The Dreadnought's car was a nondescript vehicle with rust-eaten panels and a weathered exterior. Rozeree slumped into the driver's seat, body stiff and pained. Each movement sent sharp tendrils of agony through her body. She'd stripped the knife-spinner's clothes from his corpse, the fabric hanging loosely on her frame. Her makeshift hair tie, a strip of frayed cloth, struggled to contain her matted, blood-soaked hair.
"Fuck—" she breathed, her voice a rasp of agony. Crimson leaked from the gash on her scalp. Her hands trembled as they gripped the steering wheel. Her muscles quivered with adrenaline and exhaustion as she fought to hold herself upright.
With a rattled she dropped her plundered bits into the center console. Coins clinked against each other like a small, desperate music. Not much, but maybe, just maybe, enough to pay Knuckle's fee. Her vision blurred…then sharpened.
"Pull it together, Rozeree," the words came raw and jagged, a blade of pure desperation. "You did it. You're alive. You proved you're the strong one." Her raw and bloodied fingers clamped around the steering wheel. Her mind lurched, emotions threatening to consume her. "So why… Why do I feel like this?"
Metal and rubber whined beneath her grip like a wounded animal. Emotions burned within her like a forge ready to explode.
Pain. Fear. Hope. Dreams. Ambition.
Her body trembled, muscles taut and electric. Her jaw clenched against a rising storm. She grit her teeth so hard they threatened to crack. "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" She wailed, the words a desperate plea.
But no matter how hard she fought, the world kept crashing in, crushing her from all sides. Each breath brought her closer to being buried alive. Suffocating under layers of pain and emotion.
Then—
A scream erupted from her lips. Primal. Uncontrolled. The sound echoed of the cold steel factory. Tears gushed from her tightly shut eyelids, cutting hot trails down her bloodied cheeks. Her fists hammered the steering wheel—a violent, rhythmic percussion of anguish.
"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!" She screamed at nothing, at everything, thrashing in the front seat like a wild animal caught in a trap. By the time she stopped her throat was left scorched and burning. Her body filled with a new wave of exhaustion and pain.
Her chest heaved. Then again. And again. Her forehead pressed against the steering wheel, damp and hot. One breath. Another. Her tremors slowed. A ragged inhale. Another. The storm inside her began to settle, though the edges still trembled like a newborn. "I just want the world to know my name… To be strong…"
Rozeree's ragged breathing slowly steadied. The silence creeping in, filling the vehicle's interior like thick smoke. Her fingers, still trembling, traced the scars beneath her clothes.
Get. It. Together. You don't have time for this. She let out a shuddering breath, forcing herself to focus. To shut herself off. To block out her overwhelming sea of emotions threatening to drown her.
A folded piece of paper caught her eye—tucked into the vehicle's sun visor. Pulling it down, she unfolded a map. Not just any map. Dreadnought intelligence… The map marked routes of safe passages through the city that avoided knights.
With another deeper, calmer breath she began studying the map intently, fingers tracing the marked paths, calculations already spinning. This isn't the end. I just have to keep moving. No matter what.
The stolen vehicle coughed to life, rust-eaten components protesting with each revolution. Rozeree's gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching her own eyes—hard, distant, and cold. For a moment, they almost looked like hers.
I want to be like her. Cold. Unwavering. She forced her visionis to remember every route like a lifeline But I won't die like she did. She tossed the map and slammed on the gas. The weak die. The strong thrive. Breaking down is nothing but a hindrance.
She reached the looming Citadel wall in no time. A monstrous construct of reinforced metal and composite materials that stretched impossibly high. Multiple checkpoint lanes converged, each guarded by heavily armored knights. Rozeree's stolen vehicle crawled forward in the line, each inch bringing her closer to potential discovery. The wall was a living, breathing mechanism. Sensor arrays, weapon emplacements, and surveillance systems bristled along its surface like spines.
A knight approached, his stance deliberately aggressive. "Identification and reason for entering the Citadel today?"
"I'm heading to see my modder, Knuckles. Got jumped earlier and need some repairs," she explained, her voice steady despite her current state. She extended her ID card and the knight's scanner blinked across its surface. His eyes narrowed, flickering between her battered form and the vehicle. Rozeree caught a weighted glance passed between him and his colleague, a silent communication that spoke volumes.
The knight's armour reflected Rozeree's bloodied face back at her. He didn't move for a moment, and then his voice, low and gravelly, cut through the air. "Step out of the vehicle. Hands where we can see them." His voice carried the weight of institutional power, a tone that brooked no argument.
She complied, moving slowly. Each movement deliberate, each breath controlled. But beneath a calm exterior, her instincts screamed.
"This vehicle isn't registered to you," another knight said, scanning the vehicle's exterior. "Looks like we've got a situation here."
Shit… Before she could draw breath to protest, armor-clad hands seized her arms, lifting her off her feet. Her mangled body offered no resistance, muscles barely able to hold her weight.
