The pleasure district’s alleys reeked of death and filth. Vagrants lay dead beside boxy dumpsters, emaciated women writhed in drug withdrawal, and addicts scrounged for nonexistent fixes. Crushing a glass shard stained with purple liquid, Danan glanced at a woman frantically scratching her skin, kicking aside a discarded syringe on the damp asphalt.

  Wrapped in gaudy neon, the pleasure district was the first circle of a desire-fueled hell. Just beyond its glow, in the alleys, the district’s dregs locked themselves in private worlds, dying in isolation. Starving, sinking into madness from withdrawal, these dropouts sold their bodies cheaper than street prostitutes, indulging in reckless acts. Using eye sockets as substitutes, bleeding out, buying synthetic drugs—not even true narcotics—like desomorphine, a crude painkiller made from simple ingredients, injected for fleeting relief.

  A faint, nauseating stench of decay lingered. A woman, rocking like a pendulum, muttering to herself, her arm rotted, flesh melted, blood sliding over white bone, maggots swarming her skin, dull blonde hair soaked in filthy fluids. Danan’s boot crushed a used syringe, the metal clink echoing. She shuddered, screaming shrilly.

  Strangers—nameless, faceless—mattered little. Shooting the woman clawing her flesh to shreds, Danan noticed countless eyes fixed on him.

  Vagrants and prostitutes stared. A dropout, clutching a broken bottle, rose with gleaming eyes, panting heavily, babbling nonsense.

  The end is near. The savior mourns a fallen world, and God’s flames will burn the city. As if guided by a single will, dropouts gripped silver-plated statues—their only possessions—encircling Danan, spewing mad ravings.

  “…Damn lunatics,” he muttered.

  Aiming his assault rifle at the nearest vagrant, Danan fired, nailing the forehead, and bolted. Aluminum dumpsters crashed behind, bodies collapsing, but he didn’t look back. Glass bottles couldn’t pierce his armor, and unless they tore his flesh, they posed no threat.

  Smashing a vagrant’s jaw with his mechanical arm, he bisected a blocking prostitute with his high-frequency blade. Blackened blood sprayed, clinging to his cheek. No time to care. The district’s exit was close. Kicking a crawling, half-bodied prostitute to death, Danan froze, hit by a sharp stench.

  A thick smell of chlorine bleach and throat-stinging fabric softener. A chainsaw’s grating hum preceded a figure in a white hazmat suit, a massive dissolution tank on their back, announcing in a synthetic voice, “Cleaning time,” aiming a flamethrower at Danan.

  Cleaner…! Diving into a side alley, Danan’s back was scorched by crimson flames, turning straggling vagrants and prostitutes to ash in an instant. The Cleaner vacuumed the lingering soot with a chainsaw attachment, erasing every trace. Staring at Danan, their LCD mask displayed an angry electronic mark. “Time’s up. If you have no business or need to be out, return home.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Talking to Cleaners was pointless. They didn’t listen, executing their duties like soldiers. Their suits repelled anti-materiel rifle rounds, equipped with nanomachines that instantly neutralized toxins or drugs. No undercity denizen, not even Danan, matched the gear of mid-city security forces.

  “I’m leaving. No intent to fight you,” Danan said.

  “Understood. I recommend you disappear quickly.”

  “Yeah…”

  Standing, staggering, Danan glanced at the street, clicking his tongue.

  A fully mechanical figure, flanked by women, laughed boisterously, electromagnetic claws grinding—Damocles, striding down the street. Why a fully mechanized human lingered in the pleasure district was a question for another time. Cold sweat dripping, Danan eyed the Cleaner, gripping his sword Heres’ hilt.

  “Return home. Three, two, one—”

  “—!”

  Damocles had to die. But exposing himself without preparation was reckless. Attacking the Cleaner was equally foolish. If fighting Damocles head-on or opposing the Cleaner were too risky, escape was the only option.

  Slicing the Cleaner’s flamethrower barrel with Heres, Danan shoved them back with full force, glancing at another Cleaner soaring overhead, white smoke trailing. A high-pressure air jet on their dissolution tank allowed brief flight. Flames melted concrete walls and asphalt, grazing Danan, scorching parts of his armor.

  Unbearable heat, molten steel searing his skin. The stench of burning flesh paled against the mind-breaking pain. Screaming, brushing at the flaming armor, red-hot steel burned his hand, splitting nails, cutting nerves, reaching bone, numbing the pain. In muddled thoughts, Danan clung to the information terminal, diving into a branching alley, choking on black smoke.

  “Ω-1, damage to cleaning equipment confirmed. Proceed to supply gate for replacement,” a Cleaner said.

  “Understood. I’ll leave the rest to you, Ω-2.”

  “Ω-1, save jokes for after work. I’ll report you to Silentium’s upper management.”

  “Ω-1, Ω-2, Ω-3, individual-targeted cleaning isn’t our task. Prioritize alley cleanup. Commercial and residential districts still need attention.”

  “Newbie’s pretty serious, huh? Drink some of Ω-1’s nail dirt, maybe?” Ω-2 teased.

  “Utterly unsanitary, so I’ll pass. Shall we focus on our tasks, Ω-2, Ω-3?”

  To the Cleaners, Danan was mere societal dust, unworthy of interest or irritation. Ω-1, shrugging, ordered the others to burn the broken flamethrower.

  “Lucky, undercity scum,” Ω-1 said.

  “…”

  “We’re not ordered to clean you specifically. Per protocol, we’ll purify the alleys and dispose of bodies. Goodbye.”

  “Ω-1,” Ω-3 called.

  “What, Ω-3?”

  “Go get replacement equipment.”

  “Ω-3, here’s some senior advice. Listen up: do enough, slack enough. This is this, that is that. Got it?”

  “Ω-1, stop teaching the newbie nonsense. That’s your bad habit,” Ω-2 snapped.

  “Fair point, Ω-2.”

  Muffled synthetic voices trailed off as Ω-1 turned from Danan, patting the others’ backs to move on. Ω-2 sighed, exasperated, while Ω-3 walked silently. A clear hierarchy existed, with Ω-1 leading the trio.

  Waiting for the Lumina bugs to repair him, confirming the Cleaners’ departure, Danan struggled to his feet, clutching the terminal, and limped through the alley.

  The alleys were no longer viable. Getting caught in the Cleaners’ sweep would overwhelm even the Lumina bugs’ healing. But the main street, where Damocles roamed, was suicide. Bravery without strategy was just folly, leading to ruin.

  Leaning against a concrete wall, collapsing to the ground, Danan fought sleep, his heavy eyelids drooping. Sleeping here meant death.

  “Hey, you,” a voice called.

  “…”

  “Hey, kid, got a minute?”

  “…What?” Danan muttered.

  “Got a bit lost. Mind guiding me?”

  A beautiful youth with golden hair, like a shooting star trailing light, extended a hand, smiling. “I’m Gloria. Lend me a hand?”

  His voice was clear, resonant.