Neo Lyon was awake in the way only a city steeped in violence could be.

  The night clung to the streets, cold and damp, the rain from earlier lingering in puddles that reflected the neon haze of flickering streetlights. The weight of the past day still pressed against me, an exhaustion that had nothing to do with my body. I had spent hours walking streets that no longer belonged to me, chasing ghosts that had already faded.

  And yet, I wasn’t done with them.

  Something felt off tonight. Something in the city had shifted.

  Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was just the feeling that had been gnawing at me ever since I saw White Flag and his unknown partner. The heroes were moving differently, expanding their reach, pushing into places they usually ignored. That wasn’t normal. Something had changed, and I wasn’t the only one feeling it.

  Even now, in the safe confines of my new apartment, now adorned with the bare minimum of furniture, I couldn’t shake this restlessness.

  I sat on the edge of my mattress—just a thin futon laid directly on the floor—fingering the edge of the new communicator. Scrap’s work. A clean, simple thing, barely larger than a matchbox, its black surface unmarked except for a tiny blinking light at its corner. One press, and I could connect to Libra or Tempus. But not yet.

  I didn’t like the idea of using it; unless I had to.

  Instead, I listened. The city had rhythms, pulses. Even from my third-floor window, I could hear the distant wail of sirens, the occasional hum of a passing vehicle. But there was something else tonight—something underneath it all.

  A silence where there shouldn’t be.

  My fingers twitched. A habit I’d picked up after Mel died—like I needed to be ready for something, even if I didn’t know what.

  I stood, rolling my shoulders, and crossed the small space of my apartment to the window. The glass was cold beneath my fingertips as I pushed it open, letting in the damp air. The streets below stretched out in dim alleyways and pockets of shadow.

  From up here, my new apartment felt detached from it all, like I was only observing the city instead of living in it. But I wasn’t separate. No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I was part of the machine. Another piece grinding along with the rest.

  The communicator sat in my hand, cool and silent, a tether to the only people who might still be close to what I was, who I became. Tempus. Libra. People who, for all their flaws, operated in the same space I did. People who had drawn their lines in the sand and decided which side they stood on.

  But I wasn’t sure I knew where I stood myself.

  My fingers tightened around the communicator, staring out at the empty alley below.

  The neon hum of street lights flickered over graffiti-stained walls, casting warped shapes onto the cracked pavement. A cat darted between trash bins, its silhouette melting into the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle revved, a sharp sound cutting through the quiet like a blade.

  Paranoia. Maybe. Maybe not.

  I told myself I was waiting. For what, I wasn’t sure. A shift in the air? A sound out of place? A reason to move?

  Or maybe I was just afraid to sleep.

  I exhaled and let my forehead rest against the cool window frame. The room behind me was barely furnished—just a mattress, a small table, a chair I’d found abandoned on the curb two streets over. It felt temporary. Because it was.

  This wasn’t home. Nothing was.

  The communicator’s silent weight in my palm felt heavier than it should. A tether. A connection. And wasn’t that what I had been trying to avoid?

  You’re different.

  That was what I told myself. That was what I had to believe. That I wasn’t like the others. That I wasn’t just another metahuman throwing my weight around, hurting people because I could.

  But the past few days had made it hard to hold onto that lie.

  Libra and Tempus had their reasons for doing what they did. Justifications, lines drawn in the sand. Does it matter if they kill someone, if that person was going to kill others? Does it matter if they steal, if they need the resources to survive?

  I had always told myself I wasn’t like them. That I wasn’t like the Red Hands. That I wasn’t like MetaPol or the Moon-Eaters or the vigilantes who thought themselves gods among insects.

  But wasn’t I?

  Hadn’t I stolen? Hadn’t I maimed? Hadn’t I made my own decisions on who deserved to walk away and who didn’t?

  And Mel—

  I squeezed my eyes shut, my jaw locking tight.

  Mel would have hated what I’d become.

  Wouldn’t she?

  The weight of that thought settled in my chest, a cold, hard stone. Mel had always been the one with the clear lines, the unwavering sense of right and wrong. She’d railed against the powerful, the corrupt, the people who thought they were above the rules. She’d believed in justice, in fairness, in the idea that everyone deserved a chance. Her songs made it even clearer.

