The warmth of that afternoon smelled like soap and sunshine. Little Miguel laboriously dragged a laundry basket too large for him. Every step was an awkward struggle—his left leg dragged slightly, while his right shoulder instinctively compensated for the asymmetrical load of his body. On the worn back porch of St. Julia’s Orphanage, the laundry danced in the gentle breeze. "Take your time, Miguel," the Matron, Eleanor, said from behind him. Soft, yet firm. She never offered unrequested assistance, a small gesture that meant everything to Miguel. It was recognition, not pity. Miguel managed to set the basket beside him, his breath slightly labored. He picked up a white sheet, attempting to fold it as Eleanor had taught him. The folds were always slightly skewed, a result of his clumsy bodily coordination. Eleanor took the other end of the sheet. "See," she said, her warm eyes meeting his. "Your strength isn't in perfection; it's in perseverance. You never give up. That's worth m

The steel door to Dr. Dark’s chamber closed with a crushing finality. In the sterile corridor, the sharp smell of antiseptic stung like embalming fluid—as if Miguel had just emerged from the autopsy room for his own relevance.For two nights in his concrete cell, Miguel didn’t sharpen steel. He sharpened his fear. Dr. Dark’s words were etched into his mind, burning like a branding iron: flawed prototype, audition, defective product. Tonight, he was no longer an executioner; he was a defendant awaiting his verdict.*The Iron Cage felt more stifling than usual. Ronan leaned against the wall, watching with a bored expression, as if observing a performance he already knew by heart.2:00 AM. The steel door rattled open. Two guards dragged Anya Molserat inside. Her expensive evening gown was now tattered, but her dignity was untouched armor. Her honey-colored eyes swept the room—the dried bloodstains, the concrete walls, Ronan’s sneer—before finally stopping and locking onto Miguel.There

The Mariner’s Rest Motel was where hope stopped to die. Located on the edge of Ametis City's Harbor District, the motel reeked of mildew, seawater, and pervasive despair. The red neon glow from the 'MOT L' sign outside the window flickered erratically, bathing their dingy room in a sickly pulse of blood-colored light.Miguel stood in the darkness, cleaning his knife with a scrap of cloth torn from one of the dead guards' shirts. The motion was a meditation, a ritual that usually calmed him. Tonight, however, a different kind of anxiety churned. His eyes kept flicking toward Anya.Anya sat on the edge of the groaning bed, wringing water from her expensive, now ruined, gown. She wasn't trembling. She wasn't crying. She observed Miguel with the intensity of a scientist studying a rare specimen newly released from its cage."They aren't hunting, Miguel," Anya said suddenly, her voice shattering the tense silence. "They are tracking."Miguel froze. "What do you mean?""A valuable asset lik

The wail of the sirens had faded to a whisper, swallowed by the maze of Ametis City’s derelict canals. Inside the decaying houseboat, the silence was broken only by the lazy slap of water against the wooden hull and the soft groan of the boat as it rocked. The smell of wet wood and stagnant water was the perfume of temporary freedom.Miguel stood like a statue near the doorway, his knife gripped tight, every muscle still taut with adrenaline. Across the narrow room, Anya sat on the edge of the cot, staring at her haggard reflection in the cracked, dusty windowpane. Her ruined gown clung to her body, a stark reminder of the world they had just set aflame.The silence broke, not by an external threat, but by an internal whisper."He never hit me," Anya said, her voice raspy, her eyes still locked on her reflection. "Daniel was more… meticulous. He was a collector."Miguel didn't move, but his complete attention was now on her."I was one of his acquisitions," she continued. "A costly po

Two days inside the damp houseboat made the outside world feel alien and hostile. Their meager supply of canned food was gone. Anya’s laptop was dead. The intimacy and discovery they had shared were now overshadowed by a brutal reality: they were penniless fugitives, stranded in a city that wanted them dead."We need more than just a plan," Anya said, wrapping the laptop back into her bag. "We need teeth."She looked at Miguel, her eyes sharp and calculating. "I know someone. His name is Silas. He’s an information broker, living in the city’s cracks like a rat. He owes me a favor. But he’s not cheap.""What do we have to pay him with?" Miguel asked. His legacy from Iron Claw was nothing but the clothes on his back and the knife at his waist.Anya offered a thin smile. "We have something better than money. We have the hottest commodity in the city right now: information about ourselves."*The Meat Processing District by night was a frozen hell. The air smelled of disinfectant and bloo