There are two ways to restore balance: buy or take.
Night fell upon Lyran not like wine, but like brine: warm, sticky, with a pungent taste of salt, rust, and marine fuel. The towering structures of the "High Line" reflected neon in their glass shields, a light that didn't disperse into the air but flowed across the wet asphalt, merging with the dirty water. The city breathed with humidity and a hum somewhere beneath its skin—in the pipes, in the flickering signs, in the sound of footsteps on the perpetually damp streets of the "Low Quarter."
On the fortieth floor of the "Sierra" hotel—in one of the corporate sector's towers—the air was sterile and still. The warmth of bodies still trembled within it, an echo of a touch.
Kang Jihan sat at the head of the bed, his elbow resting on the pillow. The woman lay semi-nude, her hair plastered to her temples.
— Today you're impossible, — she said hoarsely, looking up at him.
— Glad to hear it, — his voice was even, devoid of nuances, as if untouched by reality.
She touched his chain—thin, silver, with an old cross, darkened by time.
— Even your cross looks like a trendy accessory now.
He didn't reply. Beneath her fingers, his skin remained cold—strangely clean, as if his body were biologically different.
— Did you skip those meds I gave you again? — she tried to joke. — You have terrible circulation.
— Is that bad? — he asked calmly.
— No. It's... incredibly seductive.
He leaned closer, burying his face in the curve of her neck. He liked this moment: when a living, warm body was beneath his palms, when a heart beat right under his fingers—real. She laughed, talking about a wedding, about the sea on Solla Island, about a white dress.
— A wedding, — he repeated quietly.
— Uh-huh. But you know, I still only love you, — she said, almost tenderly.
He smiled—lightly, without a hint of belief.
She pulled crisp bills from her purse, tossed them onto the bed.
— Take it. At least for a taxi. And stop being so tragic.
He caught her hand.
— Wait. Look at me. Only a minute.
She turned. His eyes—deep, amber—suddenly filled with an unnatural, electric glow.
— Freeze, — he whispered.
The voice didn't get louder, but it gained a viscosity, like that of a supersaturated solution, bringing all living things to a halt. It wasn't a command, but a subtle neural directive.
The woman's pupils clouded over.
— Like this? — she asked softly.
— Yes, — he replied just as gently. — Just be here.
He put his arms around her shoulders, leaned in closer.
"In Lyran's old archives, they were called Class V—a result of human pride, not a curse from the heavens."
— I don't date married women.
— But I told you...
— Everyone who said that later became a problem.
His lips touched her skin—barely, like a farewell kiss.
— We need to restore balance. Just a little.
— ...Okay.
Specialized canines extended smoothly, without a jerk, like instruments. The skin yielded—and hot, thick blood with a slight metallic note flooded his mouth. He did it mechanically, timing it by the pulse beating under his fingers. The bracelet on his wrist vibrated—three minutes. Enough to replenish the deficit.
Jihan pulled back, wiped his lips, and sealed the tiny puncture with a neural patch matching her skin tone. She was already asleep, smiling.
He stood up, buttoned his shirt, and looked around. Outside, Lyran melted in neon—the shade of Lyran turquoise and blood-red merged in the reflection on the harbor water. A shame. She was almost sincere.
He descended to the level below the harbor—into a parking lot smelling of concrete and ingrained sea salt. In the shadows stood his old Roux-3. He got in, started the engine.
— Her name is already fading. A good sign.
The wheels softly rolled over the wet asphalt. Above, on the supports, rusty signs flashed and faded. And in the sky, above the old docks, a colossal sign, like a promise, shimmered: Vermilion.