Alaric didn't sleep. Dawn carved pale stripes across the cracked ceiling while the lockbox sat on the table like a coiled snake. Two biometric panels, no seam, no hinges. Whatever lay inside was worth Syndicate bullets and the Shroud's personal attention.
He traced the cool metal with a fingertip. The biometric pad flashed red each time he tried. "Figures." He slipped the case into his pack and left Lia a note: Errand—back before lunch. Keep the door locked.
The city yawned awake in layers: factory whistles, delivery drones, vendors shouting breakfast specials. Alaric kept to back streets until he reached Tavros's basement clinic. A hologram of a mortar and pestle flickered over the doorway—Zenith's subtle code that black-market diagnostics were sold inside.
Tavros studied the lockbox under a chem-lamp, mechanical eyes whirring. "Dual biometric plus nano-seal. Crack this wrong and it melts its payload."
"What payload?"
The doctor gave a thin smile. "Whatever a dying cartel can't afford to lose." He produced a glass probe. "I can lift surface prints, spoof a heartbeat—costs extra."
Alaric shook his head. "Not yet. Can you tell if it's a decoy?"
Tavros linked a scanner. The display spat out gibberish. "Shell's lined with signal jammers. Could be gold bars, could be plague spores. Until someone opens it, impossible to tell."
Outside, sirens wailed; a Syndicate convoy roared past toward the freight yard. News traveled fast. Alaric pocketed the lockbox. "Then I'll keep it closed."
Tavros's cybernetic fingers drummed. "You keep walking this line, boy, you'll need more than knives and luck. Vital-grade stimulants. Combat grafts."
"Later," Alaric muttered, slipping away. He couldn't afford a blood-iron infusion even if he trusted Tavros to install it without a kill-switch.
He turned into an alley—and froze. A white chrysanthemum perched atop a trash bin. Fresh. The Shroud's calling card. He scanned rooftops. Nothing. But a chill crept down his spine. She could strike at will; why leave flowers instead of corpses? A message? A game?
He stashed the bloom in his pocket and kept moving.
Zenith High's bell rang just as he reached the campus fence. Lia stood under a blossom-laden maple—uniform tidy, silver hair catching sunlight—talking with Elio and a tall girl in a varsity jacket. Laughter drifted across the lawn. Something warm loosened in Alaric's chest. She was safe. Normal. For a moment he let himself believe they could keep it.
Then a black sedan slid to the curb, windows tinted, engine idling. Corporate security plates. A suited man stepped out, scanned the students, checked a datapad. Alaric's instincts screamed. He blended behind a vending kiosk, watching. The man's gaze skipped over Lia, then returned—lingering. He lifted a wrist-comm.
Alaric's hand closed on his knife hilt. One scream from Lia, he'd—
The comm beeped; the man frowned, climbed back into the sedan, and the car pulled away. A false alarm? Or reconnaissance for later? Either way, the corporate world had sniffed their trail.
Lia spotted Alaric and jogged over, eyes bright. "First day survived! No knife fights."
"Good." He forced a smile. "Make friends?"
"Elio's nice. Mira—" she nodded to the varsity girl—"is scarier than she looks." Lia's gaze sharpened. "You look tense."
"Rough errands." He hesitated, then offered the chrysanthemum. "Saw this and thought of you."
Her cheeks reddened; she tucked the flower behind her ear with delicate reverence. "Beautiful."
They walked home together, Lia talking about classes: biotech history, holo-lit, a fencing elective she'd signed up for "purely academic, not because blades remind me of someone." Her arm brushed his every few steps; each accidental touch lingered a beat longer than chance.
Back in 6B, they shared reheated noodles. Lia recounted a lunchroom rumor—some seniors bragging they could get Syndicate favors for the right price. Alaric stored the names. School halls were information goldmines.
Evening spilled crimson over Zenith's skyline when Alaric's burner vibrated. Unknown ID: Meet rooftop of 42nd & Glaive. Alone. Midnight.
He pocketed the phone. Lia watched him tie his boots. "Another errand?"
"Potential ally. I'll be careful."
She rose, blocking the door. "Take me."
"Too risky."
Her eyes hardened. "Then promise me you'll come back." She twined fingers in his jacket lapel, faces inches apart. "I can't lose you."
"I'll always return," he whispered. Her breath hitched; for a heartbeat he thought she might close the gap—but she stepped aside, cheeks aflame.
The rooftop at 42nd & Glaive overlooked the freight tracks. Rain slicked the concrete, reflecting neon halos. The Shroud stood at the ledge, porcelain mask bright beneath a lone floodlight.
Alaric kept his hands visible. "You called."
She tossed something. He caught it—an identical black lockbox. His pulse spiked. "Why give this back?"
"Exchange," she said, voice distorted. "Open yours, we open war. Swap, and our dance continues."
"I don't have Kieran's authority to trade."
"Kieran plays trafficker. I hunt larger game." She stepped closer; even through the mask he felt her cold intensity. "Tomorrow, Syndicate dogs will smell blood. Choose your battlefield."
Trust her? Insane. Yet two lockboxes meant one decoy, one real. If his was fake, Kieran had used him as a distraction; if his was genuine, every faction would chase him. Either way, holding both was suicide.
Alaric slid his case across the wet roof. The Shroud mirrored the motion. They each backed away, retrieving the opposite box.
"Why spare me?" he asked.
She tilted her head. "Predators respect worthy prey." With a whirl of her cloak she vanished over the parapet. When he peered down, only shifting shadows greeted him.
He returned to the Rusted Oak before dawn. Lia slept curled on his side of the bed, clutching his spare jacket. He placed the new lockbox beneath a floorboard, heart hammering. No system quests chimed, no stat points granted—only the thrill of surviving another gambit.
He lay beside Lia, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. Tomorrow he'd test the new box, verify which contained gold and which carried a death sentence. Tomorrow he'd earn real power stones in Zenith's twisted game. But tonight, with Lia's warmth against his arm, he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes.
Just before sleep claimed him, he murmured a line from an old manga, a promise whispered to the storm-lit city beyond the window: "I'll surpass the limits of this world—even if I must break them."
And Zenith, ever hungry, whispered back with distant sirens and the hiss of rain, daring him to try.