Zayne hadn't worn anything "nice" in years. His closet didn't have that setting. The best he could do was his least-wrecked hoodie and a pair of sneakers that weren't peeling at the sole. He felt stupid the whole way there, tugging the hood tighter, wondering if Nia was going to laugh at him the second she saw him.
She didn't.
She was already waiting at the corner of 8th and Jarvis, leaning against a streetlamp that buzzed neon pink. Not a blazer this time. Not corporate armor. A fitted black dress under a cropped jacket, gold hoops glinting in the light, heels clicking casually against the sidewalk. A baddie in every sense.
Zayne actually slowed when he saw her.
"You're late," she teased, even though she wasn't checking her watch.
"Had to look my best." He gestured at his hoodie. "Clearly nailed it."
Her eyes flicked over him—hoodie, sneakers, the resigned slouch. The smile stayed, but it curved differently now. "That's your 'date' outfit?"
He blinked. "It's my everything outfit."
"Not anymore." She hooked a manicured finger in his sleeve and started walking.
"Wait—what? Dinner's the other way."
"Detour," she said. "You're not sitting across from me looking like you lost a fight with a laundromat."
They ended up in a narrow boutique wedged between a vape shop and a pawnbroker. Holo-ads shimmered over racks of jackets and dark jeans. The place smelled like leather, neon, and money. Zayne felt completely out of place, surrounded by price tags that could pay his rent twice over.
Nia moved like she owned the place, flipping through hangers with quick, decisive motions. "Something simple. Clean lines. No holes. No bloodstains."
"Those add character," he muttered.
She held a black fitted shirt against his chest, tilting her head. "You have enough character. Try this."
He sighed but took it. The fitting room was a blur of mirrors and mild panic. When he stepped out, tugging at the sleeves, Nia looked him over slowly.
"See? Presentable. Almost handsome."
"Almost?"
She smiled. "Don't push it, rookie."
He caught his reflection in a mirror by the counter—the clothes actually fit. Not rich-boy slick, just clean. Like someone who belonged somewhere.
Nia paid before he could protest.
"I can—"
"You can shut up," she said, handing him the bag with his old clothes. "Consider it a business investment. If you're going to make me look good in public, you have to meet me halfway."
He stared at her, a little stunned. "You like being seen with me that much?"
Her grin turned sly. "Don't get sentimental. You're still my project, now let's go to dinner, rookie."
The night air hit him different now—colder, sharper—but he didn't mind. For once, he didn't feel invisible.
The place wasn't fancy. Nia hadn't picked a velvet lounge or corporate sushi bar. She'd picked a noodle spot tucked into an alley, lit by paper lanterns and the glow of simmering broth. Inside, the air was warm and heavy with garlic and soy.
They sat at a small table by the window. Zayne tried not to stare, but she made it impossible. Everything about her was effortless—the way she leaned on her hand when she listened, the way her smile curved when she teased him.
Nia leaned back, chopsticks resting on her bowl. "So tell me something, Ward. What were you like before all this?"
Zayne blinked. "Before what?"
"The fights. The headset. The exhaustion." Her tone was curious, not probing. "You can't have been born grumpy."
He smirked faintly. "Guess I missed the cheerful gene."
She arched a brow. "You dodged the question."
He sighed, eyes dropping to his bowl. Steam rose between them. "Mom raised me. Just her and me. She worked nights at a clinic—long shifts, double pay when she could get it. Always came home smelling like antiseptic and cheap coffee."
His expression softened as the memory took hold. "She used to hum while she cooked..." He smiled faintly, eyes unfocused, like he could still hear it through the years.
"Even when she was half-asleep. Never complained, not once. Every time I got in trouble, she'd just look at me and say, You're better than what's trying to break you, Zay." He chuckled quietly. "Guess I didn't listen."
Nia's smile turned genuine. "Sounds like she was tough."
"She was," he said. "Tougher than anyone I've met. When she got sick, she didn't tell me until it was bad. I think she knew I'd quit everything to take care of her."
He pushed a noodle around the bowl with his chopsticks. "She passed a year before I got this job. After that, it was just... me and the bills. Haven't really stopped running since."
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Nia reached across the table and tapped his wrist with her chopsticks—light, almost playful, but grounding. "For what it's worth," she said, "I think she'd be proud. You're still fighting. Maybe not the way she meant, but still."
Zayne looked up at her, and for once, he didn't deflect with sarcasm. "Yeah," he murmured. "Maybe."
