Cypher

The alley was quiet in that way cities never are—too quiet. As if the night itself had been suspended. Streetlamps buzzed faintly above the alley's mouth, casting a washed-out cone of amber light, but down here, between brick and shadow, it was nothing but cold air and the scent of old iron. Trash rustled against a rusting chain-link fence. Rainwater from the earlier storm dripped from a broken gutter, puddling around shattered glass and twisted metal. I sat slumped against the wall, helmet tilted forward, the blue glow of my optics flickering erratically beneath the dark visor. My armor, usually seamless and gleaming, was torn open at the side—a jagged gash where a blade had found its mark. Blood pulsed through my fingers where I pressed them tight to the wound, my breathing shallow beneath the layers of synthetic muscle and carbon alloy plating. The HUD blurred in and out, flickering red warnings across my vision. > *SYSTEM INTEGRITY: 43%* > *CRITICAL DAMAGE DETECTED* > *DETECTING DROP IN BLOOD PRESSURE* “I noticed,” I muttered, yanking the earpiece out and letting it clatter to the pavement. My hand trembled. The pain was manageable—pain always was. What worried me was the cold creeping in, not just along my limbs, but somewhere deeper. Something vital. Organic. A skitter of movement echoed down the alley. I stiffened. My grip instinctively shifted, reaching for the sidearm at my thigh, but it wasn't there. Gone during the fight. Lost. The steps drew closer—soft, hesitant. Not the heavy boots of a patrol, not the metallic stomp of a drone. Civilian.