I floated through the neon haze of Underbelly, the sprawling city below the corporate sky, a living organism pulsing with life and dying in a toxic embrace. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, the gentle hum of tech—a symphony played out by flickering lights and the low growl of machines. I felt it crawl beneath my skin, that same itch I chased every night, a desperate craving that twisted my gut and turned my thoughts into smoke. I was like a thermite reaction, explosive and self-consuming, always brushing against the edges of something more but never daring to touch it.
My name is Lira. I’m a contrabandist, navigating the undercurrents of this fractured metropolis like a ghost slipping silently through shadows. We all have our vices; for me, it’s the Synth, a chemical cocktail that blurs the line between reality and the void. They say it’s a tool—a means to escape—but for me, it was the doorway to every nightmare I wished to forget. I was a soldier on a battlefield littered with the corpses of my choices, and each high left me the ghost of my former self.
I darted through the rain-slicked alleys, the flicker of streetlights casting distorted shadows that danced along the decrepit walls. Above me, the glowing ads for Perfection Labs blared promises of a life without pain, a body without flaw, but I had learned long ago that perfection was a blade that cut deeply. The echoes of laughter and life reverberated through the metallic bones of the city, a dirge for the dreams stillborn in the grime of existence.
Tonight was different; tonight, I had a job. My fingers twitched at the thought, dopamine firing up like live-wires in my veins. The Johnson, an elusive name whispered in circles of the underworld, required a shipment of Synth sourced from the cranky old smuggler, Deckard, who loved to overlay his work with flash and flair. I had crossed paths with Deckard before; his grin was as crooked as the paths he chose, and his penchant for theatrics could rival the most extravagant performers on the neon-lit stages of the Strip.
I found him in a dimly lit warehouse, the kind where secrets went to die and conspiracies were born. The air was thick with the scent of rust and something that might have once been either hope or despair. Deckard lounged against a stack of crates, animated as ever, a blast of color against the gray backdrop. He was a walking art installation, sporting a patchwork of tattoos culminating in a lifelike rendering of a roaring lion on his left forearm. “Lira! Tell me you’re not just here to look pretty,” he said with a theatrical flourish, casually leaning forward as if trying to swallow me whole.
“Just here for the Synth,” I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the thrum of need that pulsed in my head. Each word felt like pulling teeth, and I could practically taste the bitter sheen of temptation, slathering my thoughts in its sticky embrace.
Something flickered in his eyes, a glint of amusement or maybe malice. “You’re a gunner, a real good one, but you’re running on fumes, friend. You sure you want to chase that dragon tonight?”
“Who said anything about chasing dragons? This is just business,” I said, though we both knew it was a lie. The tide of need surged, thrumming beneath the surface of every calculated exchange, every furtive glance. I wanted to tell him that I was drowning, that each hit felt like resurrecting myself from a grave I dug too deep.
Deckard laughed, a sound like cracking glass. “Oh, Lira, the streets are wet with the blood of your kind. You think this is just business? This is sin, and you’re playing with fire.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, illuminating his face with a ghostly glow. “But alright, for old times’ sake and your good looks, let’s make a deal.”
With a flick of his wrist, a holographic display sprang to life, vibrant colors splashing across the dimness. I eyed the data swirling before me—a package of Synth, raw, potent, waiting to be unleashed. It was a heavy score, enough to see the night through or send me spiraling into the depths. “It’s your choice, Lira. Jump or drown.”
I felt the familiar itch—an electric thrill coursing through my veins as I nodded, sealing my fate with the most dangerous currency of all: hope. “Let’s do this.”
The exchange took place in silence, the only sound the drip of water echoing from a distant pipe, a metronome counting down the minutes as my heart thudded in my chest. “You know how to handle this?” Deckard’s eyes gleamed with danger, as if he could see the war raging behind my composed facade.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied, but I was lying again. It was a dance I knew well, the steps rehearsed on the stage of my own self-destruction.
The illicit cargo was wrapped in cold metal, a jerry-rigged contraption built to evade the most advanced sensors that the megacorps wielded. I felt the weight of it in my hands, the promise of escape pulsing against my palm. “Take care of yourself, Lira. The night’s young, but you’re on borrowed time.”
His words echoed in my mind as I slipped away from the warehouse, back into the labyrinth of alleyways that felt like veins in the body of the chaos. Shadows flickered like phantoms at the edges of my vision; every step reverberated, my thoughts merging with the city around me. The Synth was a siren’s call, beckoning me closer, and I could almost taste its sweetness on the edges of my thoughts.
