If you've never been paraded through a city by a robed, masked nightmare after nearly being eaten alive, I envy you.
The crowd outside the arena parts as I'm led away, still soaked in black ichor. They stare — some curious, some hungry, some like I'm already dead meat. Again.
Clipboard floats beside me, flipping its pages. "Congratulations. You're alive."
"Barely."
"That's how most of you do it."
I want to tell it to shut up, but I'm too busy trying not to puke on myself.
We pass through a massive gate into what looks like… a business district? If "business" meant pulsating black towers with glowing veins instead of windows. Massive signs display moving, liquid-like symbols that shift into images of products — weapons, organs, memories — being traded like they're on sale.
"Welcome to the Inner Ring," Clipboard says. "Where the real players live."
"Players," I repeat.
"Oh, yes." Clipboard gestures toward a cluster of tall, sharply dressed figures emerging from one of the living towers. "You're about to meet some of them."
They're… human? At least they look it. Suits. Dresses. All black-and-crimson, with subtle glowing patterns running along their skin. But their eyes — solid black, no whites, no irises. Predators dressed like CEOs.
One of them, a tall man with slicked-back silver hair, approaches me. He smiles, but it doesn't reach those eyes.
"So," he says, voice smooth as glass, "you're the Glitch."
"Kael," I correct automatically.
"Names mean little here." He circles me like he's appraising merchandise. "But status… now that matters."
"Who are you?" I ask, taking a step back.
He grins wider. "We are the Reclaimers. We manage the unprocessed — those like you — who arrive in our City unclaimed."
"Unclaimed," I echo.
Clipboard pipes up. "Translation: You don't belong to anyone yet. Which makes you valuable."
"Belong to anyone?" I ask, feeling my stomach twist.
"Oh, don't look so disgusted," the man says. "Ownership is freedom here. Better to serve one master than be swallowed by the City whole."
"Tempting offer," I mutter.
He ignores me, leaning close. "You'll need protection, Glitch. Power. Guidance. Join us, and you'll have it."
Before I can reply, another voice cuts in:
"Don't listen to him."
A woman stands at the other end of the street.
She's tall, cloaked in flowing white stitched with black veins, her face hidden behind a porcelain mask cracked down the middle. Her presence sends a shiver down my spine — like she doesn't walk so much as glide.
"The Reclaimers will use you until you break," she says. "Join us instead. Become Unbound. Serve no master but yourself."
"Great," I mutter. "More cult recruiters."
She tilts her head at me. "Or die a pawn in their games. Your choice."
I glance between them — the sharp-dressed devil and the masked phantom. Clipboard floats higher like it's enjoying the show.
"Options, options," it hums. "Heart loves a good tug-of-war."
"What are you talking about?" I snap.
"Factions, Kael," it says. "This city is divided. Reclaimers. Unbound. Others. And now? They all want the shiny new Glitch."
I run a hand through my hair. I just wanted to deliver packages and pay rent. Now I'm apparently prime meat in a power struggle between creepy death gangs.
The Reclaimer smiles again. "So. Who will it be?"
The masked woman whispers. "Choose wisely."
And then, in my head, the Heart's voice:
"Decide. Or be decided for."
No pressure.