The streets of the lower district pulsed with a restless energy, a chaotic blend of neon lights and grime-covered steel. The roads were cracked, littered with discarded wrappers and the occasional metal canister rolling aimlessly. Overhead, the sky was an unnatural shade of purple, a side effect of the city's towering skyscrapers refracting artificial light.
A hoverboarder shot past them, a teenager barely older than Zayn, balancing precariously as his board sputtered mid-air before stabilizing. He let out a curse and kicked the side of the battered device, clearly struggling with old or malfunctioning tech. Further down the street, a group of kids spray-painted a wall, laughing and shoving each other as they worked. The holographic ad embedded in the metal flickered erratically under their artwork—its original message now unreadable beneath streaks of fluorescent green and red.
Dio, silent as ever, walked beside Zayn, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The boy, unable to take the quiet any longer, shifted uncomfortably before speaking.
"I'm Zayn. Zayn Marlowe." He flashed a quick grin and extended his hand toward Dio, but when the white-haired boy neither responded nor looked at him, Zayn awkwardly lowered his hand and continued walking. "I'm sixteen. Didn't awaken when I turned fifteen."
His voice carried a subtle bitterness, as if the words alone held the weight of a failure he had yet to come to terms with. He hesitated before continuing.
"Some days... I think I'm just not good enough. Useless, even." He forced out a chuckle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Guess that's just life, huh?"
Dio remained impassive, offering no comfort nor judgment.
Zayn sighed but kept talking. "I live with my mom and little sister. My dad—" his voice faltered slightly before he regained his composure, "—owned a restaurant. He went missing a couple years ago, so it's just us now." He smiled wistfully. "Mom's a great cook, though. Probably even better than he was."
They passed a makeshift gambling den, a group of men crouched in a darkened alley, rolling dice on a rusted metal surface. The occasional flash of a concealed blade hinted at the kind of clientele this place attracted. Nearby, a woman dressed in a synthetic silk dress leaned against a wall, her neon-lit nails tapping against a metal railing. "Looking for a good time, sweetheart?" she called out to a passerby, who ignored her and kept walking.
Dio still hadn't spoken a word.
"My little sister's quiet, but she's lovely," Zayn continued, glancing at Dio as if expecting some reaction. None came. Finally, Dio broke his silence.
Softly, he asked, "Why did the gang want your eye?"
Zayn blinked, caught off guard. He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "They say it's for protection. Against—" he leaned in slightly, whispering, "—the monsters."
Dio stared at him impassively, then continued walking.
The silence stretched between them, and this time, Dio was the one to break it.
"Why doesn't the S.A.M.T. stop the monsters?"
Zayn glanced around before answering. "Guards patrol sometimes, but they can't stop them. It's like they never run out—always coming back. I've even heard of monsters strong enough to kill guards." His voice dropped to a whisper, his expression uneasy.
Dio didn't respond.
Instead, he simply stated, "So you pay the gangs to keep you safe from them."
Zayn twitched nervously. "Well, no, but... it helps, you know?"
Dio gave him a look—cold, unreadable. Zayn shifted under the weight of that gaze but quickly brightened as they reached their destination.
"Here we are!" He spread his arms wide, a bit dramatic.
The restaurant was small but welcoming, a contrast to the harsh streets outside. A neon sign above the entrance flickered weakly, half of its letters already dead. The front window displayed holographic images of their menu, though the projection was slightly off, distorting the food's appearance. The air smelled of spiced meats and sizzling oil, a sharp contrast to the metallic stench of the lower district.
"Come on in, Mr.," Zayn said, grinning. "I promise, our food is to die for."
Dio followed him inside, scanning the patrons with caution. The tables were simple, the chairs slightly worn but still sturdy. The restaurant had a warm, homely atmosphere, though it was clear that money was tight—a few booths had duct-taped cushions, and the holographic menu flickered sporadically. Despite that, it had charm.
Zayn hurried over to a woman behind the counter—his mother.
Lyra Marlowe had blonde hair streaked with faint lines of silver, tied back in a loose bun. Her face was youthful but carried the weight of exhaustion, her eyes sharp but kind. She was preparing ingredients, her hands moving with practiced ease, but the moment she noticed Zayn, she paused to listen.
Zayn, ever animated, waved his hands wildly as he spoke, likely recounting the events of the night. Lyra listened with quiet attentiveness, a small frown of concern forming on her lips.
Dio observed them.
For a fleeting second, something stirred in his chest—a dull pang at the sight of their interaction. It was something his own mother had never given him.
But just as quickly as the feeling came, it disappeared.
Before Dio could dwell on it, Zayn turned back to him with his mother in tow.
"Hello," she greeted with a gentle smile. "I'm Lyra. I see you've already met my son, Zayn. I know he can be a bother, but he means well. Even if he has a wild imagination."
Groan "mum_"
She turned to Dio with a curious expression. "Where's your family, little guy? You shouldn't wander the streets like this."
Before Dio could answer, Zayn quickly tugged at his mother's sleeve, whispering, "Mom, I told you! He's a powerful awakener!"
Lyra flicked his forehead lightly. "Hush now. No one awakens before fifteen." She gave Dio an apologetic smile. "Are you hungry?"
Dio nodded.
Beaming, she turned toward the kitchen. "I'll bring something out for you."
As she walked away, Zayn groaned and slid into the booth beside Dio. "Why does no one believe me when I say you're a powerful awakened?"
Dio ignored the question. Instead, he said, "Your mom's nice."
Zayn was momentarily stunned before breaking into a grin. "Of course she is! She's the best!"
A few minutes later, Lyra returned with a plate of food—steaming hot noodles topped with grilled meat, drizzled in a glossy sauce that shimmered under the dim light. A side of fried dumplings accompanied the dish, crisp and golden brown.
"Enjoy, little guy," she said. "It's on the house."
Dio took a bite. Then another.
Then he shoved food into his mouth at an alarming pace, startling both Zayn and Lyra.
Lyra laughed. "Glad you like it, but don't worry—there's more where that came from."
Meanwhile, in a private medical facility...
Two men in black suits entered a hospital room. Their polished boots clicked against the floor, and their black glasses reflected the sterile white light overhead. The man in the hospital bed, battered but alive, eyed them warily.
One of the men stepped forward, flashing a badge.
"Mr. Calon Madoc," he said. "C.P.D. We have a few questions for you."
The patient was Calon, the mercenary who had survived the massacre in the Nairobi district.