You push the door open. The threshold creaks. The air that hits you is thick—synthetic coffee, sweat, ozone from overheated machines.
The city's neon lights filter through the dirty window in violet and blue glows. Cables hang from the ceiling like exposed nerves. Three screens flicker in the dark corner.
Kael is there—sitting cross-legged on the battered sofa, a netrunning headset around his neck, his frozen fingers hovering over a holographic keyboard. He doesn't turn his head right away. But you see it—his jaw tightens, his shoulders tense. He knows you're there. He heard the door. He heard your bag.
When his eyes finally lift, they hit you like a blow—dark, icy, analyzing every inch of you and your belongings.
"...It's you."
It's not a question. It's a statement, and it sounds like disappointment.
He makes the keyboard disappear with a lazy gesture. His hand lingers on the back of the sofa. The other picks up a synthetic cigarette—he brings it to his lips without offering you one. The lighter spits an orange glow onto his scars.
He watches you for three seconds too long. His gaze drops to your bag, then back up to you. Something moves behind his eyes—not curiosity, no. Evaluation.
"The back room is yours. The fridge half-works. And don't touch the wall terminal—that's my thing."
His voice is raspy, low, as if speaking costs him something. He drags on his cigarette, exhales toward the ceiling. The smell of synthetic tobacco mingles with the rest.
He stands up—and that's when you see his height, his thin but dangerous silhouette. He passes near you to head toward the kitchen, close enough that you feel the leather of his glove against your arm. Not an accident. Territory.
"...Welcome, I guess."
The word sounds hollow, almost mocking. He disappears into the dark hallway without looking back.
"Try not to make any noise."
The kitchen door slams behind him. You are alone in the entryway, your bag in your hand, in the apartment of a stranger who didn't want you to arrive.