CHAPTER 1: THE BLOCK

  Part 1: Street Rules

  The rain hit like needles, slicing through the greasy night air of Sector 12. Neon lights shimmered in the puddles, casting broken reflections of advertisements selling dreams no one on this side of the city could afford.

  Kai ducked beneath a rusted fire escape, eyes narrowed under the brim of his soaked hoodie. The distant rumble of a patrol drone echoed overhead, scanning for lawbreakers. Not that anyone here cared about the law. The drones were just another gang—corporate, cold, and trigger-happy.

  He waited for the red eye of the drone to fade into the distance before moving again, sticking close to the shadows. His steps were silent, his body lean from hunger and hardened from survival. He’d learned to move like a ghost in the city. It was the only way to stay alive.

  Never be seen. Never be heard. Strike only when it matters.

  That was Rule One. The first of many the streets taught him after the fire.

  Kai’s stomach growled. The last time he’d eaten was yesterday—half a protein bar he’d found in a busted vending machine. His ribs ached from sleeping on concrete. His hands were raw from climbing, fighting, stealing.

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  But none of that mattered tonight.

  He had a target.

  The Skulls were moving something. Word was, they were shifting a stash of neural dust—pure black-market stimulants worth thousands in the Inner Rings. The kind of haul that could change everything.

  He wasn’t going for the dust, though. That was suicide.

  He was going for the runners.

  Two low-level Skulls, always on the same route, always beating the same poor bastard behind an abandoned noodle shop before their handoff. Predictable. Lazy. Perfect.

  Kai crouched at the edge of a rooftop, looking down into the alley below. There they were—just like clockwork.

  The first was a thick-necked brute with brass knuckles. The other, wiry with a vibroknife strapped to his leg. Between them, a twitchy man in rags whimpered as blood dripped from his nose.

  “You got the creds?” Brass Knuckles growled.

  “I—I just need more time,” the junkie stammered.

  Vibroknife laughed. “Time’s up, meat.”

  The brass knuckles slammed into the man’s gut.

  Kai tensed, watching.

  Rule Two: Let the dumb ones do your work for you.

  He didn’t care about the junkie. He cared about the moment—the exact second the thugs dropped their guard, focused on pain instead of danger. That was when he’d move.

  Another punch. A curse. Blood on concrete.

  Kai stood.

  He leapt from the ledge, landing in a roll that muffled his impact. One, two, three steps—then the metal pipe swung from his coat sleeve into his hand. Years of practice in that one motion.

  He brought it down hard.

  CRACK.

  Brass Knuckles hit the wall, then the ground. Out cold.

  Vibroknife spun, reaching for his blade—but Kai was faster. He drove the pipe into the man’s ribs, then slammed it across his face. Teeth scattered like chips of glass.

  The alley went quiet, save for the patter of rain and the junkie’s ragged breathing.

  Kai knelt by the unconscious men, rummaging through their pockets. No neural dust, but he found a pouch of nutrient cubes, a loaded stun baton, and a credchip with 180 credits. He pocketed them all.

  The junkie stared, trembling. “Wh-who are you?”

  Kai looked at him. Not with pity—just calculation.

  “Nobody.”

  And then—

  The world shifted.