum grew distant, then vanished.
She was alone again—or thought she was.
A whisper of movement. Metal on tile.
She spun, rifle raised—too late.
A blade caught her coat, slicing the strap. She twisted away, dropping low, knife drawn. The figure that attacked her moved with precision, wearing Helix-black armor, a visor hiding his face.
They circled each other, silent.
He struck first—fast. She parried, countered, drove the knife toward his throat. The impact jarred her wrist; he blocked, then swept her leg. She hit the ground, rolled, fired upward. The shot grazed his shoulder, flaring sparks.
The soldier hesitated—just long enough for her to rise and slam the butt of her rifle into his visor. Glass cracked. He fell, gasping.
Less stepped over him and yanked the mask free. A young man's face stared up, terrified, lips moving.
"You… you're the ghost of Rustlane," he whispered.
She aimed at his heart. "You shouldn't believe in ghosts."
The shot was clean.
When the echo faded, she stood there in the dim light, surrounded by mannequins and corpses—one made of glass, one of flesh. Both empty now.
She reloaded, slung her rifle, and walked back into the rain.
Somewhere behind the clouds, lightning flickered like the pulse of a dying god.
Less pulled her crimson scarf tighter and disappeared into the storm.