The convoy moved in a tight formation—five armored military-grade vehicles cutting through the chaos of District 4.
Luke and Barry occupied the first vehicle, Antigone and Orpheus restrained in the third, carefully placed in between the IMC agents.
Barry, grumbling under his breath, nodded toward the streets beyond the reinforced glass.
"Look alive, boys… these are high-ranking members of Homer. If anyone's coming for them, it'll be soon."
District 4 lived up to its reputation. Neon signs buzzed and flickered over brothels and dive bars, their light bouncing off cracked streets slick with rain and refuse.
Fights broke out randomly—blows landing against unyielding concrete, the cries of desperate men and women echoing through the alleys.
Every sound, every smell screamed lawlessness. Here, fugitives, gangsters, and anyone fleeing the IMC found shelter.
This was the worst district, the melting pot of everything society wanted to hide.
Luke's eyes swept the scene, calm and measured. "What'll happen to them?" he asked, glancing at Barry.
"They'll go to the hanger in District 4 first," Barry said, voice clipped, eyes scanning his wrist com. "Once properly contained and cleared, they'll be flown to headquarters."
Luke's lips twitched into a faint, wry smile. Headquarters. District 1.
The memory hit him like sunlight through fog. A small piece of land there could be worth acres anywhere else in the districts.
While Kaiju attacks raged across other territories, District 1 remained untouched.
Towering walls—seventy feet of reinforced metal and three permanently stationed Yaegars surrounded it.
Only the top brass could rent a house there. Mega-corporations like Nutrigen, laboratories like Aegis, every influential player planted roots there.
Luke's childhood, for many would have been perfect. A dream stitched from privilege and expectation.
The Shaw mansion, the Voss mansion, friends with names that carried weight, a family that never denied him anything—on paper, perfect.
But perfect didn't make a home. A home was where judgment didn't exist, where a person could exist freely.
District 1 had never been that. And it never would.
The armored car jolted as it rolled over a broken stretch of road.
Luke's thoughts fractured, snapping him back to the present.
Barry's attention never left the com on his wrist, data scrolling in quiet streams of light.
Barry Demas.
Pulser at thirteen.
Captain at twenty.
Now—at twenty-three—Deputy Head of the IMC. The organization that enforced law, order, and control across every district.
Luke had grown up beside him. Same streets. Same schools. Different expectations.
Barry's father—a scientist who worked under Luke's father—had always dreamed of seeing his son in uniform, medals gleaming. Military glory. Authority. Purpose.
Luke let a faint, private smirk form.
Everyone had assumed it would be him.
The heir.
The prodigy.
The one destined to rise fast, inherit power, and become something feared.
Instead, Barry had become the IMC's executioner clean, efficient, untouchable.
And Luke?
A self-retired captain.
Former Jaegar pilot.
Living off scraps in a lower district.
Better a deadbeat than a pawn.
He leaned back, watching District 4 slide past the armored glass—neon rot, open violence, desperation worn openly on people's faces.
"Drop me here, mate," Luke said.
Barry didn't look up. He knocked twice on the roof.
The vehicle slowed to a halt.
Luke opened the door and hopped out as it rolled to a stop, adjusting his suit and long coat as his boots hit the dirt. He turned to leave.
"See you soon, Luke," Barry called after him.
Luke didn't turn around.
"I very much doubt that."
The door slammed shut.
The convoy rolled on.
***
Luke disappeared into the filth-choked arteries of District 4.
He moved with practiced ease through streets layered in grime and noise, past flickering signs and open doors spilling music, smoke, and laughter that felt too loud to be honest.
Eventually, he stopped.
A bar squatted between two collapsing buildings, its sign hanging crooked above the entrance—THE GILDED FOX, painted lazily and peeling at the edges.
Luke looked up at it for a moment, then stepped inside.
The bell above the door chimed.
The place was alive with sound—drunk men packed around scarred tables, cheap laughter, raised voices.
Girls weaved through the crowd carrying trays heavy with glasses filled with cheap liquor.
Luke enjoyed a drink as much as anyone. Getting drunk had its charms.
But that wasn't why he was here.
He walked to the bar.
The bartender's head was down, hands busy polishing a glass with deliberate care.
Luke sat and tapped the counter lightly.
She looked up.
Golden hair almost unreal in its brightness. Bright emerald eyes. Skin untouched by the district's decay.
She looked impossibly out of place.
"How can I help you, sir?" she asked, voice soft.
Luke smiled faintly.
"A shot of your finest whisky. And a pack of cigarettes." He paused. "And make it quick, I've got a date with a rather stunning number tonight."
She scoffed but turned anyway, pulling a bottle from the shelf and pouring with practiced ease. She set the glass in front of him.
Luke lifted it, gave her a mock toast, and downed it in one go.
"Pshhh—what the hell is wrong with you, Caitlyn?"
His face twisted in disgust.
Vinegar.
"Whisky?" she said flatly. "Really, Luke? And cigarettes? You promised me you'd stop. And this 'hot number'—care to elaborate?"
Caitlyn.
When Luke first landed in District 4, she'd been one of the few people he got along with. His only friend, really. He'd asked her out five times before she'd even considered it.
They'd been together two years now. And she was the best thing in his life.
Luke sighed dramatically.
"You, Goldilocks. You're the hot number. Thought we might go out tonight, grab something proper to eat, yeah?"
Her face lit up instantly. Her smile outshone every flickering LED in the bar.
"You should've started with that, you idiot. My shift ends in three hours. It'll be too late. Maybe another night."
"Oh, don't be like that," Luke said lightly. "Get one of the girls to cover for you."
She hesitated.
"Rocco wouldn't like it."
Luke waved a hand.
"I couldn't give a rat's arse what Rocco likes."
She laughed quietly.
"Yeah, well, it's Rocco's money that keeps a roof over our heads so I care."
That did it.
A few months back, Luke had put a supervisor in the Nutrigen factory he worked at in the hospital. No IMC involvement, thankfully—just a swift dismissal.
Since then, no work.
They lived off Caitlyn's salary now. Three hundred credits a month—just enough for rent, food, and nothing else.
Luke rested his forehead on the bar.
"You planning to sit there till my shift ends?" she asked.
He shrugged.
She smiled.
"I've got a better idea."
***
"I cannot believe you made me serve drinks," Luke muttered later, pulling his shirt back on.
Three hours.
Three hours of doing something that would've made his mother faint dead away.
Serving people.
Factory workers. Dockhands. Men who wouldn't have been allowed to look him in the eye once.
Life had a vicious sense of humour.
"Maybe you should do it full-time,"Caitlyn teased. "Extra cash wouldn't hurt."
That was the second time.
Something was wrong.
Caitlyn never pressed him about money. She'd grown up an orphan in District 4—built her life herself. Independence mattered to her.
She didn't even know his surname. Didn't care for the news. Had no idea who the Shaws or the Vosses were.
And tonight—she kept circling the subject.
Luke crossed the room. She sat before a dusty mirror, brushing her golden hair. He rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.
"What's wrong, Goldilocks?" he said softly. "Talk to me."
She looked up at him.
Studied his face—the sharp jaw, dark eyes that only softened for her, the black hair tied back at his neck.
And she wondered.
"Luke…" She swallowed.
"I'm pregnant."