Neon bled into the dark, and somewhere deep in the city, something kept moving that should have already been dead.
Endless towers stretched upward, their shapes cutting into the darkness, stacked so close together that the sky barely existed anymore. Green light washed over concrete and steel. Blue signs flickered. Pink symbols blinked, broke, came back. Every surface reflected something else. Nothing was quiet. Nothing was still.
Above the streets, vehicles moved through the air like slow currents. Small, sharp crafts hovered between buildings, their undersides glowing faintly as they passed. Others rushed by in short bursts, engines whining before vanishing into the dark.
Rain fell constantly, thin and cold. It ran down glass walls, dripped from cables, pooled on metal platforms far below. Power lines stretched across the city like veins, humming softly as energy flowed through them. The sound was everywhere. A low buzz. A constant vibration beneath everything else.
This wasn't just a city.
It was the planet itself.
There was no edge where streets ended and wilderness began, no horizon where buildings gave way to land or sea. Towers led into districts, districts into sectors, sectors into heights and depths no one bothered to name anymore. Everywhere was structure. Everywhere was light. Neon wasn't decoration here—it was necessity. Without it, nothing moved. Without it, nothing existed.
Darkness wasn't the absence of light.
It was the default.
The night didn't come and go. It stayed. It pressed down on everything, wrapped around steel and glass, soaked into the streets until even the brightest colors felt muted. Neon pushed back against it in layers—green, blue, violet, white—but never enough to drive it away. Only enough to survive inside it.
This was a world that glowed because it had no other choice.
Below those upper layers, the city tightened.
The light pressed closer to the ground, trapped between metal and concrete. Towers didn't rise cleanly here—they overlapped, folded into one another, their lower sections buried beneath platforms, walkways, and hanging structures that blocked any sense of open space. Rain no longer fell freely. It slid along pipes, dripped from cables, splashed against railings already wet from a hundred layers above.
Neon signs hung low, close enough to touch. Some buzzed softly. Others flickered with uneven rhythm, their colors distorted by age and heat. Green and blue dominated here, broken by thin streaks of red and violet bleeding out from narrow openings between buildings. The air felt warmer. Heavier. Loaded with exhaust, alcohol vapors, overheated circuitry.
Open doorways lined the lower levels.
Light spilled from one of them, leaking into the passage beneath the towers. Inside, the glow softened, spreading across metal walls and low ceilings stained dark from years of smoke. Bottles stood behind a counter in uneven rows, their contents illuminated from below. Liquid light shifted as glasses were lifted and set down again.
People filled the space.
Men sat hunched over the bar or leaned back in cracked booths, coats layered thick, some stitched with glowing threads, others reinforced with dull plating. Arms rested heavy on the counter—bare skin beside metal, synthetic muscle beside old scars.
Women occupied the room with quieter control. Some stood close together, jackets cut short, synthetic fabrics catching the neon along sharp lines. Others sat alone, legs crossed, fingers wrapped loosely around glasses. Thin lines of embedded tech pulsed faintly beneath skin. Jewelry hovered at throats and wrists, held in place by soft magnetic fields, drifting slightly as they moved.
Droids passed between tables and bodies in smooth, uninterrupted paths. Chrome frames reflected the lights in broken fragments. Trays hovered steady in their hands, drinks glowing faintly as they were delivered. Their projected faces stayed neutral, eyes flickering as orders updated, as obstacles shifted.
Conversation stayed low. Laughter rose briefly, then died again.
At the edge of the room, where the neon thinned and shadows settled heavier, Asako sat alone.
He occupied the chair without tension, leaning back as if time itself had slowed around him. His frame filled the space naturally—broad shoulders set beneath a tight black shirt that clung to muscle with deliberate simplicity. The cut was uneven by design: one sleeve drawn long and clean over his left arm, concealing the machinery beneath; the other ending high, leaving his right arm bare.
Dark hair fell forward in careless strands, uncut, uncorrected, grazing his eyes.
His legs rested wide beneath the table, black fabric hanging low on his hips, loose and heavy, the hem brushing against bare feet planted calmly on the metal floor. He did not shift his weight. He did not fidget.
A cigarette burned between his fingers like a quiet signal.
