The aero cab hummed through the rain-slicked skies of Neo Horizon's mid-tier sprawl, its thrusters cutting a lazy arc between towering arcologies. Felicity sat in the back, hood pulled low over her white ears, her tail tucked uncomfortably against the worn synth-leather seat. The interior was a testament to the city's underbelly—scratched plasteel panels etched with graffiti tags, a cluster of faded stickers plastered near the window: one advertising "Gamma Survivors Anonymous" meetings, another a peeling decal for a long-defunct noodle joint, and a crumpled protein bar wrapper wedged in the seat crack, remnant of some previous passenger's hasty meal. The cab's AI pilot droned on about traffic delays, its voice crackling through speakers that had seen better days.

  A holo-screen mounted on the partition flickered to life with an ad, the projection bathing the cab in lurid pink and blue hues. "Catch the sizzling debut of Vixen Vortex at Club Euphoria in the Red Light District! Neo Horizon's premier futanari sensation! Enhanced curves, gamma-powered performances, and nights you'll never forget. Only at Club Euphoria - the hottest of girls with the hardest of cocks. Book your VIP booth now—credits accepted, inhibitions optional." The ad looped with holographic dancers twisting in provocative poses, a stark reminder of how the city had adapted to its skewed population of gamma infused sex drives: clubs catering to every augmented fantasy, where survival meant reinventing desire.

  In the chaotic aftermath of the gamma event, a rare subset of women had emerged as futanari, blessed or cursed, their bodies a tantalizing fusion of curves and endowment. Prized in the Red Light District for filling the void left by vanished males, these gamma-born performers like Vixen Vortex commanded top credits, drawing crowds eager for the thrill of something both familiar and forbidden.

  Felicity tuned it out, staring at the neon-blurred cityscape below. The solitude of the ride gave her mind space to wander again back to the fragments of her old life, the ones she usually kept buried under layers of survival instinct.

  Ten years since the gamma event tore everything apart. She could still feel the hum in her bones, that unnatural vibration building like a storm inside the walls of their cramped apartment. And now? Zane. A living ghost from the pre-event world, stirring things in her she'd thought long dead. His touch in the tunnels, the way his eyes lingered—not on her ears or tail like some fetish, but on her. It made her pulse race, her body ache in ways the gamma surge had amplified. But crossing that line meant burning bridges with Z-Gang. Was he worth it?

  The cab touched down with a soft thud. "Destination reached. Fare: 45 credits." Felicity paid and stepped out into the drizzle, pulling her hood tighter. The thrift store occupied a forgotten corner of the Mid-Tier Commercial District, wedged between a synthetic noodle shop and a closed augmentation parlor. “Yesteryear’s Treasures” read the faded sign, the letters flickering with dying neon. Felicity pulled her hood lower, white ears hidden beneath the fabric as she pushed through the door.

  A bell chimed—actual metal, not electronic. The sound made her pause. When was the last time she’d heard something so analog?

  “Help you?” The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with low-level enhancement marks on her temples, barely glanced up from her romance novel. Level 5 at most—just enough gamma exposure to survive, not enough to matter.

  “Just browsing,” Felicity murmured, moving deeper into the cluttered space.

  The store smelled of mothballs and abandoned lives. Racks of women’s clothing dominated the floor space—silks and synthetics from before the event, styles that assumed a different world. But Felicity navigated toward the back, where a small section held the real treasures: men’s clothing.

  Three racks. That’s all that remained of half the world’s fashion. She ran her fingers along dusty jackets, faded jeans, shirts sized for bodies the world no longer produced. Each piece a ghost, a reminder of the burned sky and empty streets that followed.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  The thought hit her as she pulled out a black leather jacket, checking the size. Close enough to Zane’s build. She could see him in it—the way it would hang on his shoulders, how the collar would frame his face. The image made her stomach flutter in ways that had nothing to do with her cat enhancements.

  “Costume party,” she said when the shopkeeper glanced her way. “Doing a retro thing. Pre-event style.”

  The woman snorted. “Popular theme these days. Girls like playing dress-up, pretending the men are coming back.” She returned to her novel, muttering, “Fools.”

