Pain.
That was the first and only thing that existed when I opened my eyes.
White-hot, all-consuming agony that made every nerve in my body scream at once. I was lying face-down in a mountain of garbage and toxic waste, the acrid smell of burnt flesh, melting plastic, and chemical sludge filling my nostrils with every shallow, desperate breath. My skin was gone. Most of it, at least. What remained was raw, blistered, and charred black in large patches, peeling away in wet, agonizing strips with every tiny movement. The gasoline the agents had poured on us had done its work perfectly. I could feel the cold night air biting into exposed muscle and nerve endings like acid poured directly onto an open wound.
I tried to scream, but only a broken, rasping sound came out. My throat was raw from smoke inhalation. My lungs burned with every breath, as if I was still inhaling flames. Tears mixed with blood and ash on my face as I forced my head up, eyes watering from the pain and the toxic fumes rising around me like poisonous mist.
A few meters away, I saw Sophie.
She was lying on her back among the trash, her synthetic skin scorched and blackened in places but still mostly intact. The fire had damaged her outer layers, leaving ugly, melted patches across her torso and legs, but her core structure seemed to have held. She wasn't moving. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the night sky, but she wouldn't turn on. The flames must have triggered a full emergency shutdown to protect her central systems.
I crawled toward her, every inch a new level of hell. My hands left bloody prints on the garbage as I dragged my ruined body across broken glass, rusted metal, sharp plastic shards, and leaking chemical barrels. The pain in my stomach from the gunshot mixed with the burns, making me retch dryly. Every movement tore open fresh wounds. Every breath felt like swallowing fire.
I reached her and grabbed her arm, pulling with what little strength I had left.
"Come on… you fucking bitch… wake up," I rasped, voice barely human. "Don't you dare leave me here alone."
She didn't respond.
I got to my knees, screaming through clenched teeth as the burns on my legs tore open again. The synthetic skin grafts I didn't have yet were nonexistent — I was raw meat moving through a landfill. I hooked my arms under hers and started dragging her. Inch by inch. Meter by meter. My legs gave out twice. I collapsed face-first into the trash both times, tasting blood, ash, and burning plastic. But I kept going. Swearing under my breath the whole time.
"I'm going to kill every last one of them," I growled between gasps of agony. "The entire fucking Harrington family. I'll burn their tower to the ground. I'll make them watch while I rip their perfect little world apart. I'll make Skylar wish I had left her in that dumpster."
It took what felt like hours, but I finally dragged Sophie out of the main landfill pit and into a small cluster of dead, skeletal trees on the edge of the wasteland. I laid her gently under the largest one, hidden from the road and the faint glow of distant city lights. No one would find her here. Not for a while.
I collapsed beside her for a moment, chest heaving, vision blurring from pain and blood loss. The burns on my back and legs felt like they were still on fire. Every breath was a struggle. But I couldn't stay. I had to get help. I had to get skin. I had to survive long enough to make them pay.
I forced myself up again.
The walk back toward the city was pure torture. Every step sent fresh waves of agony through my charred body. Blood and fluid seeped from the burns, mixing with the dirt and trash stuck to my skin. I left a trail behind me like a wounded animal. The black-market medic's container was still there, the "Closed for Repairs" sign hanging crookedly.
I banged on the door with my fist until it opened.
Doc Marrow stared at me, his half-chrome face frozen in genuine shock. "What the fuck happened to you?"
"Skin," I rasped, pushing past him into the clinic. "I need new skin. Right now. As much as you can give me."
He didn't argue. He helped me onto the surgical table, the cold metal pressing against my raw back like ice on fire. The pain was so intense I nearly blacked out. He injected me with whatever cheap anesthetic he had, but it barely touched the agony.
The operation took hours.
He peeled away the dead, charred skin with scalpels and lasers, the sound wet and sickening. He grafted on cheap synthetic replacements from his stock — pale, artificial skin that stretched tight over my body, still red and angry at the edges. He sealed everything with layers of medical foam, staples, and glue. I screamed through most of it, fists clenched, tears mixing with blood on my face. Doc Marrow worked in silence, only muttering occasional curses when he hit a particularly bad spot.
When it was finally done, I looked like a patchwork monster — new pale synthetic skin stretched tight over my body, stapled and glued in place, still raw and sensitive. I paid him everything I had left and staggered out into the night.
I stole a car from a nearby parking lot — an old, beat-up sedan that still ran. I got behind the wheel, hands shaking, and drove back to the wasteland edge where I had left Sophie. I stopped the car, got out, and dragged her limp body from under the tree. I loaded her carefully into the back seat, laying her down as gently as I could. She still wouldn't turn on. Her eyes remained open and blank.
I got back in the driver's seat and started driving.
I was going back.
Back to Nightpunk City.
Back to finish what they started.
The road stretched ahead into the darkness, the wasteland rolling past on both sides. My new skin itched and burned with every movement. But I kept driving, the pain a constant reminder of what they had tried to do to me.
And what I was going to do to them.