"World had enough to satisfy every one's need… but not every one's greed. And greed? Greed always wins."
The old wise man who said that? Left long ago. Before Earth went from a blue-green paradise to a flaming carcass of rust and ruin. Before oceans choked on oil and plastic, before cities drowned in their own smog and arrogance. Before humans got so damn good at dying by their own hands, they turned it into an art form.
Ah, Earth.
The planet that said, "We got this," while setting itself on fire.
They built higher towers, faster machines, louder weapons. Progress, they called it. And when it all came crashing down, they didn't weep. They didn't mourn. They boarded ships, wiped the ash off their boots, and said, "Next planet."
Because that's the human way.
Don't fix it. Just flee it.
But remember this, for it will echo far later than you'd expect:
"One death can make the human race advance!"
Cryptic? Good. Let it simmer.
Then came the Galactic Government.
Oh, what a lovely acronym: GG.
They rose from the ashes of Earth's demise, presenting themselves as the only hope in a hopeless void. Hope, they called themselves—and that's exactly why they broke every ounce of trust.
They promised light. So they made sure the galaxy drowned in shadows.
They said, "Evolution!" So they evolved themselves into monsters, slaughtering billions in the name of "advancement."
They spoke of power, and then crushed every source of true strength: rebels, ideas, entire species.
And with silver tongues and bloody hands, they colonized planet after planet. One system at a time. One betrayal after another.
This is the galaxy now.
Welcome to the aftermath of salvation.
Let's shift focus, shall we?
Let's talk about a shining gem of the galactic map.
Let's talk about Velria.
VIP Velria—a place so glossy, so polished, it makes diamond-encrusted crowns look like bottle caps. The kind of place that screams, "Look at me! I have nothing to hide!" Which, of course, means it's hiding everything.
Sun-kissed towers.
Artificial skies that never rain. Air so clean it feels suspicious.
People here smile like their lives are just one perfect loop of brunches and biotech facials. Educated. Well-dressed. And emotionally bankrupt. Their polished skin, gleaming with synthetic perfection, hides a cold emptiness in their eyes. They walk with purpose, but there's no real depth to them. No true connection. Only curated lives, filtered smiles, and smiles that fade the moment no one is watching.
A utopia painted with fake laughter and filtered lives.
But look closely—and you'll see the cracks.
Here, no one shows pain. It's scheduled.
No one cries. It's detoxed. No one fails. They rebrand. One bad moment, one bad day, and they're recycled, retooled, ready for the next perfect iteration.
Everything is nice. So, so nice.
But how does VIP Velria shine so bright?
Because everything ugly, everything vile, everything real—
—gets dumped into the Market.
Now we're talking about the real Velria.
Built for marketing, trading, and manufacturing—or so the flyers say.
But its real industries? Black markets. Human trafficking. Cyber-organ swaps. Rental bodies. Murder-for-hire specials.
It's the kind of place where you pay extra if the kill is "clean."
Life in the Market is worse than death.
Death is at least honest.
Survival here? That's a joke with a body count.
There's no sympathy. No help. Only transactions. Contracts written in blood. Promises broken with bullets.
People live in Velria's Market the way flies live on rotting meat—unaware, until it's too late. Those who get caught up in its underworld learn that survival is a game, and in that game, you're either prey or predator. And the predators? They don't play fair. The rules are simple: Outlast. Outwit. Outlive.
And now… the bar.
Tucked between a cyber-surgery alley and a merc-for-hire kiosk sits a bar with no name. It doesn't need one. If someone is meant to find it, they will. If not—they'll probably end up inside anyway, but in pieces.
The smell? A mix of burnt metal, spilled synth-booze, and rotting dreams. A stale, metallic odor lingers in the air, clinging to your clothes like regret.
Inside, there's no music. Just the clatter of half-broken glasses and the hum of dead air being recycled too many times. The flickering lights overhead cast shadows that stretch and distort, almost as though the very walls are breathing in sync with the patrons. Faces stare into nothing, their expressions hollow, glazed over. Deals are made with a nod, a code, a twitch of the eye. A handshake isn't needed. Words are cheap, so here, silence speaks volumes.
It's not a place to talk. It's a place to disappear. The kind of place where identities are lost, and names are forgotten the moment you walk out the door.
But then—
A scream.
It rips through the thick air like a knife through wet flesh.
High. Male. Broken.
Then comes the voice. Hoarse. Furious. Bleeding through every word:
"CATCH THOSE LITTLE BRATS! THEY TOOK IT—THEY TOOK EVERYTHING!"
A crash. A table splits in two,
as always.....