Rain hammered Northern New Eden with a persistence that made the city feel like it was bleeding. Dante moved through the streets with a predator's patience, each boot sliding through puddles that fractured the neon light into jagged, restless mirrors. The hum of hovercars, the hiss of leaking steam vents, the distant wail of sirens—it all layered into a chaotic symphony, yet he could read it. He could hear the rhythm of the city itself.
The storm soaked him through in minutes. Crimson threads stitched into his coat clung to his body, pulsating faintly as if alive, syncing with the pulse of his essence. Dante's hands flexed near the hilt of The Lament of Sol, the plasma edge faintly humming in response to the tension in the air.
Every shadow seemed to twitch unnaturally. Neon signs flickered erratically above street vendors selling synthetic noodles and fried bio-packs. Puddles reflected shapes that didn't quite match reality, and Dante's instincts pricked. Not everything was an optical illusion; some of it was danger—something alive, weaving itself into the city.
He passed a group of street performers, their holographic instruments warping in the rain, flickering between colors that didn't exist. Children ran past, boots splashing puddles, their laughter sharp and too bright against the storm. Vendors shouted over the rain, trying to lure customers under neon umbrellas, their voices mixing with the mechanical buzz of drones delivering goods. It was a city that demanded attention, and Dante took it all in without comment.
He paused atop a pedestrian bridge, rain streaming down his face. From here, he could see the endless cityscape: monolithic towers rising like jagged spires, their surfaces slick with rain and layered in advertisements that shifted constantly, promising cybernetic enhancements, synthesized delights, or a fleeting escape from reality. Between them, alleys twisted like veins, hiding the desperate, the dangerous, and the overlooked.
A flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow twisting across a rooftop. He didn't flinch. He had felt that essence before. Selene Voss. The Mirage Saint.
The memory of her afterimages—the chaos she had woven into the city itself—gnawed at him. She's testing the city, threading it into her game, he thought. Dante's crimson threads flared faintly, a warning signal from his own essence, syncing with the rhythm of the storm.
He descended into a narrow alley, boots slapping against slick concrete. Steam hissed from vents, carrying the scent of fried street food and ozone. Graffiti crawled across walls, neon-tagged with messages in languages that barely existed outside this city. Crates and abandoned tech littered the ground, some glowing faintly with old kinetic energy residuals. The city's underbelly thrummed with life, half-forgotten, half-threat.
Passing a broken holo-ad panel, Dante's eyes flicked to a reflection in the wet steel. The city bent subtly around him—the angle of the reflection, the faint distortion of light—it wasn't natural. It was essence interference, a trace of something observing, waiting.
From above, a distant sound of movement—footsteps, not quite human—echoed across the alley. Dante adjusted the grip on his blade, body coiling, senses expanding into the space around him. Every puddle, every neon flicker, every stray drone hum became data, feeding him the pattern of the city, of danger. Northern New Eden wasn't just alive; tonight, it was aware.
He climbed onto a crate to get a better view. Across the rooftops, the storm fractured everything into sharp prisms of light and shadow. Somewhere, high above, the city's pulse throbbed with energy. Dante could feel it in his chest. Somewhere out there, Selene was moving, threading her presence into the cityscape, testing, probing.
A faint teal spark arced past his peripheral vision. Milo. He landed silently nearby, dripping water, kinetic energy still humming faintly along his gloves. Dante didn't acknowledge him, eyes still scanning. Milo let the silence hang, leaning casually against a wall, watching Dante watch the city.
"City's… talking tonight," Milo said finally, voice low, casual. No humor, just observation.
Dante's crimson threads pulsed in response. "She's weaving it into her game. The city isn't safe. Not for anyone."
Milo nodded, stepping back into the shadows. Dante didn't wait for him. He moved deeper into the city's veins, alleyways curling like veins under neon light, his presence almost invisible, yet perfectly in rhythm with the storm. Every flicker of neon, every splash of rain on steel, every distorted reflection whispered the same truth: Northern New Eden had changed tonight. And Dante, its silent predator, had to follow its thread before the game truly began.