The warmth lingered between them a beat too long before Nia pulled back with a small, knowing smile. "Guess that explains why you eat like every meal might be your last."
He smirked. "Hey, noodles this good might be."
She laughed—a sound that eased something heavy in his chest.
For a moment, the city, the noise, the weight of survival—all of it disappeared.
For a while, it was easy. Just food, banter, jokes about how the city smelled like boiled tires, no matter where you went. But then she shifted, tone lowering, eyes steady.
"You know, you're better like this."
He blinked. "Like what?"
"Not staring at the headset like it's oxygen." Her chopsticks tapped against her bowl. "Zayne, I've seen fighters drown in Void. Doesn't matter how strong they get. One day, the fights become the only thing they can breathe. And then they don't come back. Not really."
Zayne looked down at his broth.
"I don't want that for you," she added softly.
"Why?" His voice came sharper than he meant.
She didn't flinch. "Because you're cute, rookie. And because you remind me of someone who still has a choice."
Silence pressed between them. For once, Zayne didn't have a comeback.
Nia smiled again, smaller now. "So don't confuse Void's rewards with freedom. They're not the same thing."
They could've ended the night there, but Zayne didn't want it to.
When they stepped out into the neon-lit street, he shoved his hands into his pockets and blurted: "Wanna keep walking?"
She raised a brow. "Got somewhere in mind?"
"Not really. Just… don't feel like going back yet."
Her smirk returned, softer. "Fine. Lead the way."
They passed a holo-theater flashing the latest overblown action flick. Zayne paused. "Movie?"
Nia wrinkled her nose. "Popcorn's the only good part."
So they kept walking. Two blocks later, she tugged his sleeve and pointed. "There."
It was a bookstore, of all things—wedged between a pawn shop and a repair shop. The glass was fogged, the sign half-dead, but inside the warm lamplight glowed against endless shelves.
"You read?" Zayne asked, surprised.
"Of course I read." She pushed the door open. "What, you think I spend all my time babysitting rookies?"
He followed her inside, the smell of old paper and ink wrapping around him like a blanket. She walked straight to a shelf like she knew exactly where to go.
"This one," she said, pulling down a thick paperback and handing it to him. Odyssey Nexus. The cover showed a group of shadowed figures standing against a fractured horizon, text etched in silver.
Zayne tilted his head. "That's your favorite?"
"Currently." She flipped it open, thumbing a page like it was muscle memory. "It's about these friends who wake up in a new world after dying in their own. They discover a power called Anima Nexus—something that can shape the world around them, but it's dangerous. The more they use it, the more it eats at them. So they're stuck between learning the truth of the Nexus, surviving what hunts them, and figuring out if they'll ever find a way home."
She closed the book with a soft snap. "It's messy. Scary. But kind of beautiful too."
Zayne studied her for a moment, lips twitching. "You like books a lot, huh?"
Nia smirked, sliding the paperback back into its slot. "Everyone needs an escape, Ward. Some people fight. Some people read. I do both."
Zayne picked up a random romance novel from the shelf, flipping the cover at her. "So… this one too?"
She gave him a look that could cut steel. "Don't push it."
For a while, they wandered the aisles. Nia pulled out titles, eyes lighting up when she explained them, and Zayne found himself pretending to care more about the spines than the way she laughed quietly when he picked the wrong section.
At one point, he caught his reflection in the bookstore glass—hoodie, bruised knuckles, tired eyes. For a second, he didn't look like a guy on a date. He looked like a fighter. The thought clung to him even as Nia bumped his shoulder to drag him back into the moment.
By the time they reached her building, the city had quieted. A street vendor down the block was still shouting about knockoff VR rigs, and kids in an alley were shadowboxing in the dark, mimicking Void fighters they'd never meet. Zayne looked once, then forced himself to look away.
"Well," she said under the lobby light. "Not a bad night, Ward."
"Don't thank me. You picked the bookstore."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You're not as hard to read as you think."
Before he could answer, she stepped closer and kissed him.
Not long. Just enough. Warmth against the cold night. A taste of something Zayne didn't realize he'd missed.
She pulled back with a smirk, softer than usual. "Don't read too much into it, rookie." Then, after a beat, almost whispering: "Just don't die in there. I'd hate to waste my time."
And then she was gone, disappearing into the building's glow like she'd never belonged to the streets outside at all.
Zayne stood there a long moment, lips tingling, chest hot.
When he finally turned back toward his own block, he couldn't decide what he wanted more—another night like this.
Or another fight.