The city whispered with secrets James could almost taste. A faint breeze stirred dust through cracked streets, curling around rusted cars and splintered storefronts. Somewhere close, glass shattered, but the sound was swallowed quickly by the thick cloak of silence.
James moved like a shadow himself, muscles taut beneath his threadbare jacket. His cybernetic eye was off, but the faint mechanical pulse of his right arm beneath the sleeve was constant, a quiet reminder of the cold machine he had become.
Behind him, Alina's footsteps were nearly weightless. Her phone's faint blue glow illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows beneath her cheekbones. She walked beside him, but a distance always remained—an invisible barrier that James instinctively felt but didn't challenge.
They hadn't spoken for a while.
"You sure this way is safe?" James finally asked, voice low, almost a growl.
Alina glanced at him, lips twitching with a hint of a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Safe? Nothing is safe anymore. But this way is the best chance we've got."
James didn't reply. He knew better than to believe easy assurances.
They moved steadily through an alley choked with debris—burned out crates, shattered glass, and the skeletal remains of what had once been a marketplace. The violet glow of the rift above bathed the ruin in an eerie, unnatural light.
James's mind cataloged every detail—the irregular spacing of footsteps, the absence of scavengers, the unnatural stillness.
Something was wrong.
Then it happened.
Six figures stepped from the shadows. They were fast, precise, and deadly serious. Weapons raised, eyes cold and calculating. The quiet air turned heavy with tension.
James's mechanical arm twitched beneath the jacket. His cybernetic eye flashed to life—scanning, analyzing.
The leader stepped forward, a woman with sharp, angular features and a scar tracing a thin line down her left cheek. Her Class Interface pulsed a deep crimson red: Commander, Rank A.
"Welcome, Cyborg," she said calmly.
James's heart didn't race—it couldn't. But his mind snapped into sharp focus.
Alina's expression shifted. The easy warmth was gone, replaced by something unreadable. Her poker face.
"You passed the test," Alina said, voice steady, almost clinical. "I needed to know if you were worth the risk."
James met her gaze, icy and unyielding.
"You set me up."
She shrugged, indifferent.
"In this world, survival means sacrifice. Trust is a tool, and you were the question."
Commander Voss smiled thinly.
"We offer you a choice. Join us, or become a target."
James's fingers curled into fists beneath the jacket.
Fight. Run. Join.
None felt like freedom.
Before James could respond, the six lunged.
His arm reacted faster than thought.
Metal plates slid apart with a series of precise clicks as his mechanical hand morphed fluidly into a razor-sharp blade. The sound was a low hum of energized steel.
James pivoted, slashing through the first attacker's raised weapon, sparks flying where metal met metal.
He twisted again, transforming his arm mid-motion. The blade retracted, fingers snapping back into place, then the palm opened, revealing a compact barrel.
A burst of energy pulsed from the gun-form arm, striking two opponents and knocking them backward with concussive force.
Breathing hard, James switched back to the hand form, grabbing a broken pipe and using it to vault himself over a ruined dumpster.
Bullets tore through the air, tearing fabric from his jacket, but his hidden plating held.
The fight was chaos—movement, pain, instinct.
He dodged, struck, and fired, the arm's three forms cycling like clockwork: slicing blades, crushing fists, and searing gunfire.
But the numbers were overwhelming.
A sharp blow caught his side; he stumbled.
Behind him, Alina watched without a flicker of hesitation.
He realized then that trust was a lie.
With a final surge, James charged, blade flashing, slicing through an attacker's arm.
He ducked under a sweeping rifle butt, transforming the blade into the gun again.
A precise shot shattered the weapon's barrel, buying him precious seconds.
Then, spotting a narrow gap between two buildings, he sprinted.
His legs pumped hard, heart pounding—half man, half machine—pushing past pain and fatigue.
Behind him, shouts and footsteps thundered.
He reached the alley's end, slammed into a pile of rubble, and vaulted over it, disappearing into the labyrinthine ruins.
Breath ragged, James collapsed behind a crumbled wall.
His arm clicked and shifted back to its default hand form, fingers flexing as he surveyed the damage.
The mechanical joints hummed softly, the blade and gun forms ready at a moment's notice.
His cybernetic eye blinked on, scanning for pursuers.
No immediate threats.
For now.
James's mind raced, the cold truth settling in.
Alina had led him into a trap.
Her smile had been a mask.
His escape was narrow.
But the city was still alive, still dangerous—and he was still hunting freedom.