Dante moved through the rain-drenched streets with the city breathing around him. Northern New Eden felt almost sentient tonight: puddles shivered like quicksilver, neon flickered in stuttered pulses, and the hum of machinery and hovercars mixed with the faint echo of distant alarms. Every corner, every shadow, seemed poised to unfold into danger—but Dante didn't flinch. He had walked these streets long enough to feel their pulse beneath his boots, to read the rhythm of its chaos like a second heartbeat.
The path back to his dorm wound through narrow alleys between monolithic buildings, lit sporadically by fractured neon ads that promised escape, indulgence, or augmentation. Steam hissed from vents, swirling around his legs and coiling into the rain, carrying the smell of fried synth-noodles and ozone. The storm blurred the edges of reality, the city half-obscured, half-revealed, like a living diorama of chrome, wet asphalt, and blinking lights.
Milo bounded ahead, energy flaring faintly along his gloves, dripping water in small arcs as he adjusted to the rhythm of Dante's silent pace. The boy's grin was muted tonight, replaced with a quiet energy that matched the storm. He flicked a glance at Dante.
"You sure your dorm is this way?" Milo asked, ducking under a low-hanging sign. His voice carried over the rain, calm but alert.
Dante's eyes didn't leave the path. "I know where I'm going."
They reached the base of a towering complex that rose like a shard of black glass from the slick streets. Dante scaled the exterior fire escape with fluid precision, boots clanging faintly against wet metal. Milo followed, bouncing lightly from rung to rung, kinetic energy subtly guiding his momentum.
At the top, Dante paused, scanning the rooftops for anomalies. Nothing moved—but the city's pulse was still uneven, stretched with threads of essence that hinted at distant influence. Selene had been here, her presence lingering like static under the neon glow. Dante exhaled slowly, crimson threads flickering faintly along his coat as if the storm itself responded to his tension.
"Alright," Milo said, landing beside him, water dripping from his hair. "Dorm's your playground. I've got the orphanage to babysit. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."
Dante didn't respond, already pivoting toward the roof exit. Milo gave a small, theatrical shrug, teal sparks flickering briefly along his gloves as he leapt from the rooftop toward a nearby alley, disappearing into the night with the storm carrying him along.
Dante descended the stairwell inside the dormitory, boots echoing softly on wet metal. The corridors smelled faintly of disinfectant, mechanical oil, and the faint aroma of someone trying to cook noodles somewhere above. The building hummed with quiet life: the soft buzz of neon lights behind frosted panels, the occasional clang of a door closing, the distant hum of an elevator motor. The storm outside seemed remote now, muffled by walls and windows, but he could still feel its pulse against the structure, vibrating through the steel.
Reaching his room, Dante pushed the door open. The interior was sparse: a single bed pushed against the wall, a metal desk stacked with old data pads and worn manuals, and a rack of weapons glinting faintly in the low light. The crimson threads along his coat dimmed, retreating like water absorbed into stone.
He dropped his soaked coat onto the chair, boots leaving small puddles on the floor, and ran a hand through his damp hair. The storm outside still raged, neon streaking through the window like fractured veins across the black sky. Dante's thoughts drifted, returning to the afterimages of Selene, the way she had bent the city itself, threading chaos into its pulse.
He moved to the window, staring down at the streets below. Even from here, the city throbbed with life: a group of street kids darted across puddles, chasing something that gleamed faintly in the rain. Vendors shouted over the storm, trying to lure customers under flickering neon umbrellas. Drones zipped between towers, their lights scattering across the wet asphalt.
Northern New Eden never slept. It simply waited, alive with tension, and Dante felt it: the city had absorbed Selene's mark tonight, and it would not soon forget.
He straightened, boots clicking against the metal floor. Somewhere out there, threads of chaos still wound through the neon veins, waiting to be tugged, tested, broken. And he would be ready.