He raised it slowly, unhurried, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, and held it there. When he exhaled, it left him in a thin, controlled stream, drifting upward through the neon glow, breaking apart as it climbed. The ember flared briefly. Ash lengthened. With a small movement of his hand, he tapped it free, then let the cigarette rest again between his fingers.
Asako turned his head slightly.
Two people were approaching his table.
They both wore long cloaks, the kind that hid everything beneath them. Thick fabric, dark, pulled closed at the front. No visible gear. No visible weapons. The cloaks moved as one piece, swallowing their bodies and giving nothing away about what they carried underneath.
They were both tall.
The one on the left had long black hair that fell straight down his back. A rough three-day beard covered his jaw and chin.
Beside him walked another man, just as tall. Blonde hair, cut shorter, pulled back loosely. A scar ran across one eye, cutting through skin that had healed a long time ago.
They pulled out the chairs without asking.
Wood scraped lightly against metal as they sat down across from him, occupying the table as if it had always been theirs. The cloaks settled around their legs, still hiding everything underneath. Asako didn't shift. Didn't look at them. The cigarette stayed where it was, smoke rising steadily.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the man with the long black hair leaned back slightly.
"Asako," he said.
"I've been looking forward to seeing you in person."
Asako didn't answer.
The other man leaned forward instead, elbows resting on the table beneath the cloak. His mouth curled faintly as he spoke, the words carrying a thin, unpleasant edge.
"There's a pretty nice reward on you," he said. "Bigger than I expected, honestly."
He let that sit, eyes flicking over Asako's posture, his hands, his stillness.
"People talk about you."
The man with the black hair continued, unfazed by the silence.
"We're here to take you in," he said. "You won't stop it."
Asako brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled once.
Smoke slipped from his mouth and drifted upward into the neon light.
He tapped the ash into the tray without looking at either of them.
The man with the long black hair tilted his head slightly.
"You're trying to play it cool," he said. "Sitting there like none of this matters."
He reached into his cloak.
Slowly. Deliberately.
When his hand came back out, he held a small device in his palm. Round. Heavy-looking. A single surface, smooth except for a raised center. His thumb rested just beside it, not touching.
"We've placed charges," he continued. "Around this level. Structural points. Enough to tear the whole place open. If you come with us, nothing happens."
The other man smiled thinly.
"And if you don't," he added, "we walk out first. Take our time."
He leaned closer.
"Then everything here goes up. You die. They die."
A small pause.
"We collect the reward either way."
The man with the black hair nodded once.
"So you'll hand yourself over," he said. "Voluntarily."
Asako finally looked at them.
Just briefly.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't warm. One corner of his mouth lifted, lazy, like the idea amused him. A short breath escaped his nose. Almost a laugh.
Instead of answering, Asako put the cigarette back to his lips, took a drag, then pulled it away and let the smoke spill out first, as if the words could wait.
"I don't care about anyone here," Asako said.
The man with the long black hair stared at Asako.
For a moment, his expression didn't change.
Then his jaw tightened.
"Oh," he said. "So that's how it is."
The other man let out a sharp laugh, pushing his chair back just enough to lean into the table.
"You hear that?" he said. "He doesn't care."
He glanced around the bar, making sure Asako saw the gesture.
"Everyone in here dies," he said.
The man with the black hair nodded once.
"You'll be dead too," he added. "Same as them."
A short pause.
"But that part's irrelevant."
His mouth twitched.
"We still get the reward."
The other man leaned forward, cloak shifting.
"You really think this is some kind of move?" he said. "Sitting there. Smoking. Acting above it."
He snorted.
"You don't get to decide how this ends."
Asako didn't answer.
He lifted the cigarette again.
He pulled in deeply. The ember flared hard, bright against the neon. Smoke filled his mouth, his chest, his lungs. When he exhaled, he didn't turn his head. The smoke went straight ahead, cutting through the space between them, drifting into their faces without apology.
The other man clicked his tongue.
"Look at him," he said. "Still playing tough."
The man with the black hair pushed his chair back and stood.
"Let's be clear," he said. "This isn't personal."
His voice was flat again. Controlled.
"It's just work."
They both rose now.
Chairs scraped back hard. Cloaks shifted as they turned away from the table. They started toward the exit, confidence settling back in with every step.
The other man laughed as they walked.
"All these people," he said. "Dead because you wanted to act superior."
