SCRAP clattered into Z-69’s palm with a hollow clang, the sound echoing through the alley like someone was hammering on the shell of a dead drone.

  What he held didn’t resemble currency—it felt like the discarded teeth of broken machines, sharp-edged, dented, and smelling faintly of overheated circuitry.

  The green neon dripping from above cast its sickly light across the chipped metal fragments, turning them into shimmering pieces of refuse dressed up as treasure.

  He shook the small pouch he’d been given.

  The pieces inside rattled like bones.

  “This is money?” Z-69 asked, holding one piece up to the flickering sign overhead.

  The distorted neon light bent around the SCRAP, reflecting jagged patterns onto his pale fingers.

  John stuffed several more tokens into his coat pocket with the casual familiarity of someone who’d long given up questioning the absurdity of this floor.

  “On Level Ten, that’s money. Don’t ask why. You won’t like the answer.” He said.

  SCRAP—Syndicate Credit Ration Allowance Points—had a declared official worth of 0.01 Crimeria Credits.

  In the upper levels, it would be treated like litter, unfit even for recycling.

  But here?

  Value didn’t come from rarity.

  It came from the guns backing it.

  Lumina poked her small blue head out of Z-69’s coat, her luminous eyes faint but alert.

  The dim neon reflected across her fur, giving her the appearance of a tiny spirit woven from light and exhaustion.

  “Z-69,” she murmured inside his head, “now that you actually have money, how about… I don’t know… food? Anything edible? Treat yourself for once.”

  Z-69 turned the SCRAP token around between his fingers as if analyzing a specimen.

  He examined the corrosion marks, the dents, the carbon scoring.

  Then he nodded once.

  “Yes. I want to obtain more food.” he said gravely. “And observe the ‘social protocols’ of this floor.”

  John smirked, lighting another cheap synthetic cigarette.

  Car exhaust, neon smoke, and frying oil merged into the heavy air.

  “Just wander and try not to die. I’ve got some old contacts to meet. Give me a few hours.”

  Z-69 agreed with a simple nod.

  Lumina climbed onto his shoulder, wrapping her tail around his neck like a cautious scarf.

  “I’m coming with you,” she declared. “If you turn into The Hunger, I’m the only thing keeping the black market intact. And I don’t want to watch you eat a weapons dealer.”

  Z-69 raised a brow.

  “I won’t eat anyone unless they provoke me.”

  John exhaled a thick ring of smoke.

  “That right there is exactly why I smoke.” He muttered.

  Level Ten at night was a writhing organism—alive, diseased, electric.

  Alleys buzzed with neon.

  Steam vents spat mist across asphalt stained with oil.

  Ventilation grates hummed with the wheezing breath of ancient machines.

  The air vibrated with the throb of bass-heavy music leaking from dens and clubs hidden like parasites beneath the steel.

  Holograms flickered—some clear, some glitching into static, some caught in endless loops of malfunctioning advertisements.

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  A sign ahead blinked:

  “FOOD”

  “F0D”

  “F_ _ D”

  Then died altogether.

  Z-69 paused in front of the sign with a contemplative expression.

  “‘F _ _ D’ appears to be an abbreviation of ‘Food,’” he said. “We should proceed this way.”

  Lumina squinted at him.

  “That’s the red-light district…”

  But the warning drifted past him unnoticed.

  His attention had already been captured by a group of women emerging from a shimmering pink archway framed with holographic flowers and crackling plasma strips.

  Level Ten’s red-light district wasn’t seductive in a glamorous way—it was seductive the way a malfunctioning machine was: dangerous, unstable, glittering with false charm.

  Robotic escorts stood shoulder to shoulder with heavily augmented humans.

  Mutant hybrids leaned against walls, their eyes glowing colorful hues like bioluminescent predators.

  Every figure seemed to radiate both allure and threat, as though the entire district were a trap disguised as pleasure.

  Z-69 walked in without hesitation.

  Not attracted.

  Not embarrassed.

  Just curious—like a scientist observing a new habitat.

  A woman with purple hair draped an arm around his shoulders.

  Her skin shimmered faintly, embedded circuitry glowing beneath the surface like constellations.

  “Lost, pretty boy?” she purred. “Want big sister to show you a good time~?”

  Z-69 tilted his head, eyes narrowing with clinical precision as he scanned her vital signs.

  Warm breath.

  Stable pulse.

  No concealed blades.

  Her posture relaxed, her aura non-aggressive.

  “Commercial solicitation detected.” he concluded internally.

  He gave her a mildly amused smile.

  “I’m looking for food.” he said. “Do you have anything for me to eat?”

  For a frozen heartbeat, silence fell across the group.