The interrogation room wasn't larger than a storage closet. Its gray walls punctuated by a single unblinking camera. In the center sat two chairs and a stark metal table. I wonder if they're going to beat me to… She puzzled as she was thrown in, slamming against the unforgiving metal floor.
Moments later, a female knight entered. She had shed her armor, but her presence radiated the same cutting authority. Pulling on skin-tight gloves, she lifted Rozeree and shoved her against the wall.
The impact forced waves of agony through Rozeree's battered body. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she locked her muscles. Refusing to fall. Show. No. Weakness.
"Strip," the knight commanded. Her voice a cold blade. "Slowly. Clothes there."
Wearily, Rozeree complied. Each piece of clothing fell away, a forced ritual of submission. When she stood completely exposed and vulnerable, the knight began her invasive examination.
Her hands were forceful, methodical, ripping through clothing, then Rozeree's body itself. Her wounds, still raw and bleeding, meant nothing. The knight prodded, pushed, invaded—her touch clinical and utterly dehumanizing.
"Get dressed." The words were clipped, devoid of emotion. Without sparing a glance, the knight turned and strode out, the door slamming with metallic finality.
As Rozeree sat motionless, her mind began to fade into a turbulent storm of survival instincts and raw determination. Blood was slowly pooled beneath her. Where am I… Her vision wavered, hallucinations bleeding at the edges of reality. Oh yeah…the Citadel… Gods help me… What am I doing… Memories and the present blurred, pain and defiance intertwining. I'm stronger but… This city are worse than the yokai ever were… A fleeting thought of retreat flickered, but it was quickly crushed. No. I can't let this city break me. The metallic scratch of the door punctured her hazy consciousness, dragging her back to the surface.
Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in her leg—electricity exploding through her veins like lightning through an open field. Her vision crystallized, unnaturally sharp, as she gasped for air. Lungs burning with renewed intensity.
A brutal slap cracked across her face, slammed her back to harsh reality. The bioinjector clattered across the cold metal table. A knight settled across from her, his presence filling the small interrogation space.
"You're going to explain why you're riding around in stolen property," he stated. It was the same knight who'd stopped her at the checkpoint—his voice a blend of accusation and challenge.
"I took it from the people who jumped me," she replied, her response matching his clipped tone. "Just like I told you before."
The knight leaned forward, his breath hot and rank. "Those people being a mother and child?" The words landed like a foreign language, confusion blooming across Rozeree's face. Her momentary bewilderment was met by a scornful chuckle from the knight, who leaned back dismissively.
"Don't act innocent, little girl," he sneered. "That vehicle belonged to a single mother and child. What I figure is you got beat up, needed a ride, so you stole it from the weakest target you could find."
Rozeree met his mockery with her own razor-edged scoff. "Picking on the weak is for the weak," she shot back. "I was jumped by Dreadnoughts. They probably killed the owners so their car wouldn't be traceable when they kidnapped me."
"Interesting story," he drawled, his tone making it clear he believed none of it. "But here's what I know. Unregistered vehicle. Uncertain motive. Stolen property." Each phrase was a step, a dance leading toward his true intention. He wasn't interested in the truth. He was setting up something else entirely.
The knight continued, his voice a low, disinterested drone. "Whether it's some sob story about Dreadnoughts or a mother and child, doesn't really matter to me." He pulled out a datapad, fingers dancing across its surface with practiced indifference. "What matters is procedure."
Rozeree remained silent, her blue eyes tracking his every movement.
"We'll be keeping the funds found in the vehicle," he declared. "Unregistered currency. Potential proceeds from criminal activity." His gaze flickered to her, daring her to object. "Standard policy."
A muscle twitched in her jaw. Her hard-fought coins. Gone. There is no way I can pay Knuckles now… Hopefully the bioinjector will get me to Maven…
"You're free to go with the vehicle." The knight's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Consider this a... civic contribution." His fingers tapped the datapad, finalizing something unseen.
Her stolen vehicle waited where they'd left it, looking more decrepit than ever. The rust-bucket mimicking her desperate form.
She slid into the driver's seat, muscles super-charged. The engine wheezed to life, contrasting with her erratic breasthing. Not defeated, she assured herself. Just... temporarily inconvenienced.
The Pulse stood exactly as she remembered. A black monolith bleeding neon and pulsing with an electric heartbeat. Rozeree's vehicle sputtered into the alleyway beside the club as she cursed her current state.
Blood had dried in crusty patterns along her hairline, while her clothes hung loose and ragged. Her hair was matted with black and crimson, and she could barley open one eye. The bioinjector from the knights' interrogation still hummed faintly beneath her skin, the only thing keeping her conscious and moving.
Just get paid. Just get through this.
The club's security recognized her from before. One of the steel-carved guards - the same who had disarmed her during her first visit - gave her a long, appraising look. His augmented eyes flickered, running some internal diagnostic. Rozeree knew she looked like hell, but she'd be damned if she showed weakness.
She climbed the short staircase to Maven's private booth with the same determined stride she'd used before. The predatory woman was exactly as before, lounging with feline grace, those vertical pupils tracking her approach.
