The sky-bridge groaned, a deep, metallic shriek that shivered through the soles of Alok's boots.
He didn't have a magical timer. He had nothing but the frantic, wet sound of his own breathing and the sharp, coppery scent of his own blood.
The first faceless creature vaulted over the concrete railing. Its elongated, surgical-blade arms sparked against the metal, carving jagged white scars into the railing. It didn't breathe; instead, a low-frequency hum emanated from its neck, a sound so hollow it made Alok's molars ache and his vision swim in nauseating waves.
Alok tried to take a step back, but his left knee buckled. It gave out with a sickening click, sending a spike of white-hot heat straight up his spine. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming, the iron taste of fresh blood filling his mouth as his vision blurred at the edges.
"Don't just stare at the air, Ghost," the girl snapped.
She didn't look at him. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around the hilt of her katana that her knuckles were the color of bleached bone. She leaned forward, her weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, coiled like a predatory spring. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, controlled bursts—the rhythm of someone who had looked at death many times before.
Slash.
She moved faster than Alok's shock-addled brain could track. The creature was bifurcated, its two halves sliding apart with the sound of wet leather tearing. Black, oily fluid sprayed across the asphalt, sizzling and eating through the rubber of Alok's shoe where it splashed.
[MONSTER DEFEATED: GREY-WALKER (LVL 4)] [EXP GAINED: 0 (LEVEL GAP TOO HIGH)]
Alok's fingers clawed at the rough concrete of the pillar behind him, searching for leverage. "I need... a weapon," he wheezed. His chest felt like it was being squeezed by a heavy iron band, every breath coming out as a jagged, shallow rattle.
"The System doesn't give handouts to zeros," she said. She didn't turn around, but her shoulders remained rigid, eyes fixed on the shadows. "In the Harvest, you don't 'get' weapons. You manifest them from the luck you don't have. But you? You're a blind spot."
Alok looked down at his hands. They were trembling—not with a gentle shake, but a violent, uncontrollable tremor that made his fingernails drum a frantic rhythm against the concrete.
[LUCK: 0]
He forced his gaze away from his hands and toward the wreckage of the vending machine. It was a twisted corpse of blue metal and broken glass. Tucked deep inside the jagged frame sat a heavy, industrial CO2 canister.
He lunged for it, dragging his dead-weight left leg behind him. The friction of the asphalt tore the skin off his palms, leaving raw, red streaks on the ground, but he didn't feel the sting—the adrenaline was a cold fire in his veins, numbing the reality of his mangled body.
He gripped the canister's nozzle. His muscles bunched and screamed as he hauled the thirty-pound tank toward the edge of the bridge. Three more shadows were pulling themselves up, their blade-arms hooked into the concrete like ice picks.
"Hey! Over here!" Alok's voice broke, a desperate, raw shout that tore at his throat.
The creatures paused. Their smooth, featureless heads tilted in unison. They didn't have eyes, but Alok felt their hunger. They lunged, their blades whistling through the air with a lethal, metallic hiss.
Alok didn't count. He just reacted. His thumb jammed into the emergency release valve, the freezing metal sticking to his skin instantly. He braced his shoulder against the tank, his teeth bared in a snarl of pure survival.
He twisted the iron key.
WHOOSH!
A jet of sub-zero, high-pressure gas erupted. It didn't just blind them; it turned the moisture in the air into a wall of white frost. The creatures recoiled, their blade-arms flailing in a panicked, erratic rhythm as the ice coated their sensors.
Alok didn't wait. He put every ounce of his remaining strength into a desperate, wide swing. The heavy base of the tank slammed into the lead creature's chest with a muffled thud.
The momentum carried all three of them backward. For a heartbeat, they hung in the air—clutching at nothing—before gravity claimed them, dragging them down into the forty-story dark.
[SOUL CREDITS EARNED: 50]
Alok collapsed. He sat there, chest heaving, his forehead resting against the cold metal of the canister. Sweat dripped off his chin, mixing with the grey dust of the bridge. His heart was a drum in his ears, slow and heavy.
"Not bad for a dead man," the girl remarked. She flicked her blade, a single drop of black oil flying off the steel, before sliding it into the sheath with a sharp, mechanical snick.
The silence that followed was heavy. Alok could hear the frantic rhythm of his own pulse.
"Who are you?" Alok managed to say. He tried to stand, but his legs felt like they were made of water. He ended up propped against a pillar, his head tilted back, staring at the purple lightning through half-closed lids.
"The name is Haru," she said. She walked to the edge, her gaze scanning the ruins below. She didn't offer to help him up. She didn't even look at his wounds. "And you're a Ghost, Alok. You're the only thing in this city the Gods can't see on their maps."
She turned, the silver mist in her eyes fading slightly, revealing a look of clinical curiosity. "The Harvest is coming. They let us get strong, let us feel like heroes, and then they reap the Luck we've gathered to feed themselves. But you..."
She stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. "You don't have any Luck to steal. You're a hole in their ledger. A glitch in the slaughterhouse."
A deep, booming sound vibrated through the air—a brass bell that sounded like it weighed a thousand tons.
[WORLD EVENT: THE FIRST MARKET IS OPEN]
"Taxation," Haru whispered. Her hand went back to the hilt of her sword, her fingers tapping a nervous, rhythmic beat against the leather wrap. "They're going to take half of everything we have. Or they'll just take the head."
She started toward the parking garage, her steps silent and light. She paused, looking back over her shoulder. The coldness was back in her expression, but there was a flicker of something else—respect, or perhaps just pity. "Try to keep up. I'd hate to see that canister go to waste."
Alok looked at the heavy tank, then at his shredded palms. His stomach twisted with a cold, bitter spite. He didn't want to follow her. He didn't want to play their game. But he wasn't going to die twice in the same day.
He forced himself up, his muscles screaming in protest, his breath hitching as he dragged his leg into the shadows of the garage.
High above, on the 41st floor, a window pane was missing. In the darkness of that room, a man in a torn tracksuit sat perfectly still. He wasn't shaking anymore. His breathing was slow, timed to the beat of a heart that had gone cold.
He peered through a long, black scope. The red laser dot danced across the concrete, following the back of Haru's head like a blood-red fly. He adjusted a dial on the side of the rifle, his finger ghosting over the trigger with the practiced ease of a killer.
Soon, the man thought, his lips curling into a jagged, toothy grin as he exhaled a slow, steady stream of air. I'll show you what a 'gift' is worth.