  "And what chance have you given them, Liz?"

  The voice was a whisper, a phantom echo in the silence of my apartment, but it was as clear as if Mel stood beside me.

  I opened my eyes, staring at the rain-streaked window, at the distorted reflection of my own face.

  "I…" I started, but the words died in my throat.

  I had justifications. I had reasons. I had convinced myself that I was doing what was necessary.

  But were they lies? Were they just excuses to hide the truth?

  That I was lost? That I was angry? That I was becoming something I didn’t recognize?

  The communicator in my hand felt like a brand, a symbol of the path I had chosen. A path that led me away from everything I had ever believed in.

  I remembered the first time I had used my powers. The rush of adrenaline, the surge of strength, the feeling of control. It had been intoxicating.

  And then I had used it again. And again. Each time, it had been easier, less hesitant, more… natural.

  Like I was born to do it.

  Like I was becoming what I was always meant to be.

  A monster.

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  I closed my eyes, the image of Mel’s face flashing behind my eyelids. Her smile, her laughter, the way her eyes crinkled when she was amused.

  She would have seen through me. She would have called me out on my bullshit.

  "You're better than this, Liz."

  The words echoed in my mind, a constant, nagging reminder of who I used to be.

  But was I?

  Was I still that person?

  Or had I changed so much that I was beyond recognition?

  I looked down at my hands, at the calloused fingers from the now frequent working out.

  These weren’t the hands of a bartender, of a musician’s girlfriend. These were the hands of a weapon.

  And I had used them.

  I had hurt people.

  I had killed people.

  And I had justified it.

  I had told myself it was necessary.

  But was it?

  Or was it just another way to hide from the truth?

  That I was becoming like them?

  Like the metahumans I despised?

  Like the people who thought they were above the rules?

  I stood abruptly, pushing away from the window, the communicator slipping from my grasp and landing on the floor with a soft thud.

  I didn’t bother picking it up. The small device lay there, a dark, silent thing against the bare floorboards, mocking me with its potential for connection. I didn’t want connection. Not with them. Not with anyone.

  I paced the small space of my apartment, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The bare walls, the empty corners, the lack of anything personal – it all felt like a reflection of my own emptiness. I had stripped away everything that reminded me of my old life, of Mel, of who I used to be.

  But the memories wouldn’t leave.

  They clung to me like shadows, whispering in my ear, reminding me of every laugh, every touch, every moment of shared joy.

  And every moment of shared pain.

  I stopped pacing, my gaze falling on the small mirror propped against the wall. I walked over, my movements stiff, almost robotic.

  The face that stared back at me was familiar, yet foreign. The lines around my eyes were deeper, etched with weariness and regret. My jaw was set, hard, like I was always bracing for a fight. My eyes, once bright and full of life, were now shadowed, haunted.

  I didn’t recognize myself.

  I didn’t like what I saw.

  I turned away, the image of my reflection burning into my mind.

  "Who are you, Liz?"

  The question echoed in the silence of the room, a challenge, a condemnation.

  I didn’t have an answer.

  I had become Replica. A weapon. A shadow. A ghost.

  But I had lost Liz.

  I had lost myself.

  And I didn’t know how to find her again.

  I sank onto the edge of the mattress, my head in my hands. The weight of my choices pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating.

  I had justifications. I had reasons. But they all felt hollow now, like empty promises whispered in the dark.

  I had told myself I was doing what was necessary. That I was making a difference.

  But what difference had I made?

  Had I saved anyone?

  Or had I just added to the chaos, to the violence, to the endless cycle of pain that consumed Neo Lyon?

  I thought of the people I had hurt. The faces of the Red Hands goons, their fear, their pain. The memory of Corsair, broken and defeated, his bravado stripped away.

  Had they deserved it?

  Had I been justified?

  Or had I just become another monster, hiding behind a mask of righteousness?

  I didn’t know.

  I didn’t want to know.

  I wanted to believe that I was different. That I was better.

  But the truth was staring me in the face, reflected in the cold, haunted eyes in the mirror.

  I was becoming what I feared.

  I was becoming them.

  And Mel…

  I couldn’t bear to think of what she would say.

