A year passes.

  Jace is now sixteen, working to help his mom with bills. He’s behind the counter at a dusty little supermarket in the slums. The owner, a grumpy old man with a limp, has practically become family.

  “Hey, old man,” Jace calls out, scanning the spice shelf, “which one’s the best for chicken?”

  The cane smacks the back of his leg. “Who you calling old, you little bastard?” the man growls. “Take this one—it’s spicy enough to make you cry. I know you like to torture yourself with flavor.”

  Jace grins, clocks out, grabs the spice, and hits the road.

  The slums are alive as always—loud, gritty, full of smells no one should get used to. But today feels okay.

  Then he sees him. A man, tall, shoulders hunched, approaching from the front. Jace’s instincts click. Something’s off.

  He turns.

  Another man—closer, behind him. Both wearing dark clothes, hoods pulled, masks hiding smirks.

  “Hey kid,” one of them chuckles, “you know how much a kidney goes for these days?”

  Jace backs up, raising his fists. “Fuck off.”

  The other one snickers. “We’re light buffers, kid. You’d need to be an Olympian to touch one of us. There’s two of us. And I doubt you’re anything but powerless.”

  Jace clenches his jaw. He remembers his beetle, the little guy who refused to give up. “Bring it on, you bastards.”

  The first man lunges. Jace dodges—barely. The second grabs at him—misses.

  “You call that powered?” Jace taunts. “You two look like bumbling powerless morons!”

  He grins—right before getting swept off his feet. Hits the concrete hard, groaning.

  “Stupid mouth,” one of them laughs, grabbing him from behind.

  The other walks up, cracking his knuckles. “Say that again, smartass.”

  Jace spots a sliver of chance. He slams a kick right into the guy’s groin—he crumples. The grab was weak, and Jace slips free, hurling the jar of spice straight into the other’s face. Glass shatters, red powder everywhere.

  He bolts.

  Breath ragged, adrenaline flooding, he dials his mom. No answer.

  “She must be busy,” he mutters.

  He gets home—and freezes.

  The door’s open. The window’s shattered. His mom is on the floor, blood soaking into the cheap rug.

  “No, no no no—Mom!”

  She’s still breathing. He lifts her, stumbles out into the street, runs like hell.

  At the hospital, they take her—then hand him a clipboard.

  Income? Occupation? Insurance?

  He answers everything honestly.

  The nurse looks up, expression blank. “We’re sorry, but without proper payment, we can’t proceed.”

  “She’s dying!”

  “We understand. But our hands are tied.”

  She dies before they can do anything.

  And as he sits there, broken, shaking, eyes burning with tears—someone hands him a bill.

  400 credits. For the room.

  He doesn’t say a word.

  He just walks home.

  At home, the air is heavy. The spice jar pieces still stuck in his hoodie. The floor is cold.

  Jace drops to the ground and starts doing pushups. No tears, no sound.

  Just motion