Fragments of S.I.N.

Chapter III: Rust and Resolve

The morning after the market fight began with pain.

Julian woke on the Ashthorn Office’s battered couch, the springs digging into his back. His muscles screamed, his arms ached, and his mind replayed the clash again and again—the spray of blood, the pistol shot he barely deflected, the faces of the dead.

He didn’t regret it. Not really. If anything, he wanted more.

The City outside the cracked window buzzed with its usual madness: vendors shouting over each other, engines coughing smoke, the dull thrum of neon signs that never went out. Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. No one in the office even twitched at the sound.

“Up,” Mira said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the haze. She stood in the doorway, her jacket already on, hair tied back, her eyes colder than the steel at her belt. “You two think yesterday makes you Fixers? Wrong. You looked sloppy. If the Guild hadn’t paid us in advance, I’d have docked both your shares.”

Julian pushed himself up, wincing. Corin groaned from the floor, where he’d rolled out of bed without bothering to find a blanket. He blinked blearily at Mira.

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Corin muttered. “That’s gotta count.”

“It counts for nothing,” Mira snapped. “Alive doesn’t mean capable. Alive doesn’t mean worth the contract fee. Out there, worth is everything. A Grade Nine with shaky hands is cheaper than a half-broken gun. And right now, that’s all you are.”

Julian clenched his fists. He hated how her words cut, but he couldn’t deny them.

Behind Mira, Veyl emerged, his massive frame filling the hall. He carried a chipped mug of black coffee, the kind that smelled more like engine oil than drinkable liquid. His calm, steady gaze swept over the two rookies.

“She’s right,” Veyl said quietly. His voice was deep, like stone grinding on stone. “You fight like boys with toys. No rhythm. No measure. You swing until your arms fail, and when they fail, you die.” He sipped, then added flatly: “Drink water. We train in ten.”

Corin groaned again, louder this time. “Training? After last night? Can’t we at least—”

“Ten,” Veyl repeated, without raising his voice. It wasn’t a suggestion.

---

The office’s training space was little more than a cleared room with battered mats, scuffed walls, and a rack of mismatched weapons. The smell of sweat and iron clung to the air.

Julian strapped on his odachi, the weight familiar against his back. He drew it, the blade gleaming in the pale morning light. The weapon felt right in his hands—an extension of himself.

Mira tossed a wooden practice blade at Corin. “You’re his partner. Show me something that won’t embarrass the Office.”

Corin caught it with a sigh. “Guess I’m the test dummy again.”

Julian smirked, but Mira’s glare wiped it away.

“Begin.”

Corin moved first, fast despite his grumbling. His knives—replaced by wooden facsimiles—flickered in and out as he closed the gap. Julian brought the odachi down in a swift arc, forcing Corin to leap back. The impact cracked the mat, echoing through the room.

“Too heavy,” Mira barked. “You’re not chopping wood. That’s a blade, not a hammer.”

Julian gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance. Corin darted in again, feinting left before spinning right. Julian swept the odachi sideways, but Corin ducked low, sliding under the blade and jabbing at Julian’s ribs.

The wood struck. Julian hissed, staggering back.

Corin grinned. “Point for me.”

Julian snarled, swinging again. This time the odachi’s tip grazed Corin’s shoulder before he rolled clear. The exchange continued, strike after strike, sweat dripping, breaths ragged.

“Stop relying on brute strength,” Mira shouted. “Your reach is your advantage. Use it! Corin shouldn’t even touch you.”

Julian forced himself to focus. He slowed, narrowed his strikes, made each swing deliberate. When Corin lunged, Julian pivoted, the odachi sweeping in a precise arc. The wooden blade smacked Corin’s arm, hard enough to numb his grip.

“Better,” Mira said. “But not good enough.”

Veyl stepped forward, setting his mug aside. “My turn.”

Corin practically collapsed with relief, tossing the practice weapon aside.

Julian barely had time to reset his stance before Veyl was on him. The man didn’t draw a weapon—he didn’t need one. His sheer presence was overwhelming, his movements deceptively calm. He stepped inside Julian’s guard, seized the odachi mid-swing, and wrenched it from his hands in a single motion.

Julian hit the mat hard, gasping for air.

Veyl looked down at him, expression unreadable. “You depend on the blade. Without it, you’re nothing. That is weakness. Learn to fight with your body, or your weapon will be your coffin.”

He tossed the odachi down beside Julian.

Julian picked it up, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from frustration. He hated being weak. Hated being dismissed.