  Then—They burst into laughter, loud enough to shake the neon signs.

  “Do you mean literally or figuratively, sweetheart?”

  “We sell both!”

  “So handsome—come inside and I’ll give you something you’ll crave for days~!”

  Z-69 remained perfectly earnest.

  “I’m new to this floor,” he said. “What do you have on the menu?”

  BONK!

  Lumina hit him on the head with a psychic thump.

  “NO. WE ARE LEAVING.”

  “I’m merely requesting information—”

  “INFORMATION MY TAIL. These succubus will milk every SCRAP you have!”

  “Yes, little fox.” he replied immediately, chastised.

  He turned to the girls and bowed slightly.

  “My apologies. It appears my companion disapproves of your cooking.”

  He walked away calmly.

  The women continued laughing behind him—wild, amused, entertained by this strange, polite man who treated seduction like a restaurant inquiry.

  Z-69 barely escaped the neon pink glow before two hustlers—both wearing mismatched prosthetic limbs—grabbed him by the arms.

  “Hey, silver-hair! You just survived The Pit, right? Come try your luck!”

  Z-69 frowned.

  “Luck is an uncontrollable variable. I prefer controllable—”

  “Just come see! You’ll like it!”

  Before he could object, they dragged him into the casino.

  The casino was a sensory assault.

  Purple light poured from rotating panels.

  Holographic dice floated above tables.

  Energy roulette wheels spun with sparks.

  SCRAP burned in betting furnaces, releasing metallic fumes.

  Z-69 observed all of it silently.

  Emotionless.

  Focused.

  But his eyes—his bright, sharp green eyes—scanned everything.

  The rhythm of the dealer’s pulse.

  The micro-gestures exchanged between cheaters.

  The slight tremor when a gambler lied.

  He learned the rules instantly.

  “You know how to play?” the dealer asked.

  “I know enough to win.”

  Lumina nestled deeper into his collar.

  “You’re planning to cheat,” she whispered.

  Z-69 responded inside his mind:

  “Anyone who doesn’t cheat here dies. Therefore, I cheat. This is adaptation.”

  Lumina smirked.

  “I like this version of you.”

  Z-69 played.

  The first round—he lost intentionally.

  The gamblers relaxed.

  The second—he read heartbeats.

  The third—Lumina whispered, “Left shoe. Extra card.”

  The fourth—he stared at an opponent until the man’s will cracked.

  Then Lumina used a pulse of psychic static to disrupt the man’s confidence.

  SCRAP flowed toward Z-69 like water descending a tilted street.

  Soon, a pile sat in front of him.

  A thug leaned back in his chair, boots up on the table, chewing on a metal toothpick.

  His glare burned holes into Z-69.

  “You’re too lucky.”

  Z-69 smirked, not bothering to hide his confidence.

  “That is a matter of skill.”

  The thug pulled out an electric gun, slamming it onto the table.

  “YOU CHEATED!”

  Z-69 sighed.

  “Lumina,” he said calmly. “Exit route?”

  She looked around frantically.

  “Which direction DOESN’T have five guys waiting with knives in a dark corner!?”

  “Ah. Understood.”

  Z-69 flipped the table and launched himself backward.

  What followed was not “running.”

  It was a calculated escape route, executed with superhuman awareness.

  He sprinted across walls, leapt between balconies, ducked under hologram screens.

  He kicked off neon signs, used ventilation shafts as handholds, and slipped between crowds like smoke.

  Lumina guided him with continuous warnings:

  “Left! The man behind you is charging his shock gun!”

  “Over the trash bin—NOW!”

  “No, not that way—yes, CLIMB!”

  Z-69 took every instruction with perfect timing.

  He ran without fear, without panic.

  “This floor’s residents are interesting.” he noted.

  “They repeatedly attempt to kill me.”

  “Maybe because you stand out TOO MUCH.” Lumina scoffed.

  “Perhaps I must reduce my visibility.” Z-69 replied

  But as he said that— A massive neon billboard flickered overhead, displaying his image from The Pit.

  A slow zoom on his violet crystal.

  A caption beneath:

  “PARTICIPANT NUMBER 69 – QUALIFIED.”

  “…Reduce your visibility, huh?” Lumina stared at the display, horrified.

  Z-69 looked up at the sign thoughtfully.

  “That may prove difficult.”

  They continued walking into the deeper alleys of Level Ten— toward the weapon stalls, drug markets, illegal cyber-doc shops,

  and the true heart of the black market.

  Behind them, the billboard glowed brighter, projecting his face onto the rain-soaked street.

  Thunderlight, bathed in neon.

  And Level Ten, watching its newest monster walk into the dark.