"Well, well, well" Maven drawled, one clawed hand tracing the rim of a luminescent cocktail, "you look like you've been through a meat grinder."
Rozeree slid into the seat next to Maven, her movements stiff but calculated. "Job's done," she said flatly.
Maven's smile was predatory, vertical pupils tracing Rozeree's battered form. "I know, it was quite the entrance," her words dripped from her lipps, clawed hand swirling her cocktail. "Your escape of the knights was big news but I didn't hear about an altercation."
"Got caught up with some of the Wolf's associates," Rozeree replied, her eyes never leaving Maven's face. She deliberately chose her words, revealing nothing. "They weren't pleased with a new player on the board."
Maven leaned closer, her movement liquid and controlled. "And yet," she murmured, "here you are. Alive." There was something almost admiring in her tone.
In that moment, every bruise, every drop of blood, every moment of pain suddenly solidified into pure vindication. Here was Maven—predatory, powerful—acknowledging her. Not with pity. Not with surprise. But with respect.
"I'm harder to kill than most," Rozeree said, a ghost of a smirk playing at her bloodied lips. A sense of validation ran deeper than any physical discomfort. This was proof. Proof that her choices, this brutal path, meant something.
"Clearly," her hand slowly glided from the booth to Rozeree's arm, fingers trailing a cold path up to her neck, then back down her chest.
Rozeree instinctively recoiled, muscles tensing. "Don't," she warned, her voice low and sharp.
Maven's laugh was a purring sound. "Calm down, girly. You could hurt yourself jumping like that in your condition." Her eyes swam over Rozeree's body with a hunger that made Rozeree's skin crawl. "You're awfully beaten up. How about letting my modder take a look at you?" Her red hair caught the pulsating club lights, looking like a mane of fire.
"No," Rozeree cut back firmly. "Just pay me and I'll see my own modder."
A disappointed look flashed across Maven's lips. "Awe, what a shame. We could have had so much..." Her gaze lingered, "...fun together."
Maven then slid a small leather pouch across the table. The soft clink of golden coins drew Rozeree's attention. Maven's claw tapped the table. "Payment for services rendered. Not bad for a first job." Her gaze seemed to want to consume Rozeree But not with simple desire, but with the same clinical assessment she might give a weapon. Functional. Dangerous. Reliable."Rest up. More work comes to those who've proved themselves."
In that moment, Rozeree's knew she was right. There is only the strong, and the weak. The right and the wrong. Power is the ultimate virtue. And here was proof. A powerful, predatory woman acknowledging her worth, not through compassion, but through pure, ruthless respect. She had gone through so many grueling trials. But soon this city would be forced to take notice. And after that, she would spread her name across the globe.
Her trembling hand reached out, fingers closing around the pouch. The weight of the coins—bits hard earned—felt reassuring. Proof of her strength. Proof she was right.
Rozeree moved slowly, every muscle protesting as she pushed herself up from the seat. Each movement a deliberate, conscious effort to show strength despite the bioinjector diminishing by the second.
"Take care of yourself," Maven called, her tone still a venomous honey.
One step. Another. Don't falter.
Her vehicle waited in the alleyway. The moment she dropped into the driver's seat and the door closed, her facade crumbled.
A ragged gasp escaped her lips. Pain was coursing through her body like liquid fire. My ribs—some have to be cracked, maybe broken. The gash on her scalp leaked and throbbed. Muscles that had been pushed beyond human limits now threatened complete collapse.
"Fuck," she breathed, hands trembling against the steering wheel. The adrenaline that had kept her upright was dissolving, leaving behind raw, visceral agony. Each breath a fight for air.
Her vision blurred. Sweat beading on her forehead, cutting clean trails through the dried blood. "Just... keep... moving," she ground out between clenched teeth.
The engine sputtered to life, as broken and resilient as she was. Each movement sent fresh tendrils of pain shooting through her augmented muscles. But the pain only meant she was still alive.
The city became a blur of fractured light and shadow. Rozeree's hands moved mechanically on the steering wheel, her augmented body operating on pure instinct. Pain radiated through her bones, every muscle pleading for relief. Blood drained across her skin like rivers cutting through landscape. Each breath a ragged battle against encroaching darkness.
She was on the street. She didn't remember parking the vehicle. Didn't remember stumbling from its rusted interior. Her legs moved like broken machinery, one faltering step after another. The world tilted and spun, familiar streets bleeding into unfamiliar landscapes.
Knuckles. She had to reach Knuckles.
The clinic's door loomed before her, a blurry gray rectangle. How had she gotten here? Her augmented hand reached out. She missed the handle. Her scraped against the wall. Metal. Cold. Familiar. Uncaring. Corpse. The door. Again. Her fingers found purchase. Dragged herself forward.
Inside smelled of antiseptic and metal. Memories fragmented—surgeries, pain, power. Her legs buckled. The floor rushed up to meet her. Cold. Unforgiving. A distant sound. Something between a groan and a gasp escaped her lips.
Darkness consumed her, swallowing her whole amid the sterile silence of Knuckles' clinic. Her body had finally demanded its due.