Meanwhile..

  The corridor to the lab breathed like a lung—metal expanding, contracting, whispering heat through the walls. The hum of the sonic sieve leaked from the next room, steady and deep, like a far-off heartbeat. I tightened my gloves and stepped inside.

  The air smelled of that terrible gas, but with these gas masks, even a weakling like me is fine. Silver tubes pulsed faintly where the purified sap ran through them, every beat of the pump sending a flash of red down the line. Across the bench, Ryuha stood motionless except for the flicker of a lamp near his desk. His white hair was pulled tight, his gi half-tucked beneath a leather apron scarred with burns.

  “Batch Nine.” he said. “Don’t rush. If it's wrong, we lose the week.”

  I nodded and lifted the container of ironbloom. The substance oozed slow and dark, glinting crimson under the lightstrips as I poured it into the shallow dish. A hiss escaped the sap when it touched the cold metal, and the smell thickened. Electric and faintly sweet.

  I set the dish beneath the violet membrane, and the hum rose around me. The membrane pulsed in soft waves, drawing the impurities upward into the glass where they shimmered briefly before winking out. The room filled with the low note of the sieve, a sound that seemed to vibrate in my ribs. Ryuha listened with his head slightly tilted, eyes half-closed, as though the noise were music.

  “Tap it.” he said.

  I tapped the dish with the blunt end of the rod. The fluid answered with a thin crystalline ping. The ripples that formed did not collapse but held—like glass vibrating under pressure. I matched the pitch with my own hum, a careful, trembling sound. The ripples stilled, and the liquid turned perfectly clear.

  “That’s the note.” Ryuha murmured. “Keep it.”

  He turned toward the next station, where a bundle of soul-threads hung from a circular frame. The filaments shimmered, alive with faint white motes. He drew one free and lowered it until it touched the surface of the purified sap. Light crawled up the strand and vanished into the bowl.

  “Now the imprint.” he said. From a small copper case, he took a folded scrap of paper—Kanglim’s training hair sealed inside—and dropped a single strand into the dish. The liquid accepted it without a sound. I felt the air pressure shift, as if the room had inhaled.

  The light in the dish bent inward. Lines of red spiraled through the clear base until the whole thing pulsed with a heartbeat not its own. Ryuha's fingers hovered over it, tracing invisible patterns that left trails of dim glow. Each stroke anchored the energy, binding the pattern to the fluid. He moved with the same rhythm as when he taught a kick—measured, economical, precise.

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  After several minutes, the glow settled. Ryuha exhaled. “Draw it in.”

  I took the small syringe-bottle from the tray—no bigger than my thumb, made of reinforced glass that shimmered faintly blue. I dipped the needle into the heart of the liquid. Surge climbed the tube as though eager to be held. Inside the bottle it swirled and darkened, a miniature storm caught in glass. I sealed it with the copper ring and shook once. The swirl calmed, leaving only a faint shimmer, a breath trapped in liquid form.

  Ryuha inspected the bottle, turned it under the light, and set it beside a row of others. Each one looked identical. Tiny, silent, innocent. Together they could break a city.

  “Good.” he said. “You’re learning the patience.”

  I wiped sweat from my brow. “How many more tonight?”

  “As many as we can before the power dips. They don't have many, you know. New technology.” He gestured toward the ceiling where the lights flickered, fed by the erratic generators above Chatna. “The world up there sleeps on its coin. Down here, we worship it.”

  I almost smiled, but Ryuha had already turned away. From his pocket he produced a single gold coin—old, scratched, the center engraved with a crest of his face. He flipped it through his fingers while studying the finished bottles. The coin clicked softly.

  “You know why I like this one?” he asked. The coin spun on the table, wobbling before coming to rest heads-up. “Because it's value. You spend it, and you get a favor from the great Taekwondo Grandmaster Ryuha. More valuable than real coin.”

  He slipped it back into his pocket and tapped the tray of bottles with one finger. “Each of these...” he said, “in the world that's coming, is worth hundreds of those coins. Maybe more, if plans progress ahead of schedule.”

  Then, quieter, almost to himself. “Still, I’ll keep counting.”

  The hum of the sieve deepened again, signaling another batch ready to tune. Ryuha smiled faintly, the lines around his eyes tightening. “Come on, Mina.” he said. “Let’s earn some more.”

  Rain turns everything silver here. The puddles, the pipes, even the blood when it finally shows.

  He waited for me at the mouth of the alley, thick arms crossed over a belly wrapped in cheap leather. “Still think you can collect from me?” he said, voice slurred by bravado. His breath reeked of street liquor.

  I didn’t answer. I just kept my hand in my coat, feeling the small bottle roll between my fingers. Surge. I’d sworn off this stuff after the last time. After the shaking, the memory gaps, the twitching that lasted three days. But that was before I owed people who don’t take apologies as payment.

  The bottle was warm from my palm. The liquid inside pulsed faintly, a tiny heart echoing mine.

  “You gonna cry or swing, kid?” he asked.

  I uncapped it. The smell hit first. It was euphoric. I tilted my head back and drank it in one motion. It burned all the way down, lighting up my chest with something furious and alive. The taste was wrong, too clean, too unnatural.

  The effect came fast. My vision narrowed until the world looked pressed through a tunnel of red light. The rain slowed, falling thick and lazy. I could hear everything in the vicinity.

  He stepped forward, still talking, but the words didn’t reach me.

  I moved before I meant to.

  The first punch landed with a sound I’d never forget. Not a crack, not a thud, but a pop, like pressure giving way. His head jerked sideways, water spraying from his hair. The next blow came on instinct, then another. The rhythm of it was addicting.

  He hit the wall and slid down, leaving a smear that the rain immediately tried to wash away. I felt unstoppable.

  But then it started to fade. It always does.

  Luckily, with what it's selling for these days... I could afford more.