  I couldn’t bear to face her disappointment.

  I couldn’t bear to admit that I had failed her.

  I stood abruptly, pushing away from the mattress, the communicator still lying on the floor. I didn’t look at it.

  I needed to move. I needed to do something. I needed to escape the suffocating weight of my own thoughts.

  I grabbed my jacket, the worn leather cool against my skin, and pulled it on. I needed to move. I needed to escape the suffocating weight of my own thoughts.

  The city was a maze of shadows and secrets, a labyrinth of alleys and backstreets that twisted and turned like the thoughts in my head. I walked without direction, letting my feet carry me through the labyrinth.

  The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete and the ever-present hum of the city. But as I walked, another scent entered my nostrils.

  It was both unsettling and nostalgic.

  I knew that scent, but couldn’t exactly pinpoint a name for it.

  The scent clung to the air, faint at first, just a whisper beneath the damp weight of rain-soaked pavement and the metallic tang of the city.

  I barely noticed it at first. Just another note in Neo Lyon’s ever-present cocktail of smells—oil, damp concrete, cigarette smoke, street food sizzling on rusted grills. But as I walked, it grew stronger, creeping into my lungs, coiling at the back of my throat.

  It wasn’t blood. That was sharp, metallic, fresh. This was different. Stale. Lingering. A scent that settled into walls, into fabric, into the spaces people abandoned and never returned to.

  My pace slowed.

  It shouldn’t be this strong.

  I adjusted my hood, instinctively checking my surroundings. The streets were as they should be—dim alleys and shuttered storefronts, neon flickering in fractured reflections across puddles. A few people passed by, huddled in coats against the cold. I moved past them, careful, keeping my steps light.

  And then, as I brushed too close to someone, something snapped into place.

  A tether.

  It wasn’t a full-body collision, not even a deliberate touch—just the lightest graze, my arm passing by theirs in the space of a second. But the connection formed instantly, sharp and immediate.

  The person—a man in his forties, with a worn jacket and dark circles beneath his eyes—didn’t react. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even flinch. He had no idea. Obviously.

  “That’s weird… I just grazed him…” I whispered under my breath, to myself.

  I got back to walking, letting the tether outside of my mind.

  The scent, however, kept on growing stronger.

  The city twisted around me, familiar streets turned foreign. The further I moved, the stronger the smell became, like I was walking deeper into something unseen.

  The memories came slowly, creeping at the edges of my mind.

  A room too warm, too still. The hush of voices speaking just above a whisper. The sterile scent of antiseptic barely masking something deeper, something sinking into the walls, into the very air.

  I had smelled this before.

  Not on the streets. Not in battle. In a place of waiting. A place of endings.

  The retirement home.

  The realization hit like a punch to the ribs.

  I remembered the dim-lit hallways, the endless ticking of a clock that no one paid attention to. I remembered the way my grandmother’s skin had felt beneath my hand—thin, paper-like, her fingers barely able to return the pressure of my grip. I remembered the way the air had felt heavy, thick with something beyond just sickness.

  That was what I was smelling now.

  Not fresh death. Not blood spilled in a fight.

  The slow, creeping decay of one–if not multiple–body shutting down.

  I swallowed hard, my throat dry. Why here? Why now?

  I rounded a corner, my steps quickening. I needed to get out of this. Out of whatever this was.

  And then—

  A shadow moved in the corner of my vision.

  A cat.

  Small, thin, darting between an overturned trash bin and a rusted fire escape. Its fur was patchy, its ears torn at the tips. One of Neo Lyon’s countless strays.

  I barely passed it—a full step away, not even close enough to touch.

  And yet—

  A tether formed.

  I felt it snap into place, quick, effortless, like it had been waiting for me.

  I stumbled, pressing a hand against the brick wall beside me, grounding myself. My pulse thundered.

  No. No, no, no.

  This wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal.

  The tether was too strong.

  How did it form from this far? I should have to touch…

  I clenched my fists, staring at the empty space where the cat had been.

  No. This wasn’t normal.

  This was a sign.

  Of what, I didn’t know. But it was something. What made my power stronger?

  I needed to search for more information about powers. I have to understand what is going on.