But he swallowed the anger. He had to learn.

---

By midday, training had drained them both. Corin sprawled on the couch again, a damp towel over his face. Julian sat cross-legged on the floor, polishing the odachi. Mira was at her desk, scribbling notes, while Veyl methodically sharpened his axe with slow, steady strokes.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the City beyond.

Then Mira set her pen down. “We’ve got work. Low-tier contract from the Guild. Courier escort.”

Corin peeked out from under his towel. “That’s it? After last night, we’re glorified delivery boys?”

“Don’t underestimate it,” Mira said sharply. “Courier jobs get ambushed. Sometimes by Syndicates, sometimes worse. Stay sharp.”

Julian tightened his grip on the odachi. Another chance to prove himself.

---

The courier was a scrawny man in a threadbare coat, clutching a metal case like it was his child. His eyes darted constantly, sweat slicking his face even in the cool night air.

“I-I just need to reach the Guild hall,” he stammered. “It’s only three blocks. Please—don’t let them take it.”

“What’s inside?” Mira asked flatly.

The man flinched. “I… I can’t say.”

“Figures,” Corin muttered.

They set off through the Outskirts. The streets were quieter than usual, the neon glow casting everything in sickly colors. Vendors packed up their stalls quickly when they saw Fixers pass. Somewhere above, the lights of an Overseer’s district glimmered faintly, unreachable.

Julian walked close to the courier, hand never leaving his weapon. He scanned the shadows, every movement sharpening his nerves.

It started as a rustling sound. Low, chittering. Wrong.

Veyl froze. Mira’s hand went to her blade instantly.

From the alley ahead, something crawled into view.

It wasn’t human.

The thing’s body was twisted, elongated arms dragging against the ground. Its face was a blank mask, holes where eyes should be. Its skin glistened like wet paper, peeling in places to reveal raw muscle beneath. It let out a distorted wail, the sound of a hundred voices speaking at once.

“Abnormality,” Mira hissed. “Grade F at least. Hold formation.”

The courier whimpered, clutching his case tighter.

Julian’s heart raced. He’d heard of Abnormalities—escaped horrors from containment facilities, nightmares that stalked the streets until a Wing or an Overseer’s agents put them down. Fixers were sometimes hired to clean them up, but usually only higher grades.

And now it was his turn.

The Abnormality lunged, faster than its broken frame suggested. Julian swung the odachi instinctively, the blade biting deep into its arm. Black ichor sprayed across the street, sizzling where it touched stone.

The creature shrieked, flailing wildly. Corin darted around its side, knives flashing as he stabbed at joints and tendons. Veyl stepped forward like a wall, catching its second swing on the haft of his axe, holding it back with brute strength.

“Don’t waste time!” Mira barked. She dashed in, slashing across its legs, cutting deep.

Julian gritted his teeth, raising the odachi high. He brought it down in a two-handed strike, cleaving through the Abnormality’s neck. The headless body collapsed, twitching before going still.

The silence that followed was heavier than the fight itself.

The courier sobbed in relief. Corin panted, wiping ichor from his knives. Mira stood over the corpse, eyes cold as ever.

“Rookies,” she said flatly. “Consider yourselves lucky. That was a weak one.”

Julian stared at the odachi, ichor dripping from its edge. His heart thundered—not with fear, but exhilaration. This was the world he wanted to rise in. This was what it meant to be a Fixer.

He felt alive.

---

Back at the office, Mira gave no praise. “You survived. That’s all.” She left them to collapse on the worn-out couch.

Corin dropped beside Julian, laughing breathlessly. “You realize we just fought an Abnormality, right? Most rookies don’t even see one until they’re halfway dead in a gutter.”

Julian didn’t laugh. He stared at the ceiling again, fingers tracing the odachi’s hilt.

Corin nudged him. “What’s with you?”

Julian’s voice was quiet but steady. “This isn’t enough.”

Corin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean surviving isn’t enough. I won’t stay at Grade Nine. I’ll climb—past Seven, past One, even the Colours if I have to. I don’t care what it takes.”

Corin was silent for a moment, then smirked. “Ambitious bastard. Just don’t drag me into a grave along the way.”

Julian didn’t answer. He only gripped the odachi tighter, his resolve burning brighter than ever.

The City was a nightmare, a machine built to chew people up. But Julian wouldn’t be chewed. He would climb its rusted ladders, no matter how much blood he had to spill.

And somewhere deep inside, something stirred.

Something waiting...