It was already the sixth one today. I was starting to lose any form of hope. Finding an apartment in Neo Lyon is doomed in the current day, clearly.

  I remember when I was looking for an apartment with Mel, how it had been such a pain back then, too. But at least we had each other. We had laughed about it, joked about how one day we’d be rich and able to live in some top-floor penthouse with a balcony overlooking the city. Some place where we wouldn’t have to listen to our neighbors fighting, where the walls weren’t thin enough to hear every bit of someone’s miserable life leaking through. We had settled for what we could afford, a cramped but cozy studio, and we had made it our home.

  Now, standing in another overpriced, barely-holding-together shoebox, I felt the weight of that memory pressing against my ribs like a dull knife.

  The real estate agent—an older woman with a practiced smile and no patience for people like me—cleared her throat. “So, are you interested?”

  The apartment smelled of damp and old cigarettes, like someone had spent years stewing in their bad habits here. The walls were yellowed, the floorboards creaked, and I was pretty sure the radiator had last worked when the city still had streetcars.

  I forced a tight smile. “I’ll think about it.”

  The woman gave me a knowing look. She already knew I wouldn’t be calling her back. She just nodded, ushering me out and locking the door behind us with a finality that felt like another nail in the coffin of my patience.

  Six places. All of them the same: too expensive, too cramped, too broken.

  I needed somewhere that wasn’t a shithole. Somewhere that wasn’t going to cost me every last cent I had. Somewhere that wasn’t hers.

  The idea of living in another place like that old apartment, in another home filled with laughter and music and the smell of cheap takeout—I couldn’t do it. That life was gone. She was gone.

  I exhaled sharply and rubbed my temples. Maybe I was going about this all wrong. Maybe I didn’t need a home. Maybe I just needed a place.

  That’s when I saw it.

  A listing tacked onto a sun-faded notice board outside a laundromat. Most people wouldn’t have looked twice at it. But I recognized the street name–at the edge of Terreaux, almost could be considered in Pentes de La Croix-Rousse. A good spot, out of the way enough to not be a constant battlefield but still close enough to keep my ear to the ground.

  I pulled the paper free and called the number.

  The apartment wasn’t easy to find. The streets around Terreaux twisted into one another like veins, narrow and uneven, lined with buildings that looked like they had been here since before the concept of plumbing. Something unusual for a thirty-something-year-old city. I guess they wanted to keep the charm of old Lyon.

  I walked past cafés where locals sat hunched over small cups of espresso, artists with paint-stained fingers smoking on stairwells, and graffiti-covered walls that told stories no one would bother to write down.

  The apartment wasn’t easy to find. The streets around Terreaux twisted into one another like veins, narrow and uneven, lined with buildings that looked like they had been here since before the concept of plumbing. Something unusual for a thirty-something-year-old city. I guess they wanted to keep the charm of old Lyon.

  I walked past cafés where locals sat hunched over small cups of espresso, artists with paint-stained fingers smoking on stairwells, and graffiti-covered walls that told stories no one would bother to write down. The city was alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time—vibrant but indifferent, constantly moving forward while leaving people like me behind.

  The address led me to a building at the edge of the district, nestled between a crumbling bookstore and a half-renovated townhouse. The exterior was unremarkable—stone walls weathered by time, wrought-iron balconies with plants desperately clinging to life. But it wasn’t about appearances. It was about what was inside.

  The landlord was a wiry man in his fifties, with tired eyes and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He barely glanced at me before unlocking the door and pushing it open.

  “Stairs are a pain in the ass,” he muttered as he led me up three flights, the wooden steps groaning under our weight. “No elevator, but at least the neighbors aren’t the worst.”

  I didn’t care about the stairs. What mattered was what waited at the top.

  The apartment was small, but it had potential. A single window let in a sliver of light, illuminating dust dancing in the air. The walls were bare but not in the peeling-paint, rotting-wood kind of way. The floor was solid, no gaping holes or water damage. The kitchen was practically a formality, just a counter and a sink, but I didn’t need more.

  The best part? No questions asked.

  The landlord eyed me as I did a quick walkthrough, his expression unreadable. “You work around here?”

  “Freelance,” I said, noncommittal.

  He grunted like that was answer enough. “Three months upfront, no bullshit, and don’t go calling me at midnight if the sink leaks. You interested?”

  I hesitated, my fingers curling around the paper in my pocket—the one listing this place. The faded ink, the rough edges, like it had been waiting for someone desperate enough to call.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Three months upfront. It wasn’t cheap, but I had the money now.

  I looked around again, weighing the space in my mind. It wasn’t much, but that was the point. The walls were blank slates, no lingering ghosts of past tenants, no echoes of laughter that would never come again. I could make it something new. Not a home, never that, but a place. A base.

  A part of me still wanted to laugh at how different this was from when Mel and I had searched for our first place together. Back then, we had cared about balconies, about light, about whether the oven actually worked because she wanted to learn how to bake. Back then, we had dreamed about a future.

  Now, I just needed somewhere to keep my head down.

  “I’m interested,” I said, my voice firm.

  The landlord exhaled smoke through his nose, like he’d already expected that answer. “Good. Got cash?”

  I nodded, pulling out the envelope I had tucked inside my jacket. I could tell he appreciated that—no bank transfers, no paperwork, no questions.