For now, though, there was silence. A brief, almost fragile calm in the storm. Dante sat at his desk, hands brushing over the worn manuals, planning, watching, listening. Outside, rain continued to drum against the windows. Somewhere across the city, Milo returned to the orphanage, energetic and watchful, carrying his quiet brand of chaos into another corner of Northern New Eden.
Dante didn't smile. He didn't need to. The city, alive and awake, was more than enough company.
Dante stepped into the bathroom, the tiles cool under his bare feet. He peeled off his underwear, letting it drop into the laundry basket with a soft thump. Steam curled in from the shower, thick and warm, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic from the soap dispensers mounted on the wall.
Turning the knob, water hissed and roared to life, hot and relentless. He stepped under the spray, letting it wash the rain and sweat from the fight away. Each pulse of warmth unraveled tension in his shoulders, along his spine, loosening muscles that had been wound tight for hours. Crimson threads beneath his skin flickered faintly, almost imperceptible, resonating with his essence.
Hands moving on autopilot, Dante scrubbed himself clean, the hum of water filling the space, masking the city outside. He finished, towel drying every line, every crease, before stepping out to grab dark cargo pants and a reinforced jacket. Boots already polished, he dressed with the same precision he brought to every motion.
A glance in the fogged mirror reflected the familiar sharpness of his gaze. Crimson threads beneath his jacket stirred faintly, responding to the residual energy in his body. He slung The Lament of Sol across his back, hood up, and stepped into the dorm hall.
Northern New Eden waited outside, neon fractured by rain and shadow. Tonight: a night class. But Dante knew the city never waited for anyone, and he noticed everything.
Dante walked down the dorm hall, boots tapping softly against the polished concrete. Fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting long, fractured shadows across walls plastered with holo-posters—concerts, club announcements, mechanical schematics. He kept his hood low, hands buried in his jacket pockets, moving with the precision of someone who wanted to be anywhere but here.
Passing students exchanged laughs and hurried glances, bags slung over shoulders, umbrellas dripping from the drizzle outside. A few glanced at him; he gave the faintest nod, murmuring something unintelligible, and continued down the corridor. He was invisible by design, a ghost threading the edge of the crowded hallways.
At the stairwell, Dante descended without pause, boots landing quietly on each step. He emerged onto the slick streets of Northern New Eden, neon reflections fracturing in puddles, the hum of hovercars blending with distant shouts from street vendors. Rain misted the air, sharp and metallic. The city never slept, never quieted, and its pulse threaded through him like an uneasy prelude.
He wove through the scattered crowd of students and pedestrians, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes flicking to the towering skyscrapers around him, their facades fractured by holo-ads for synth-food, cybernetic upgrades, and nightly entertainment. Every neon reflection, every flicker in the wet streets, felt like a warning—or an invitation.
Class was in a building a few blocks over. Dante's pace was steady but unhurried, boots slapping against the wet pavement as he followed the maze of alleys and skybridges. He wasn't in a hurry, though he always arrived just in time—barely. The city's rhythm was chaotic, and somehow he moved in step with it, a lone note in the overwhelming cacophony.
By the time he reached the classroom, he had already mapped every reflection in the puddles, every shadow clinging to the walls, every stray spark of essence that slipped through the night air. He pushed open the door, stepping into the lecture hall, blending with the other students like he belonged.
The lecture hall smelled faintly of wet coats and recycled air, with the metallic tang of old machinery from the ventilation system. Students shuffled into their seats, murmuring, holo-pads flickering with notes and idle scrolling. Dante slid into an empty chair near the back, backpack thumping softly against the floor, and tried not to draw attention to himself.
"Late again," muttered the girl next to him, barely glancing up from her holo-notes. Dante offered a stiff shrug. She rolled her eyes and returned to her scribbling. He wasn't interested in friends—not here, not anywhere.
