Page 5 of GlitchBorn Heart

She leans forward, revealing perfectly symmetrical and ridiculously large breasts. “Hey, handsome, would you like...”

“No.” I don’t break stride. I don’t look at her. I should have known better. The program flickers, recalculates, and tries again.

“We have a fully customizable experien—”

“I said no.” My voice is stern. “If I needed a simulation to keep me warm, I’d build myself a better one.”

Warmth and affection. They’re not words I use anymore. It’s been since childhood that anything close to warmth touched my life. No one to hold, no one to hold me.

Ah...more darkly poetic bullshit. Perhaps I should apply for a marketing job instead.

But what about love? Do I want it, need it? I shake my head at the word. That’s especially not for me. That’s a myth for people who have the luxury of believing in things that don’t exist, like gods or monsters. A biochemically fabricated feeling dressed up in romance ebooks and mushy songs.

This world has taught me that vulnerability is just the quickest route to annihilation. Master Kenji hardened me by carving discipline into my bones. Vikktor sharpened me by molding me into a tool.

An uninvited thought enters as I walk through the haze: Why, when I close my eyes, do I feel the faintest need for touch? Why do I sometimes crave the warmth of someone lying next to me?

My mind is misfiring. It has to be, because if it’s not, then I’m finally beginning to want something real. If I were one of my programs, I’d think I was throwing a “Runtime Error.”

Better to walk alone through this neon graveyard than be responsible for someone else’s ruin.

3

ChaosAddiction

Playlist: Club Takeover - Synth Attack

Kael

The towering sign crackles above me: STATIK .

A rough display of flickering neon red letters that shine like a beacon through the damp mist. It smells like heavy rain hitting asphalt, mixed with melting wires.

The tribal bass beat spills out the walls and throbs with a noise I can feel in my chest. This place is grime and chaos, where every note coming from the speakers shakes the walls and loosens inhibitions. Nothing stays still here. No one stays sane. The music’s unhinged, and so is the crowd. That’s the point.

I sigh to myself, realizing this is the fourth night in a row I’ll be stepping down the stairs, bathed in blood-red light, as I stroll through the tunnel leading to the nightclub I call my new home away from home.

Hidden deep in the underground HoloDistrict, carved into the skeletal remains of an abandoned subway station, STATIK is part sanctuary, part powder keg, and I fucking need it like a junkie needs a hit. A “chaotic addiction” if you will, where I no longer have to feel human. I can just be another cog in the digital machine, in need of a fix.

I nod at the doorman, our same nightly greeting that acknowledges that we’re both here way too often. I take two steps down through the flickering neon veins of light running through cracked walls and pipes, making the whole place feel alive, like the city itself is bleeding color. I’m all too happy to shut out the hum of generators and distant traffic that constantly buzzes on the street like bees in a hive. The air is thick with smoke from the stage, and ozone from the oversized monitors pulses over the crowd as they sway to synthwave pounding from the live band NeonGods.

This isn’t just a performance; it’s a pilgrimage. People climb over each other for a closer look at Asher Quinn, the city’s favorite beautiful disaster, fronting the most influential band of the decade. STATIK feels too small for them tonight, like the walls might burst under the weight of their sound.

It’s packed. NeonGods isn’t just locally famous anymore. They’re a phenomenon. Half the city worships them, the other half tries to copy them, and every single person in this club tonight fights for a glimpse of the stage. I’ve been here a dozen times, but I’ve never seen wall-to-wall bodies like this.

A patchwork of glowing graffiti coats the walls, shifting with augmented overlay visible to those with black-market implants. The shadowed corners of STATIK have seen illicit deals, illegal magic fights, and sexual deviancy. There’s one unspoken code: no corporate enforcers allowed. I’m finally free to be me without the mask of the Corporation.

I pull the hoodie closer around my face, hoping no one recognizes me from any of the VikkCorp press feeds, or I’ll have to make a quick exit.

Ah...there it is, my happy place. The VeinBooth: a private VIP alcove named for its eerie veins of color, perfect for a night of brooding or a secret meeting. I sink into my usual spot as Rheya brings me a glowing glass vial. She gives me a wink, her tattoo on her temple flashing a lime-green hue like her mohawk. She knows exactly who I am, and exactly where her extremely large tip comes from each evening.

Money. The universal tool in this city for keeping secrets safe.

“The usual, Doctor?” she yells over the pulsating beats.

“Please, and I’ll also need another drink for my friend, maybe one of those cocktails laced with stim-drops or nano fizz.”

She nods and heads back to the bar, leaning over the repurposed metal train car door, scuffed with burn marks and neon underglow. Her fingers fly over her LINKpad with my order. Behind the bar, old tech wraps around the bartender with holo-screens, broken arcade cabinets, and scattered terminals that run black-market ads and gray static in the background.