  Felicity gathered more pieces—dark jeans, plain t-shirts, boots that might fit. Each selection felt like a betrayal. Z-Gang had taken her in when the gamma rays left her changed, gave her purpose when the world labeled her a freak. Now she was shopping for the very thing they’d been hired to hunt.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A memory surfaced: Lethanda, the gang’s leader, examining her after her first successful bounty. “Good work, kitten. But remember—loyalty is everything. Betray the gang, and even nine lives won’t save you.”

  She pushed the memory down, moving to a corner with a cracked mirror. As she sorted through Zane’s potential wardrobe, a splash of color caught her eye. A dress—deep purple, almost black, with silver threading that caught the light. Pre-event fashion, when women dressed to attract rather than intimidate.

  When did I last wear something just because it was pretty?

  Before she could stop herself, Felicity grabbed the dress and slipped into the changing booth—a relic itself, from when privacy mattered. She shed her tactical gear, pulling the dress over her head.

  She raised her head and the mirror reflected a stranger, a vision that made her breath catch in her throat. The deep purple fabric clung to her like a second skin, the silver threading shimmering under the dim booth light, accentuating every curve of her lithe, gamma-enhanced body. It hugged her perky breasts, the low neckline dipping just enough to reveal the soft swell of cleavage, her nipples subtly pressing against the smooth material as a flush of warmth spread through her. The dress cinched at her slim waist, flaring out over her toned hips and ass, the hem brushing mid-thigh to expose the smooth, pale skin of her legs—legs that ended in subtle feline grace, her tail swaying gently behind her, adding an exotic allure. Her white hair cascaded over her shoulders in silky waves, framing her delicate cat ears that twitched with unspoken desire, their soft fur contrasting against the rich hue of the dress. Her eyes gleamed in the reflection, wide with a mix of vulnerability and budding arousal, her full lips parted slightly as she imagined hands—Zane's hands—tracing those very lines, exploring the heat building beneath the fabric. For a moment, she wasn’t Felicity the bounty hunter, the cat-girl who could track anyone through Neo Horizon’s vertical maze. She was just… a woman. Young. Pretty. Desirable in a way that stirred a deep, aching hunger she hadn't allowed herself to feel in years.

  She recalled when her enhanced hearing picked up Zane’s heartbeat - that moment in the maintenance tunnel when he’d touched her face, looked at her like she was more than just useful. No one had looked at her that way since the change. Most saw the ears, the tail, and categorized her as either threat or fetish.

  “Someone worth running with,” he’d said.

  Felicity traced the dress’s neckline, imagining his reaction if he saw her like this. Would his powers spike? Would that careful control finally crack? The thought sent heat through her that had nothing to do with the changing booth’s poor ventilation.

  The tension between them had been building for days—stolen glances, accidental touches that lingered, the way he moved closer when he slept. But neither had crossed that line yet. Maybe because crossing it would make everything real. Make her betrayal complete.

  “You buying that or just dreaming?” the shopkeeper called out.

  “Both,” Felicity answered, surprising herself.

  She changed back quickly, adding the dress to her pile. At the counter, the old woman tallied up the items with practiced boredom. “Lot of men’s clothes for a costume party.”

  “Group thing,” Felicity lied smoothly. “We’re all going as pre-event couples.”

  “Couples.” The woman’s laugh was bitter. “I had a husband once. Good man. Worked construction in the vertical sectors. When the sky burned…” She shook her head. “Forty years together, gone in an instant. Now they want us to breed with stored samples, like livestock. As if that could replace—” She cut herself off. “That’ll be three hundred credits.”

  Felicity paid, mind churning. Every woman had a story like that—loss, adaptation, survival. The corps promised solutions through their breeding programs, their carefully managed genetics. But what they offered wasn’t connection. It wasn’t choice.

  Outside, the afternoon crowds flowed past—enhanced women going about their lives, enforcers on patrol, the occasional drone scanning for anomalies. Felicity clutched her bags, the weight of men’s clothing feeling heavier than any weapon.

  A news feed on a nearby building caught her eye: “Argon Corp Announces Expanded Security Measures. Citizens Urged to Report Unusual Power Signatures.”

  They were escalating. Soon, every scanner in the city would be calibrated for Omega detection. Every informant would be activated. The safe spaces would shrink until there was nowhere left to run.