Page 6 of GlitchBorn Heart

I’m their enemy, but I don’t care, and they don’t know. The rebels in here would string me up if they realized who I work for, but truths stay easily buried under enough synthwave, stem-cocktails, and GloFluxx.

Oh joy, there’s one now. Another U21 gifted and graced, leaning against the bar lifting a sleek vaporizer to his lips and inhaling the thin ribbon of shimmering yellow smoke spilling out. GloFluxx is the newest HoloDistrict addiction. A mood-enhancer laced with micro-signal strengtheners. The glow is pretty to stare at, but I’ve seen it fry neural pathways if you hit it too often.

He exhales, and the vapor blooms into the crowd. I continue to watch for the pupil dilation, a yellow ring surrounding it. He smiles euphorically at nothing.

I roll my eyes.

Idiot.

My generation will inhale literally anything if it flickers the right color. They want clarity and are desperate for escape.

I drink here, listen to Ash’s band, and secretly make the kind of under-the-table deals that keep my lab running in ways VikkCorp would never approve of.

A hacked DreamNet band, a blacklisted super-chip only forged in the underground web, a strand of dark code written for pleasures the Corporation profits from.

STATIK isn’t just a bar, it’s a marketplace of secrets and tech contraband, a place where alliances are bought with favors and betrayals are paid for in blood. Music shakes the foundation and so does the rebellion.

I choose to ignore that last one.

The stage darkens, the musical vibrations abruptly coming to a halt. The rattling glasses and vials filled with glowing concoctions over the bar still as Ash hops down from the stage after finishing his set. Sweat covers his face and neck, making him gleam like a true neon god under the lights. The crowd isn’t just big, it’s feral. They cheer as he cuts through them, some throwing hands up in the NeonGods’ salute, others streaming video from their DataLINKs.

The girls are fanatics, their fandom going way beyond casual admiration. They scramble for an autograph, or a selfie, or to slip their number into the pocket of his signature burgundy leather jacket.

I can’t help but shake my head as that cocky asshole strides effortlessly through the crowd and across the glass dancefloor with a swagger only a rockstar could pull off. In the center, a cracked pane of reinforced glass reveals the flooded subway tunnels beneath the club.

The putrid water churns with a sickly, radioactive green glow, lighting the darkness like toxic sludge, as if we needed a reminder that the underbelly of the city is bioluminescent and dying.

Ash smirks as he spots me in our usual spot. He lifts his chin in acknowledgment, his magic following him off the stage. His tattoos, a mix of vines and roses, pulse with a sound-reactive neon blue that runs up his arms and neck, glowing in the dimly lit space.

How I had envied him in our earlier years. Most U21’s, the under twenty-one generation cursed by the dreamless sleep but blessed with technical magic, were stunning specimens, their eyes and hair glowing from the power within. Ash’s whole vibe screams music, hacking, and underground rebellion. His power feels both cool and dangerous, a commodity that makes him unforgettable to the U21 ladies.

He manipulates vibrations, frequencies, and sound waves and can sense them as well. His magic allows him to influence emotions, perception, and even the structural stability of data or physical matter. Technically he’s called a VibeWeaver but the women just refer to him as a siren.

His band sets aren’t just concerts, they’re epic fucking magic shows: The bassline can shake walls, distort surveillance, or send coded signals through sound. He’s known for creating “soundscapes” in the underground, part rave, part revolution, and has been instrumental in helping me locate “anomalies” in the city. In return, I turn a blind eye to the comings and goings of his rebellious ways, oftentimes scrubbing him off whatever corporate watchlist he’s been added to daily.

Despite my introverted appearance in the booth of shadows, he saunters over and flops down, grasping the cocktail I ordered for him. His drink glows faintly in his hand. He’s the kind of man perfectly at home in the chaos, everyone looking at him, wanting to know him.

I, on the other hand, am the kind of man people instinctively avoid but can’t help noticing. Apparently, I’m “intimidating.” I don’t intimidate on purpose. I just exist and the weak react accordingly.

“Same spot, same drink. You’re like a glitch stuck in a loop.” He grins at me with those damn off-putting blue eyes.

“And you’re still loud,” I flatly answer, swirling my drink in the condensation on the rusted steel table.

“Loudness keeps me alive. Silence gets you killed.” He gestures at the crowd, the mayhem still unfolding despite the absence of his band.

“Silence keeps me invisible. You should try it sometime.” I look down at him through the black hoodie. We briefly trade a look, old familiarity mixed with new tension. He leans back in the booth, relaxed, and oozing coolness.

There’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes, and I just know I’m going to get a good ribbing. “So, Golden Boy,” he teases, “why so angsty this evening? Vikktor let you out of the digital doghouse without your leash...you should be happy.”

The tension is thick in the air between us, but it’s brotherly. Our nightly insults have sharp edges like a scalpel, but underneath, complete loyalty and love. We both know the other is on the “wrong” side, but neither of us can cut the ties that have bound us since we were kids.

“Ah...very clever. Glad to see you came up with that. Good to know that your brain hasn’t been affected by all these smoke-filled basements.” I glance around the room. Traders, hackers, rebels, all pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the heat. “I’ll never understand why you risk your life for a cause that will probably eat you alive.”

“Bro, you know I’m a survivor.” He leans toward me, those eyes making me feel like he can see every thought I own. “Same streets, same mischief. Those nights we would steal ramen from the corner noodle bar then run from the En4ce drones...you know...” He chuckles to himself. “Good times.”

We were cut from the same cloth but had chosen different survival paths. “We were both supposed to get out. You just chose the fire. I chose the shadows.” I slam the drink on the table.

“And yet, here we are, drinking in the same pit.” Ash raises a brow.