The professor strode in, a tall figure in a synthetic fiber coat that shimmered like liquid chrome. His voice cut through the murmurs, crisp and exact, "Let's begin—today we explore kinetic resonance in applied energy systems." Holo-projections rose from the desks, showing arcs of glowing energy, diagrams of flowing currents, sparks that seemed to pulse with life. Dante's eyes drifted to them, the diagrams almost hypnotic, tracing every curve, every point of force.
The students leaned in, jotting notes, fingers tracing holographic overlays. Dante fumbled with his pen, his handwriting jagged, unpracticed. The words in the professor's diagrams danced in his mind, merging with the fractured neon and rain outside, weaving into the chaos that followed him everywhere.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed others whispering, glances thrown his way, and he looked away, focusing on the lesson. He knew he was an anomaly here—too sharp for some, too quiet for others, and entirely disinterested in the social performance around him. The city's pulse felt stronger in this classroom, reflected in the glow of neon beyond the windows, the rain streaking the glass, the hum of hovercars passing below.
Halfway through the lecture, a misfired holo-projection from the desk in front of him flickered wildly, sparks arcing into the air. Dante instinctively leaned back, boots scraping lightly against the floor, reflexes sharper than most of his peers. A few startled students yelped. The professor didn't notice. He never did.
Dante sank further into his chair, glancing at the window. The rain lashed harder, neon streaking in wild fractals across the glass. Northern New Eden wasn't just alive—it was hungry, chaotic, testing him even here, even in a room where energy flowed in neat diagrams and formulas.
He pulled out his holo-pad finally, tapping along with mechanical precision, copying notes while his mind wandered to the storm outside, to the shimmer of Selene's essence that haunted his thoughts, to Milo, probably making trouble somewhere in the orphanage as usual. He wasn't about to call it a night yet.
But class dragged on. The lecture was tedious, the notes mechanical, and Dante felt every second tick like a metronome mocking him. He wondered if the storm outside ever let up, or if it was a mirror for his own restlessness. Either way, he'd have to navigate it—and Northern New Eden—tonight, after class, in ways the other students couldn't imagine.
The professor's voice droned on, sliding over Dante's ears like the hum of wet neon on metal. Diagrams blinked and shifted on the holo-board, lines of color fracturing in erratic pulses, casting faint reflections on polished floors and the rims of students' glasses. The lecture was supposed to be about kinetic feedback loops, but Dante barely heard it. His hands rested lightly on the desk, posture casual, yet his eyes—dark, assessing—swept the room, noting every twitch, every whispered glance, every subtle movement.
From his perch near the back, Dante watched the class like a predator watching its prey. The air smelled faintly of ozone and solder smoke, the faint tang of the city drifting in through cracked windows. Outside, Northern New Eden's pulse continued: neon bleeding across rooftops, hovercars humming past, steam rising from vents in lazy spirals. But here, in this room, the real storm was quiet, subtle, waiting.
And then they came.
A trio of students slid into focus: the tallest, broad-shouldered and arrogant, leaning over the edge of his desk with an air of entitlement; a copper-haired girl beside him, pen tapping a nervous rhythm that suggested practiced malice; and a wiry boy, ink-stained fingers curling over his holo-pad, eyes sharp with amusement.
"Dante," the tallest drawled, voice smooth and condescending. "You really sit there like you're waiting for someone to… rescue you?"
The girl's tapping intensified, like a pulse synced to some unspoken countdown. "Always the quiet one. You do know people notice, right? We just like to see how long it takes you to crack."
The wiry boy leaned in closer, smirking. "Or maybe it's the orphanage thing. Always wondering what it's like to have someone in your life, huh?"
Dante didn't react. His fingers drifted over the holo-pad, tracing faint, imperceptible sigils in the air, threads of essence flickering quietly beneath his coat sleeves. His gaze swept the room again, cataloging movements, reading the faint tensions in the others' postures. The professor's words droned on, oblivious.
The group's confidence thickened. The tallest jabbed his elbow into Dante's desk, just enough to shift papers. "Come on, orphan boy. Say something. Or are you always this… boring?"
