Fourteen of them. Blood-slicked and silent. I watched them gather through the jagged frame of the shattered station window, their eyes gleaming with fanaticism. I could feel it—there was no fear in them. No humanity, either.
Just programming.
They weren't alive in the way I was. They were tools. Designed, trained and optimized.
But the system had just done me a favor.
The pain dulled. My breathing calmed. Muscles realigned like they remembered what it was to win. The shard of glass in my hand was long—maybe twelve inches. Thick at the base, tapering to a clean, savage point. My fingers curled around it like it was an extension of my will.
"Alright," I said, cracking my neck, "round two."
I ran.
—
