Location: The Gullies, Maatari
Time: 06:47 AM
Maatari didn't sleep.
It sparked. It hissed. It rerouted.
From the spires of its shattered skylines to the sub-grid slums clinging to its gutters, the city pulsed like a dying circuit that refused to short out. The Gullies — the stretch of low-tier districts along the old east rail — buzzed before the sun even cracked.
And on one of its broken roofs, Khazim Liba sat motionless.
Khazim's skin carried a deep bronze hue that caught the dawn like oiled copper. His short, tightly coiled fro crowned his head in ordered chaos, a single rat-tail braid trailing clean from the nape. A faint scar crossed from hairline to jaw, bisecting his right eye — a dead pupil lit from within by a pale indigo Se'lo glow.
Across his bare chest lay a faintly glowing chain, herringbone-woven and threaded with fragments of Ghostglint Core. In Maatari, Se'lo users wore their anchors like badges. Each tether hummed with the echo of a beast bound to its keeper, the pulse of what locals called their T'alü.
T'alü was a person's source circuit — the inner frequency that decided what kind of power they could wield.
Some burned from the Core Plexus, others from Centertide or Forge; higher adepts aligned through Signal, Summit, Root, or Ether.
The T'alü dictated type — fire, light, sound, storm, or worse.
The Se'lo decided reach — how much of that energy a soul could truly handle before it hollowed them out.
Khazim's Se'lo was strong. Too strong, some said. It let him touch more current than most lived long enough to channel.
His own tether anchored him to Tre'co, a corrupt-Signal beast whose power bled across spectrums.
A low growl curled out of the rooftop alcove behind him.
Tre'co emerged — three heads first, each muzzle shaped from cobalt flame, eyes like shards of static. When the light bent, the spectral form folded into a physical shape: a massive, Cerberus-like Glypherus with a pitbull's muscle and stance, skin patterned in faint glyph etchings that moved when he breathed. The air around him shimmered from the heat of unspent Se'lo.
Khazim felt the pull through the chain: instinct, hunger, loyalty, and the faint buzz of corruption that made Tre'co unlike any other Signal beast.
"Not yet," he muttered. "You'll eat soon."
The heads bowed once; the growl receded. In Maatari, such exchanges weren't strange. Streets saw every manner of tethered companion — some hauling cargo, others guarding rooftops, a few too proud to hide their glow. Magic and machinery had long since learned to share the same rent.
Khazim closed his eyes again and resumed Oru'mi — the Se'lo Sage's act of inner alignment.
It wasn't prayer; it was maintenance. A rhythm of breath that taught power where to rest.
T'alü energy coiled at his core plexus and climbed the etched threadwork along his body. The chain warmed, pulse matching heartbeat.
He didn't meditate to escape the world.
He meditated to master his stillness inside it.
When he rose, the first line of sun crept over the towers, burnt orange against steel-gray silhouettes.
He moved through his morning forms: measured strikes and pivots that braided Se'lo flow with discipline. One motion, one exhale, one reset.
When he finished, the chain dimmed to rest.
A chime from the stairwell broke the quiet. His halosync blinked on a cracked ledge.
>>>NEW MESSAGE INCOMING…
> FROM: Mom
> MESSAGE: "Don't be late. 6 PM sharp. No excuses. And you better eat this time."
He let the words linger before answering.
[> REPLY: I'll be there.]
His stomach answered first. "Alright," he muttered. "Diner first."
The wind carried the smell of ashpepper stew and street fuel up from the alleys below, the scent of another day beginning its grind.
A train sparked across the east rail, its hum folding into the city's endless rhythm.
With a final glance over the waking chaos of the Gullies, he slipped his shirt back on, shrugged his jacket over one shoulder, and descended into the bones of the city.
Khazim moved through the Gullies with the ease of someone who didn't need to look twice.
The streets were already cracking at the seams — vendors shouting half-priced synthfruit deals, grid-techs resetting power terminals with jury-rigged pulses, and street kids launching bottle rockets off mag-rails for Musa scraps. Everything buzzed with that particular brand of Maatari madness: choreographed chaos where magic and machinery traded curses in the same breath.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't slow.
People moved around him.
A few nodded as he passed. No one called his name. Everyone knew better.
The Rustpan Diner sat wedged between a scorched data-repair shop and a bootleg glyph parlor. Its sign buzzed louder than the food sizzled, but inside, the regulars knew exactly what they were getting.
Khazim stepped in and was immediately greeted by the scent of burnt oil, pepper stew, and fried dumplings bubbling in sweet-glaze sauce.
"Look who finally left his cave," came a voice from behind the counter.
Marta, wide-shouldered and sharper than the kitchen knives, flipped a pan with one hand and pointed with the other. Her skin held a warm chestnut tone dusted with flour, braids tucked under a sleeve cap. The apron she wore looked like it had survived several wars.
"You gonna order or just scare my customers again?"
Khazim slipped into his usual booth near the back. "That depends. You serving actual meat today or just regret?"
Marta barked a laugh. "Get this ghost-boy some food before he starts brooding on my furniture."
One of the younger servers — a girl no older than seventeen, half her face tattooed in glowing thread-glyphs that pulsed faintly with Se'lo residue — dropped off a bowl of white rice, fried veggies, and a thick square of grilled meat crusted in spice salts.
"Extra sharp," she said. "Like your attitude."
Khazim gave her the smallest nod of thanks. The tiniest twitch of a smirk.
He ate in silence.
The noise of the diner folded around him — casual arguments, holo-sports replays, old heads debating bracket stats. One corner booth argued fiercely over trap glyphs versus beast-rush decks in tournament play.
"…I'm telling you, if you don't layer at least two glyphs to reinforce your field-effect Se'lo tablet, your whole play collapses mid-match."
"Unless you're running tether overload. Then you just let 'em burn themselves out."
Khazim listened but didn't engage. Maatari's obsession with Tethari was constant noise — half religion, half blood-sport.
He let the city breathe through him. Let it remind him he was still part of something, even if he didn't feel it.
His halosync pinged.
>>>NEW MESSAGE INCOMING…
> FROM: Mom
> MESSAGE: "ADDENDUM: Your dad said bring grain. I said you won't. So prove me right or prove me wrong. Your choice."
He exhaled through his nose. That slight smirk again.
Another ping.
>>>NEW MESSAGE INCOMING…
> FROM: Spots Ren
> MESSAGE: "Heard Gor Delmin talking slick at the Westway Strip — said he's been stringing you along. Never planned to pay for that bracket win. Said your ghost boy act doesn't scare him anymore. You going soft, or should I get the mop ready?"
Khazim wiped the bowl clean.
Then he stood, dropped a few Musa on the table, and gave Marta a glance on the way out.
"That wasn't regret."
Marta raised a pan in salute. "Next time bring more Musa and less mood."
The door buzzed shut behind him.
Outside, the heat of the streets hit him again — ozone, spice, and static in the same breath.
The train line screamed overhead. Somewhere down the block, a kid's Se'lo flared too bright, lighting the puddles in violet before fading.
Khaz adjusted his collar, eyes narrowing toward the Strip.
Time to collect.