The thief hit the ground before anyone registered the motion.

  Blood splashed across wet stone. A woman screamed. Someone slipped, crashed into a fruit cart. The market detonated — vendors yelled, crates toppled, feet scrambled in every direction.

  The officer stayed motionless.

  He lowered his hand. Vein withdrew from his palm, pulled inward like a muscle releasing tension. His eyes stayed locked on the five boys — cold, clinical — then flicked sideways.

  A signal.

  Two government runners skidded to a halt, boots still pulsing blue. They tensed.

  The officer lifted two fingers.

  *Don’t engage.*

  Razan felt heat crawl under his skin. Anger. Pressure. The urge to place force and end it.

  One thief broke from the chaos and charged straight at them, blade clenched, eyes wild.

  “Razan—” Marek started.

  Too late.

  The thief lunged.

  Razan stepped in. No Vein. No enhancement. Just timing and raw intent. His boot smashed into the thief’s face. Bone cracked. Teeth scattered across the pavement. The man spun sideways and dropped.

  Razan kept moving.

  Another thief came low and fast from the side. Razan twisted. Steel scraped his stomach. Pain flared hot and immediate. Blood soaked his shirt in a spreading stain. He grunted through clenched teeth and drove Vein into his right arm — controlled.

  The punch landed square in the ribs. A hollow crunch followed. The thief folded, air ripped from his lungs.

  “Razan!” Arin yelled.

  Keene barely registered the shout.

  Arms locked around his throat from behind. The thief smelled of sweat and rust. Keene dropped his weight, then snapped his head back. Bone met bone. Pain exploded behind his eyes. The thief screamed and staggered. Keene crashed down with him.

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  He rolled free, gasping, vision swimming.

  Across the street Arin backed up step by step as a thief swung wildly. Arin dodged, tripped, scrambled upright.

  Behind the thief a shadow moved.

  Lsael gripped a rusted pipe. He swung. Metal connected with skull. A dull thud rang out. The man dropped.

  Lsael stood breathing hard, staring at the body.

  Marek faced his attacker. The thief rushed in, Vein swelling his arms. Marek stepped inside the swing, pivoted, and drove a tornado kick into the wrist. Bone snapped. Vein collapsed. The weapon clattered away. The thief dropped screaming.

  Marek straightened without a glance.

  The last thief hesitated, then turned to run.

  The officer stepped forward. One precise strike to the back of the neck. The thief collapsed like cut strings.

  Silence slammed down.

  Government runners moved in and bound the fallen thieves. None questioned the order. None looked at the boys.

  The officer studied them.

  Razan — breathing hard, blood seeping through his shirt.

  Marek — still, unreadable.

  Keene — on one knee, head ringing.

  Lsael — pipe still in hand.

  Arin — on his feet, chest heaving.

  “Huh,” the officer said.

  Lsael snapped, “That’s it?”

  The officer’s gaze slid over him, flat. “I told my men not to interfere. They listened.”

  Razan stepped forward. “You let them attack us.”

  “I observed,” the officer replied.

  “You used us,” Lsael said. “As bait.”

  The officer did not deny it. “Future runners require stress. Stress reveals placement.”

  Keene frowned. “Placement?”

  The officer’s eyes lingered on him half a second longer than the rest. “Vein hierarchy. Unofficial. For now.”

  He gestured, cold and efficient, counting them like inventory.

  “Marek. Vein Warden.”

  Marek stayed silent.

  “Razan. Veinrunner.”

  Razan’s jaw locked. “Bullshit.”

  “Keene…” The officer paused. “Unclear.”

  Keene stiffened. The word landed like a fault line. For one silent second the entire market glitched — air stuttered, colors shifted by a fraction, reality skipped a frame. Across the street a runner tapped his visor, frowned, muttered something into it, then looked away fast as if the system itself had flagged an error.

  The officer continued without pause.

  “Lsael. Cleaner. Government office potential.”

  Lsael’s grip tightened on the pipe.

  “And Arin. Creative liability.”

  Arin blinked once.

  “It means you remain functional,” the officer said. “For now.”

  Sirens grew louder. Backup arrived.

  The officer turned away.

  “Training tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “Do not be late.”

  He stopped once. Looked back — straight at Keene.

  “Next time decide faster.”

  Then he walked off. Runners fell in behind him.

  The market noise rushed back in. Vendors shouted again. Feet moved. Life resumed its pretense.

  Keene stayed on one knee. He pressed a hand to his chest. Not pain. A shift. The glitch lingered — a silent tear in the world’s code, invisible to everyone except the system that had just marked him wrong.

  Across the street the runner tapped his visor again, confused, then hurried after the others.

  Keene lowered his hand.

  Whatever had just happened was not supposed to happen.

  And somewhere deep in the machinery of Sector Four, something had already been misplaced.

  Razan clapped a bloody hand on Keene’s shoulder. “You good?”

  Keene nodded once. Quiet.

  Arin crouched beside him, voice shaky but trying. “That was… a lot. You sure you’re okay?”

  Marek watched the officer’s back disappear into the crowd, then looked at Keene. “Unclear. That word is going to follow you.”

  Lsael leaned on the pipe like a crutch, still breathing hard. “Yeah, well, I got ‘office potential.’ Sounds like a desk job with extra paperwork. Lucky me.”

  Razan spat blood onto the stone. “They’re labeling us like weapons. Like we’re already theirs.”

  Keene pushed himself up slowly. The market kept moving around them — vendors shouting prices, children laughing like nothing had happened. But the air felt heavier now. Thicker.

  He pressed his hand to his chest again.

  The shift was still there.

  A quiet error in the system.

  A glitch that had noticed him back.

  Razan squeezed his shoulder once more, loyal fire still burning in his eyes. “Whatever that was, we face it together. You hear me?”

  Keene met his gaze.

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t say the rest out loud.

  That the city had just drawn a line.

  And he was standing on the wrong side of it.

  The five of them stood there a moment longer, blood on their clothes, breath still coming hard, while the market pretended everything was normal.

  But Keene knew better.

  The mask had slipped.

  And the system was already watching.

  ---

  End of Chapter 5