Page 35 of Fatality

I head for my Charger—Her black-and-red body, scarred from countless collisions, gleams beneath the lights of the Lower Layers—far less obnoxious than the ones flooding the Upper Districts.

The Upper Layers have this obsession with making everything look perfect—ads, robots, holograms everywhere, so much sensory overload it feels like your brain is short-circuiting.

The exposed components emphasize function over perfection.

Exactly how I like it.

I slide inside and fire her up, the Charger roars to life.

That sound is so damn satisfying. I feel like a kid with a new toy every time.

I peel away in a drift, smoke curling in my wake, and tear toward my place, ignoring every speed limit.

Sliding through what little traffic remains, the Lower Layers streak across my windshield like some kind of fucked-up movie.

I might be doing ninety miles an hour.

I love it.

The engine, the chaos and the speed, this is when I feel alive.

I make it home in less than ten minutes.

I park my Charger in the garage and take the stairs up to my apartment. I slam my finger against the locking pad, and the door slides open.

I step inside and the door slides shut behind me, the lock engaging automatically.

One open-plan space.

Kitchen, living area and an elevated sleeping platform with no walls, just a short flight of steps.

It's more than enough. I'm alone most of the time, and it's plenty big enough for women to come and go.

The red neon from my bedroom spills across the rest of the apartment.

I don't bother taking off my boots. I head straight for the fridge, grab a Nitro can, crack it open, and drain it in one go.

My comm buzzes.

I pull it from my pocket as two messages appear.

Neo: “We took care of the mess, Evren. That was fucking funny. Watching them cry like little bitches.”

Varek: “We have the credits.”

I don't reply but my shoulders relax a little.

I grab another can and take slower sips.

My mind drifts back to that girl from the Upper Layers. Why the fuck didn't she ask me for help?

She was drunk, barefoot, cornered like an animal, and he saw me.

She punched a guy who could've snapped her in half. She should've wanted, needed or at the very least, fucking asked for help.

Any sane woman would've. Instead, she ran right past me like I was a piece of forgotten trash.

She probably didn't even acknowledge my presence or maybe she deliberately ignored me.