Another short laugh.
"Hope the cigarette was worth it."
Asako took one more drag.
The cigarette burned lower between his fingers.
They were almost at the door.
Then—
A hand closed around the shoulder of the man with the long black hair.
Sudden. Heavy.
Black glove.
At the same instant, a mechanical tone cut through the bar.
The man with the long black hair started to turn.
Asako stood right behind him.
Close enough that the heat of his body carried through the damp air. Black hair hung loose around his face, darkened by rain drifting in from outside. The cigarette stayed between his lips, ember glowing dull orange as he breathed. Smoke slid out around it and drifted forward, brushing against the man's cheek.
Asako spoke without moving it.
"I don't care how this ends for them," he said. "I care how it ends for me."
The man's face twisted.
"You arrogant piece of shit—"
The punch came before the insult finished.
Asako's fist crashed into his face, snapping his head sideways. Blood burst from his nose and mouth in a short spray, spattering across the entrance frame and the wet ground outside. The man stumbled backward through the open front, boots slipping as rain took him, his back hitting the metal walkway hard.
Inside, people watched.
A few people leaned back in their seats. A few leaned forward instead.
Asako followed him out, cigarette still in his mouth, rain immediately soaking into his hair and shirt. Water ran down his face, down his neck, dripping from the cigarette as he exhaled through it.
The man tried to swing.
Asako hit him again.
And again.
Each punch drove him farther back across the slick platform. Blood mixed with rain and washed away almost instantly, leaving red streaks that vanished as quickly as they appeared.
"Fucking bastard," the man spat, staggering. "You think you're better than us?"
Asako didn't answer.
He stepped in and hit him one more time, sending him into the railing. Metal rang. The man sagged against it, barely upright.
A voice burst from behind them.
"You motherfucker!"
The blonde man stormed out of the bar, rage written openly across his face. Inside, several people turned fully now, eyes tracking him instead of Asako. Someone muttered something under their breath. A droid froze near the entrance, head tilted, processing.
The blonde charged.
Asako turned his head just enough to look at him.
Metal shifted.
CLACK—WHRRR—CLANG.
Plates along Asako's left arm slid into place. Servos locked with a dry snap.
The punch landed.
Steel met bone.
The sound echoed.
The blonde man's jaw shattered on impact. Teeth sprayed out into the rain. His body lifted off the ground and slammed down hard, skidding across the metal, hands scrabbling uselessly as blood poured from his mouth. His scream broke into a wet, choking noise.
Inside the bar, people stared.
Someone stood up slowly.
Someone else stepped back from the entrance.
No one rushed out.
The man with the long black hair pushed himself off the railing and charged, face twisted with fury.
"You fucking psycho!"
He swung.
Asako caught the punch easily. Fingers closed around the wrist, metal grinding softly as the grip tightened. The man tried to pull back. Failed.
Asako drove his free fist straight into his chest.
The impact lifted him off his feet.
He flew backward into the rain, hit the ground hard, and rolled. Something slipped from his cloak and skidded across the platform, rain hammering against it.
The button.
Asako exhaled smoke.
He walked over, rain pouring down his face, cigarette still clenched between his lips. He bent, picked up the device, water pooling in his palm.
Behind him, the man tried to crawl, coughing blood.
"You pussy—" he spat.
Asako turned and kicked him.
The body slid back through the entrance and into the bar, knocking into a table and sending bottles clattering. Several people finally moved, stepping back, faces tight, eyes locked on the bodies now on the floor.
The blonde tried to drag himself after him, fingers clawing at the ground.
"Son of a bitch—"
Asako kicked him too.
Both men disappeared inside.
Asako stepped back from the entrance.
Rain soaked him completely now. Smoke still rose, stubborn and thin, curling upward from the cigarette despite the downpour. He didn't look inside. He didn't check the crowd.
He just turned and walked away.
Neon reflected off the wet ground as he moved, the city swallowing him almost immediately. Behind him, voices finally broke into noise—shouts, panic, movement—but it all came late.
Asako lifted the cigarette, took a deep drag, ember flaring bright against the rain.
Without slowing, without turning around, he pressed the button.
The bar imploded.
Light folded inward. Sound crushed itself into a single violent instant. Glass shattered inward, metal screamed once, and then everything inside vanished, contained, erased.