Dante's eyes lifted slightly, dark and calm, absorbing their words like they were nothing more than static in the background. His voice was quiet, low, and measured when it finally came. "I'm listening."
The simple statement stretched across the room like a weight. The girl's fingers stilled for a heartbeat, the wiry boy's smirk twitched. For a moment, their practiced malice faltered, replaced by unease they couldn't articulate.
But they didn't stop. The tall one leaned in, chin jutting, voice edged with impatience. "You think you're better than us, sitting there all smug and silent? You're nothing, Dante. Just another nobody waiting for someone to care."
Dante's hand hovered over his holo-pad, subtle crimson threads pulsing under his skin. He didn't need to respond, not yet. The room hummed around him—the faint whir of the ventilation system, the distant creak of settling floors, the subtle shift of light from the holo-board. It was all data, and he was already ahead.
"You hear that?" the wiry boy hissed, leaning closer. "Even your orphanage can't save you now."
Dante's gaze flicked over them, sharp and deliberate. Nothing moved without his notice. Every smirk, every jab, every word—it was all cataloged, weighed, and stored. His lips didn't curl; his jaw didn't tighten. But beneath that calm exterior, a pulse of essence stirred, quiet and ready, waiting for the right moment.
Outside the window, the city's pulse continued: neon bleeding into the rain, hovercars tracing blue streaks through mist, distant sirens wailing a rhythm of endless life. The classroom felt small and fragile compared to the weight of what Dante could see, what he could feel. Northern New Eden wasn't just alive outside—it lived in him, in the calculated silence behind his eyes.
And Milo alone knew.
The professor finally droned to a halt, slamming a stack of papers on the desk with a metallic thump that echoed in the half-empty lecture hall. Dante pushed back from his seat, stretching silently, eyes scanning the room. His notebook was half-filled with formulas and diagrams, mostly reminders of things he'd already figured out in the quiet hum of his own mind. The other students shuffled out, backpacks slung carelessly, voices blending into the low roar of post-class chatter.
Dante rose, adjusting his jacket, and moved toward the exit, boots clicking softly on the polished floor. He'd made it just a few steps when a familiar group of faces blocked the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, grinning with a mix of boredom and malice, they leaned against the wall, watching him like a cat sizing up a cornered mouse.
"Well, well," the tallest one said, voice smooth and deliberately slow, "if it isn't the orphan kid who thinks he's invisible."
"Orphan?" Dante repeated flatly, stopping in his tracks, eyes narrowing.
The shorter ones snickered. One of the girls twirled a strand of hair around her finger, smirking. "Yeah, orphan. How's life in the dorms? Lonely? Sad?"
Dante's jaw clenched. He had learned long ago that arguing rarely helped. He measured them, movements precise, senses sharpened, essence lightly humming under the skin. "What do you want?" he said finally, voice low but steady. "Fight? Is that it? What do you want out of this?"
The tall one laughed, leaning forward. "Oh, we just like seeing you squirm. Makes the day more interesting. Come on, just one hit—make it fun."
Dante's hand shot out before anyone could blink. The tall boy's smirk vanished in an instant as a precise strike connected with the side of his face, cracking cartilage and sending him staggering back against the lockers. Gasps and murmurs filled the hall. The others froze, caught between shock and disbelief.
"Next time," Dante said, voice quiet but laced with warning, "think twice before calling someone weak."
He strode past them, each step deliberate, the hall buzzing with whispers. The shorter ones muttered under their breath, and one dared to shout something cruel after him, but Dante didn't look back. The hallway felt heavier now, weighted with the tension left in his wake, as if the air itself recognized the moment.
Once he cleared the last locker, Dante's pace slowed. The city outside was alive with the evening pulse, and the distant hum of hovercars reminded him that even after the fight, life moved on. But the encounter lingered, a reminder that even in mundane spaces like a school hallway, danger—or at least defiance—was never far behind.
He continued walking, boots echoing softly, toward the stairs. Each step carried him closer to the familiar solitude of the streets, closer to the quiet he needed before whatever came next.