The Neon Bazaar was a kingdom of sin and shattered dreams, and Kaelen was its reluctant prince. In the fighting pits under the flickering holographic sky, he was known as "Cinder" for the way his fists left burns on his opponents. He fought for credits, for survival, and to forget the man he used to be.
The kid was a mouse in a den of wolves. Kaelen saw him, a small, grubby-faced boy no older than ten, trying to pick the pocket of a Razor-Gang lieutenant. The lieutenant’s chrome-plated hand snapped out, catching the boy’s wrist with a cruel laugh.
"Looks like we got a little thief," the lieutenant sneered, his cybernetic eye glowing red. "The price for stealing is a hand, kid."
The crowd, bloodthirsty from the night's fights, cheered. But Kaelen, wiping blood from his split lip, saw the raw terror in the boy’s eyes. It was a reflection of his own, decades buried.
Justice in darkness.
"His debt is mine," Kaelen’s voice cut through the noise, low and gravelly. He tossed his winner’s purse of credits at the lieutenant’s feet. "Let him go."
The lieutenant, a man called Stryke, smirked. "Sentimental, Cinder? Bad for business." He released the boy, who scrambled behind Kaelen’s legs. "But the Boss wants to see you. You’ve drawn… attention."
Stryke led him to a grimy apartment stacked with server towers. Inside was the boy’s older sister, Elara, a data-rigger. "They took our parents," she whispered, her fingers flying over a holographic keyboard. "I stole something from them. A ledger. It lists every child they've sold to off-world corps for their… enhancement programs."
The orphan, Leo, wasn't just a thief. He was a target.
The door exploded inwards. Razor-Gang enforcers poured in, stun-batons crackling. Kaelen moved. He was a storm of controlled violence. He broke the first enforcer’s arm, used the man’s body as a shield against the second, his fists and feet a brutal, efficient language he knew too well.
"Get to the roof!" he yelled to Elara, shoving Leo toward her.
He held the doorway, a lone sentinel against the tide. A baton caught his ribs, sending jolts of agony through his system. A vibro-blade grazed his arm. But for every blow he took, he gave two back. This wasn't for credits. This was for the light in a child’s eyes that hadn't been extinguished yet.
He bought them just enough time. As Elara’s stolen data-packet blasted across the public net, exposing the gang, Kaelen made his last stand on the rain-slicked roof. Stryke faced him, his chrome fists gleaming.
"You're just a street fighter," Stryke spat.
"Not tonight," Kaelen growled.
He fought not with the cold precision of a pit fighter, but with the ferocity of a man reclaiming his soul. He took a punch that shattered his cheekbone, but he didn't fall. He grappled Stryke, and with a final, roaring heave, threw the gangster over the edge into the neon-drenched abyss.
Gasping, bleeding, Kaelen slumped against a vent. Sirens wailed in the distance—the authorities, finally forced to act.
Elara and Leo helped him to his feet. "You saved us," the boy whispered, his hand small and warm in Kaelen's bloodied one.
He looked out over the corrupt, glittering city. It was still dark. It was still broken. But for the first time, Kaelen felt he wasn't. He had been a prince of the darkness, but tonight, he had brought a sliver of justice to it.
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