  He counted quickly, then nodded. “Keys are yours. Don’t be an idiot about it.”

  And that was it. No contracts, no formalities. Just a transaction, clean and simple. The way I needed it to be.

  Moving in was easy. I didn’t have much to bring—just a duffel bag of clothes, a few essentials, and the weight of everything I’d lost.

  The apartment smelled musty, like dust and disuse, but it would fade. I took off my jacket, tossing it over the back of the rickety chair in the corner, and walked the perimeter of the room. No obvious surveillance. No damage to the locks. The windows weren’t ideal—someone determined enough could get in from the outside, but I could fix that later.

  I let out a slow breath, my muscles finally unclenching.

  It was mine now.

  The first thing I did was check the water. A twist of the old tap, and after a few seconds of coughing pipes, a steady stream poured into the sink. Rusty at first, then clear. Good enough.

  The second thing was checking the hideout.

  The building across the street had caught my attention the moment I had arrived. From the outside, it looked abandoned—windows boarded up, doors covered in graffiti. But in a city like Neo Lyon, appearances didn’t mean much. Some of the best-hidden places were right in the open.

  I waited until nightfall before making my way over, my hood up, hands in my pockets. The street was quiet, only the occasional echo of footsteps or distant chatter. Neo Lyon had its rhythms, its own way of breathing, and I had learned how to move through it unnoticed.

  The lock on the side entrance was old, rusted, and barely holding together. A few minutes with a small piece of wire, and it clicked open with barely a sound.

  The air inside was thick with dust, the kind that settled over years of disuse. The moonlight filtering through cracks in the boarded windows barely illuminated the space, but I didn’t need much to see what I was dealing with. The floor was littered with old newspapers, broken glass, and the remnants of squatters who had probably come and gone before the place had been forgotten.

  It wasn’t much, but it would do.

  I moved carefully through the abandoned building, testing the floorboards for weak spots. It was mostly stable, though some areas near the edges sagged under my weight. The walls were covered in graffiti—half-faded tags from gangs that had long since moved on, symbols I half-recognized from the backstreets of Neo Lyon.

  The space had potential.

  I made my way to the second floor, stepping over debris and shattered wood. This level was better—less exposed, more secure. A large, open room stretched before me, windows facing the street. From here, I could see my new apartment across the way, the dim light from my window the only sign of life. This would be my hideout, my transition point between Liz and Replica.

  For a long moment, I stood there, listening. The city murmured outside—distant sirens, a dog barking, the low hum of traffic. Normal sounds. But here, in this abandoned space, there was silence.

  I needed that silence.

  After securing the doors as best as I could—wedging a piece of broken furniture against the main entrance and making a mental note to find a better lock—I pulled out the small duffel bag I had brought with me. Inside, my few tools. Some rope. A burner phone. A fresh set of dark clothes that blended into the night.

  And then, at the very bottom, wrapped in black cloth, my costume. The one D’Angelo had patched up two days ago, all while cursing under his breath about the "abuse" I'd put it through.

  "You treat this like it's disposable," he'd muttered, threading a needle through a tear in the fabric. "A work of art, Replica. Not just some rags you throw on before getting stabbed."

  He had a point. The suit had taken a beating, much like me. But unlike me, it needed time to mend and not just a quick pull of tethers.

  I traced my fingers over the fabric before pushing it aside and turning my attention to the space around me.

  The second floor of this abandoned building had potential. Potential to be my base. Somewhere I could switch between Replica and Liz. Somewhere I could erase who I was to become just another mask in the city.

  The idea settled in my chest like an old wound that hadn’t healed right. Liz had been a bartender, a musician’s girlfriend, someone who lived paycheck to paycheck and laughed too loudly in cramped apartments. Replica was something else entirely. Replica didn’t laugh. She didn’t drink too much at shitty dive bars and wake up tangled in warm arms.

  She survived.

  I exhaled sharply, the weight of the day pressing down on me. The apartments I’d seen, each one tugging at something raw inside me, like nails scratching at a scar that hadn’t fully closed. Every creaking floorboard, every narrow hallway had reminded me of searching with Mel—of the arguments, the compromises, the exhausted giggles after a long day of disappointing viewings.

  She would’ve hated this place.

  Mel had wanted light, warmth, somewhere she could fill with music. This was nothing but shadows and silence.

  But I wasn’t looking for a home.

  I pushed myself to my feet, dusting off my jeans. The second floor would work well for changing—big enough to store things, hidden enough that no one would stumble in by accident. The building had been abandoned long enough that even squatters didn’t seem interested in it.

  I turned, eyeing the staircase leading down to the street-level entrance. The old wooden steps creaked beneath my weight, a sound I’d have to remember. If anyone ever followed me in here, I’d hear them before they got close.

  Downstairs was worse—more broken furniture, more trash, the faint stink of old piss in the corners where drifters had once taken shelter. I wrinkled my nose, stepping carefully over shattered glass and crumpled newspapers. The front door was still intact, but the lock was useless. A quick trip to a hardware store would fix that.

  I’d need more supplies. A way to move between here and the apartment without drawing attention. I wasn’t about to haul things across the street in broad daylight.

  Tomorrow.

  For now, I had what mattered—the key to my new place in my pocket, and the first step toward carving out a space that was mine.

  At least, now I didn’t need to fear the day I’d get evicted from the MetaRelief-issued apartment.