Ro-ro grabbed MeMe's hand. She didn't resist—her fingers were cold and trembling—but she didn't let go either.
They stepped over the wreckage of the kitchen. The broken counter. The blood. The silence.
Ro-ro glanced at Desah, then reached into his jacket, pulled out his scuffed wallet, and slapped 109 credits on the table.
Desah blinked. "Ro-ro, you don't gotta—your car got shot, your partner nearly died—"
Ro-ro cut him off with a grin. "No, no. It's fine. It's our fault your place got lit up like a damn fireworks show. Least I can do."
Desah looked at him for a long beat, then nodded. "...You'll be back, right?"
Ro-ro turned at the door, expression soft for just a second. "Of course."
Outside.
The air was cooler now, the city lights flickering on as the sun started to drop. MeMe's eyes lingered on her shirt—spattered in blood. Not hers.
She didn't say a word. Just walked to the passenger side and got in slowly, stiffly, like her body wasn't hers anymore.
Ro-ro climbed into the driver's seat. "I'll drive this time."
No reply.
The engine purred to life, and the blue Velocity Class cruiser streaked back onto the road, leaving Lumo's unconscious body slumped in the alley—forgotten, discarded.
Minutes passed in silence.
Then—
"I... I killed a-a person."
MeMe's voice was tiny. Like a whisper caught in a storm.
Ro-ro grunted. "Hey. It's not like you're a murderer or anything. You did it to defend yourself, not 'cause you wanted to."
"But I killed someone, Ro-ro." Her voice cracked. "I took someone's life. I didn't even think—I just—I just kept stabbing. I never—I'm not—I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to eat noodles and watch old Earth dramas and maybe get a job at a boba shop or something. I didn't want this. I never wanted this…"
Ro-ro didn't look at her. His jaw clenched as he stared out at the glowing road ahead.
"Like I said. You didn't want to. But you had to. It was either him or you."
MeMe wiped her eyes, but it didn't stop the tears. "You say that like it's so easy."
"That guy was a racist prick," Ro-ro snapped. "You accidentally bumped into him and he tried to execute you in a diner full of people. Screw that. If it were me? I'd've popped him in the skull the second he walked in."
"…Of course you would," she muttered. "You don't care. You're a killer."
Ro-ro slammed the brakes just enough to jolt the car, then swerved around a delivery truck.
"HEY." His voice was sharp now. Furious. "I kill because I have to. Not because I want to. If I get paid to do it? Then yeah, I'll take the job. You know why? 'Cause I got a family. I put food on the table with that money."
He banged a fist on the wheel. "If I get attacked, I fight back. I kill because I wanna fucking live, MeMe. Because I don't wanna be another corpse in a gutter. I don't have the luxury of choosing peace every time."
MeMe didn't respond. She stared at her bloodstained hands, her breath trembling.
A long silence passed between them. Heavy.
She opened her mouth once… but no words came. Just a soft, broken sound.
Ro-ro didn't push her. Didn't look at her.
He just muttered, "...How far are we from the other racers?"
The AI pinged in with a smooth, neutral tone:
"Approximately 30 minutes behind. However, given that you're driving a Velocity Class: Blue model—"
A sleek icon of the car pulsed on the dash.
"—with Jetstream-grade acceleration and enhanced burst gear, you should be able to make it in 17 minutes. That said, other Velocity Class racers may already be in the top 20."
Ro-ro snorted. "Uh-huh. Sure. Thanks, genius tin can."
The AI continued politely. "Reminder: Your vehicle's weakness is light armor. A direct hit could disable vital systems."
"I know it's fast. I know it's made of wet tissue paper. I was there when everyone had to pick their vehicles remember?"
MeMe leaned her head against the window. Her reflection looked pale. Hollow.
And Ro-ro? He glanced at her just once. Just long enough.
Then pressed harder on the accelerator.
They had 17 minutes.
After several long minutes of silence, the cityscape blurring past them in streaks of light and shadow, MeMe finally found her voice.
She took a deep breath, her fingers still twitching in her lap.
"Ro-ro… I—"
"I know you're sorry," Ro-ro said without looking at her. His voice had softened, the heat drained from it. "And I forgive you."
MeMe turned her head toward him. "I didn't mean to call you a killer."
Ro-ro sighed, drumming his fingers once against the steering wheel. "I know you didn't. And I'm sorry too. I shouldn't've snapped at you like that. I just…" He grit his teeth. "I don't like hearing it, that I'm a killer. But… I mean, technically, I am. I've killed people for money, so... yeah, I guess I qualify. Just not the kind that gets high off it, or runs around chopping people up for fun. Those cyber-drug freaks? That's insane. Like—crazy, wild, 'talk to your toaster and stab your neighbor' insane."
MeMe gave a weak laugh. "Yeah. You're not... that."
A beat passed.
Then she asked, quietly:
"Ro-ro… why did you join the race?"
Ro-ro glanced at her, then looked back at the road. "Huh. That's a hell of a question."
There was a pause as he considered. He clicked his tongue. "It's kinda stupid. Wait—no, actually, it ain't. But don't laugh, alright?"
He pointed a finger at her.
"You better not make fun of it."
MeMe raised both hands like she was surrendering. "Promise."
Ro-ro cleared his throat, hesitating. Then finally said:
"Well... I wanna bring someone back to life."
MeMe blinked. "Wait, what?"
"What?! What's with the look?!" Ro-ro snapped, eyes wide. "I'm not some necromancer or anything! Look, I know how it sounds, but just—hear me out."
"I'm not judging," MeMe said, eyes wide with surprise. "Just… why? Why them?"
Ro-ro rubbed his jaw, suddenly looking more tired than before.
"Remember how I said I kill for my family?"
MeMe nodded slowly. "Right…"
"Well, when I was sixteen, I took a job. Dumbest decision of my life. Got it from this crusty old bastard named Jerry."
His voice took on a bitter edge. "Jerry Hankins."
[FLASHBACK]
A dimly lit office, the hum of static fans and flickering monitors. Cigarette smoke clung to the air like fog.
A young Ro-ro sat across from a wrinkled, sun-damaged old man in a dusty leather chair—Jerry Hankins. Greasy hair, half-tinted glasses, and a mechanical arm that creaked every time he moved it.
Jerry smirked, flicking ash into a tray shaped like a screaming skull.
"So... Ro-ro, huh? Heard about you. Assassin from the bloodline, eh? Bit of a family legacy?"
Ro-ro, younger and angrier, leaned forward and sneered. "Cut the bull. You didn't hear about me, you heard about my family. You think I'm some knockoff assassin clone, is that it?"
Jerry raised his hands. "Relax, kid. Damn. Got some heat in you, huh? I like that. But yeah—newbie, right?"
Ro-ro exhaled through his nose, annoyed. "Look, can you just tell me who the target is so I can get the creds and leave? I got somewhere to be."
Jerry cocked an eyebrow. "Lemme guess—date with your girlfriend?"
Ro-ro snorted. "Nah. Family game night. We were gonna play Guess That Celebrity. Old Earth junk, y'know? 19th century, 20th century stuff. My little brother's obsessed with it."
Jerry laughed. "Huh. Guess you are still a kid."
He pulled out a thick stack of credits and slapped it on the table. "Well, kid. If you want this, you're gonna have to earn it. So maybe put your family's sitcom hour on pause and sit your ass down."
Ro-ro stared at the money for a long second, jaw tightening… then slowly sank back into the chair.
"Alright, old man," he muttered. "Let's talk."