Life didn't change all at once.
But Kael could feel it, day by day.
The house was sturdier now, the kitchen warm, the food filling. His mother still moved like someone carrying ghosts, but there were fewer nights she wept when she thought he wasn't listening. The government stipend had pulled them out of the gutter, and for the first time, Kael had more than survival.
He grew stronger, his body catching up with his mind. Yet the whispers never stopped. The hum of machines spoke to him, currents of energy flickering like veins beneath skin. He could nudge them, break them, make them obey—though it left him with pounding headaches.
The government had tested him, ranked him, and then sealed his records away. No tutor, no manual, just silence.
And then, there was him.
Kael first noticed the man sitting outside their apartment complex late at night. A wheelchair creaked beneath his weight, one wheel squealing with each turn. Cigarette smoke curled into the dark, glowing against the faint light of a cracked holo-board.
The man always seemed half-drunk, half-bored, like someone who had been left behind by the world.
Kael ignored him—until one evening, the man spoke without looking up.
"You stare at machines too much, kid."
Kael froze. The vending unit beside him still hummed with the faint impression of his will, its circuits bending to his silent touch.
"I—I wasn't doing anything," Kael muttered.
The man laughed, raspy and bitter. "Sure you weren't." He tapped his temple with a scarred finger. "I know that itch. The need to pull at the seams, see how things tick."
Kael swallowed. "…Who are you?"
The man shifted in his chair. The right leg was gone below the knee, replaced by a crude prosthetic. His arms bore burns that never fully healed. His eyes—one bloodshot, one glassy—studied Kael with the weight of someone who had seen too much.
"Name's Darian Voss," he said flatly. "Used to be frontline infantry. The kind they toss into meat grinders and call heroes. Lost my squad, lost my legs, lost my damn war."
His grin was humorless. "Now? I hack. Illegal VR sims, underground tourneys, rigged matches. Pays just enough for smokes and bad beer."
Kael blinked. "…You're a criminal."
Darian barked a laugh. "Takes one to know one, kid. And don't pretend—your eyes glow like mine did when I first started breaking systems. You've already been poking at things you shouldn't."
Kael looked away, ashamed. "It just… happens. Machines listen."
Darian's grin widened, sharp and knowing. "Then you'd better learn to control it. The military will come sniffing eventually. And trust me—if you don't own your gift, they will."
Kael hesitated, then whispered: "Can you… teach me?"
Darian leaned back in his chair, smoke trailing from his lips. "I can show you tricks. Enough to stop you frying your brain. Maybe enough to keep the wolves off your back. But I'm no hero, kid."
Kael's heart pounded. "…I don't need a hero."
Darian smirked, extending a scarred hand. "Then welcome to the gutter classroom."
Kael took it.
The metal fingers were cold, rough, but steady.
That night, Kael lay awake. The fan above him whirred, and with a single thought, he made it falter, then spin again. His mother shifted in her sleep, unaware.
Somewhere below, Darian laughed into the dark, logging into another rigged VR battlefield.
For the first time, Kael realized—he wasn't the only broken one.
And sometimes, even broken men could teach you how to survive.