The wind cut through the narrow corridor like a blade, chasing Aemon through shadowed streets with gusts of cold grit. His fingers were numb. His legs stiff. He didn't know what time it was, only that the sky was black now and the streets had grown meaner with every turn.
Around him, the lower reaches of Sector 3 groaned under the weight of the city's bones. Rusted scaffolding wrapped around crumbling buildings like spiderwebs. Neon signs buzzed with half-dead colors. Trash tumbled across cracked pavement.
And Aemon still hadn't found shelter.
The rooftops he'd seen earlier were blocked off with fences. The alleys he checked either had squatters or flickering sensor tags. Even a collapsed skywalk he'd considered crawling under stank of rot and old chemicals.
He was out of options.
So when he saw the short stairwell leading beneath a boarded-up bookstore—its door half hanging off, light leaking faintly from the seams—he hesitated only a second before descending.
The stairwell was cold, lined with old graffiti and spilled oil. At the bottom, the door hung crooked on a single hinge. Aemon pushed it aside and stepped into a narrow room.
It wasn't much. Just concrete walls, a shattered vending machine, a few chairs piled in a corner. But it was dry. Quiet. The kind of place he could maybe close his eyes for a while.
He dropped his bag and sank into a squat beside the wall, breathing deep.
That's when he heard the footsteps.
Heavy. Fast. Coming down the stairs like thunder.
Aemon stood up fast, heartbeat in his throat.
The door slammed open with a metallic crack.
A tall man in a long red coat stepped through like a storm behind a smile. His hair was wild—half buzzed, half curled into black spikes—and his boots clanged against the floor like they were made for kicking in skulls. Gold rings lined his fingers. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke coiling around a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Aemon froze.
The man looked at him, blinked once, then tilted his head like a crow.
"Well," the stranger said, voice slick and too loud for the room, "look what wandered into my rotting little corner of heaven."
Aemon's mouth was dry. "I—I didn't know anyone was here. I'll go."
"Oh, no no no." The man stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind him with a thunk. "You already are here, kid. That's the problem."
Aemon took a step back. "I'm just looking for shelter."
"I bet you are." The stranger puffed smoke through his nose, eyeing Aemon from boots to hood. "Hood up, face down, eyes like a kicked dog. You're either a runaway or a thief. And if it's the first, you're in danger. If it's the second…" He grinned wider. "You're in my danger."
Aemon's hands curled into fists. "I didn't steal anything."
"Yet," the man said. "But you're standing in my territory. Sector 3, grid four-eight. And this?" He kicked a chair across the room. "This is Baz turf."
He threw his arms out dramatically, then bowed low, theatrically.
"The name's Baz. Capital B. Boss of the lowest gutters and the highest balconies. I run deals, debts, and death when needed. You?"
Aemon hesitated. "...Just passing through."
Baz's grin didn't fade. "That so?"
He took a step closer. His eyes flickered, sharp with something behind the madness. Aemon wasn't sure if it was calculation or instinct, but he knew predators when he saw them. Baz moved like a coil—too fast, too light on his feet.
"You got a name, shadow boy?"
Aemon stayed quiet.
Baz snapped his fingers. "No? Ooooh, mysterious. That means one of two things—you're lying, or you're running from something. And if you're running…" He leaned close, smoke curling around Aemon's face. "...then I want to know why."
Aemon locked eyes with him. "It's none of your business."
Baz gave a sharp, barking laugh. "Oh, kid. Everything down here is my business."
He circled Aemon slowly, dragging the toe of his boot against the floor. "You know, you don't smell like street. You smell like home. Like soap and starch and law. You from the Heights?"
"Does it matter?" Aemon said through clenched teeth.
Baz's grin faded just a hair.
"Yeah," he said, voice low now. "It matters."
He stopped circling. Flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel.
"People like you don't just end up here by accident. You're either lost, or you're hiding."
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
"But trouble's what you are," Baz snapped suddenly, his tone turning on a dime.
Aemon's heartbeat doubled.
Baz pointed a ringed finger at him. "You're standing in a cracked den I own. You're breathing my air, taking up my space. No name, no pass, no vouch. That makes you a threat—or worse, a spy."
Aemon's hands tightened. "I'm not a spy."
Baz raised a brow. "Then what are you?"
Silence.
Then Aemon whispered, "I don't know yet."
Baz stilled.
For a heartbeat, the room felt like it had stopped breathing.
Then he chuckled again—lower this time, like gravel sliding down steel.
"Oh, I like you," he said, flashing his teeth. "But you've got too much mystery wrapped around you for my taste. And mystery?" He popped his knuckles, one by one. "Makes my skin itch."
Aemon tensed, ready to move.
Baz saw it.
His smile widened.
"You gonna swing, shadow boy?" he asked. "Or are you the run type?"
Aemon didn't answer. His back foot shifted instinctively. He wasn't a fighter—not really. But something inside him began to hum again. That low thrum, like electricity behind his ribs.
Resonance.
It didn't roar. It waited.
Baz must've seen something in his eyes, because his grin twisted into something sharper. Less amused. More… hungry.
"Well, well," Baz said, cracking his neck. "You're not just street lost, are you? I've seen that look before."
He rolled up the sleeves of his red coat, revealing tattoos that shimmered faintly in the light—marks of the Black Ring, the underground syndicate known for dealing in Resonant trafficking.
Aemon's blood ran cold.
Baz licked his lips. "You've got the buzz, don't you?"
Aemon didn't move.
Baz's eyes gleamed. "You've awakened."
Aemon didn't confirm it. Didn't have to.
Baz stepped back and dropped into a loose, dancer-like stance.
"Well then," he said, smiling wide, "let's find out what kind of spark you've got, kid."
Aemon's breath caught in his chest.
The room stretched out between them like a battlefield.
Baz's boots scraped against the concrete.
Aemon's heart pounded like a war drum.
And in that moment, with dust swirling around their feet and silence crashing like thunder—
They moved.