I made my way through the glimmering streets, headlights smearing through the rain like tears on glass. I passed an alley where a group of leather-clad dealers huddled, the glint of stolen tech and dubious morality emanating from their corner—currency of the damned. They eyed me with a mix of recognition and intrigue, but I was just another ghost flitting through their world of neon and greed.
“Hey, Lira!” One of them called out, an old acquaintance with a penchant for trouble. “You look like you walked right out of a cyberpunk flick! What’s the game tonight?”
“Not your business, Ty,” I snapped, my irritation boiling beneath the surface, masking the temptation to sit, to linger, to lose myself in their laughter. “I’m too busy.”
“Busy getting high?” he teased, and laughter danced in the air, but it felt like shards of glass against my skin. I turned away, fighting the urge to join them, to pull the Synth from my pocket and indulge in a moment of reckless abandon.
The deeper I went into the throbbing heart of the city, the more the rush overwhelmed me, each beat of the street syncing with the rhythm of the high I craved so desperately. I found myself drawn towards the Strip, where the glow of the dancing lights mixed with the cries of exuberance and despair. It was a carnival of life and death intertwined, the very tapestry of our existence unraveling thread by thread.
I wound through the throngs of bodies, the scent of cheap perfume mingling with the acrid smoke of too many vices. I spotted a club, The Velvet Cage, pulsing with electronic beats that resonated through my bones. A sanctuary for those like me, where we could let go of our burdens and dive into the night.
Inside, the air was electric, thick with bodies moving as one, a tide of flesh driven by bass that wrapped around me like an embrace. I pushed through the crowd, seeking out the bar, the glint of spirits promising both solace and escape. I ordered a drink—something potent to ease the ache in my soul. The bartender slid a glass across the counter; it was a moment, a breath, before I succumbed to the vortex of addiction again.
“Do you know the price of your choices?” a voice murmured beside me, and I glanced to my left to find a woman draped in shimmering fabric that caught the light. Her eyes were sharp, knowing, and held secrets that danced like flames.
“Who says there’s a price to pay?” I shot back, but the truth was clear. Every choice had its weight, a ledger stamped with both blood and pleasure.
The night blurred as I drank, my inhibitions falling away in cascading waves, and the allure of the Synth gnawed at me with an almost sentient hunger. I had to make the call—trigger a flight, take the plunge. Each tick of the clock was a countdown to either salvation or doom. I slipped into a darkened corner of the club, the shadows swallowing me whole.
As I fumbled through my pocket, the familiar vial slid between my fingers, a shard of glass that felt like my lifeline and my tether. I took a moment, my breath catching, the essence of it taunting me. One taste could unravel the fabric of this night—one taste to escape the throbbing reality of me, of who I was.
But then the vision flickered, a memory encased in the glass of my mind. A younger me, vibrant and full of life, before the addiction twisted my edges into jagged lines. I could almost hear the laughter—the laughter of a girl who thought she was invincible. The laughter faded into whispers of regrets, lingering like ghosts.
I hesitated, my heart racing in tandem with the bass that thrummed through the club, drowning out every thought of caution. I closed my eyes, letting the world blur into colors and shapes, feeling the pull of everything that could be. The Synth was a siren calling from a distant shore, begging me to embrace the chaos.
But I couldn’t drown tonight. Not now, not here.
With a sudden resolve, I pocketed the vial, my fingers trembling, the battle within me raging as I forced myself to leave that darkened corner behind. I stumbled back into the crowd, the weight of my choice heavy upon my heart. I moved to the exit, the pulse of life surging around me, mocking and beautiful as I walked away from the precipice.
The streets outside were alive with the colored lights reflecting off rain-slick pavement, a mosaic of broken dreams and gritty resilience. My hands shook, the craving still raw, but I knew I had made the right choice, even as shadows whispered threats of relapse in the back of my mind.
I wandered into the night, the world around me a cacophony of primal instincts, machines whirring, voices overlapping, and the city sang its redemptive song. I was still alive, still fighting, still a contrabandist weaving through the underbelly of this metropolis, but I felt different—like a thread on the verge of snapping, holding onto a flicker of hope.
There was no fairy tale ending here, no salvation. Just the simple act of breathing, of making choices, right and wrong, and carving my path through the neon hellscape. The darkness was not gone, but it was something I could recognize, something I could manage.
Tonight, I would keep fighting, one breath, one choice at a time.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
