Fragments of S.I.N.

The streets of the City never slept. Even in District 12, far from the glittering spires of the Overseers, the air hummed with violence and opportunity. Neon signs flickered above alleys that stank of blood, rust, and cheap alcohol. The deeper Julian walked, the more his pulse quickened. This was it. The first step toward becoming a Fixer. He adjusted the long case slung across his back. Inside lay the odachi: a weapon far too large for most to wield comfortably, yet perfectly balanced in his grip. He’d trained with it for years, ignoring the jabs of “overcompensation” from others. For him, its weight wasn’t a burden. It was an extension of his will. Julian turned a corner and stopped before a door marked only by a weathered metal plate. The name was etched into it with deliberate sharpness: Ashthorn Office. It didn’t look like much—just another building buried in the sprawl of the fixer district. But the plate mattered. Offices were how one survived in this trade. Without one, a rookie was nothing but prey. Julian pushed the door open. The air inside smelled faintly of oil and metal polish. A cluttered desk sat against one wall, papers scattered across it. Maps, contracts, maintenance tools, and an old coffeepot created an organized chaos. A couch sagged beneath its own age in the corner. On the far wall hung weapons: a spear, twin revolvers, a pair of short axes, and a long coat pinned like a trophy. Behind the desk sat Mira. She looked up from a contract, one eyebrow arched. Her black hair was tied into a practical knot, her jacket cut short for mobility. She had the sharp posture of someone used to giving orders but also the eyes of someone who had already buried people she cared about. “You’re late,” Mira said flatly. Julian stiffened. “Sorry. The city’s hard to navigate when—” “Excuses.” She leaned back, studying him. “You’re Julian, right? Nineteen. Grade Nine, fresh license. That means rookie.” Julian nodded, feeling the word sting. Grade Nine was the bottom rung. Disposable. A whisper away from a civilian. “Show me what you’ve brought,” Mira said. Julian unslung the case and drew the odachi in a smooth arc. The blade caught the dim light, gleaming sharp despite its size. Mira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s not a toy.” “I didn’t bring it to play,” Julian replied. He gripped it with one hand and swept it across the air. The motion was impossibly fluid for such a massive blade—more like a katana dance than the lumbering strike of an oversized weapon. He shifted stances, feet sliding with precision. Each swing was crisp, fast, and heavy enough to whistle through the stale air. When he finished, he sheathed the blade in a single practiced movement. Silence filled the office. From the couch, a dry chuckle broke it. “Show-off.” Julian turned. A man leaned against the armrest, his boots up, arms folded. His blond hair was cut short, his grin sharp and easy. “Name’s Corin,” he said. “Grade Nine, same as you. At least I don’t look like I’m compensating with a sword taller than me.” Julian bristled, but before he could retort, Mira spoke. “Corin’s a rookie like you. You’ll work together. If one of you dies, the other will probably follow, so try not to make me fill out paperwork on day one.” Julian glanced at Corin again. The man’s grin remained, but his eyes were cautious, measuring him. “Where’s Veyl?” Mira asked. The reply came before Julian could wonder who that was. “Here.” A tall figure entered from the back room, adjusting the straps of an armored coat. Veyl’s presence filled the office like a shadow stretching across a wall. His hair was silver, his face unreadable, and his voice calm but heavy. “You must be the new one,” Veyl said, looking Julian over. “The Guild keeps feeding us children. Hopefully you’re sharper than the last.” Julian swallowed, unsure if it was an insult or a test. “I won’t slow anyone down.” “We’ll see.” Veyl moved past him and began checking weapons on the wall. Mira stood. “Listen well. Grades aren’t just numbers. Grade Nine means you’re fragile. Syndicate thugs, rogue fixers, even Abnormalities from containment leaks—most of them can snap you in half without thinking. The only reason you’re alive past this week is because Ashthorn took you in. That means you listen, you learn, and you don’t play the hero.” Her gaze hardened. “Survive. That’s your first job.” Julian’s hands tightened on the sheath of his odachi. Survive. That was always the word. But he didn’t come here just to survive. Their first contract was simple on paper: bodyguard duty for a Guild broker meeting in the district’s upper market. It was the kind of job most rookies started with—low pay, low prestige, but necessary. The four of them walked together through the streets, Mira leading, Veyl trailing, Corin at Julian’s side. The city loomed around them: towers of steel and glass patched with rust and grime, alleys that promised ambushes, and people who avoided eye contact with anyone carrying weapons. “Don’t look so tense,” Corin said, bumping Julian with his elbow. “Half of being a fixer is scaring people into not trying anything. Walk like you mean it.” Julian glanced at him. “And the other half?” “Not dying.” Veyl’s voice rumbled from behind them. “Both halves are harder than they sound.” Mira didn’t speak. She walked with a steady rhythm, eyes scanning every rooftop and shadow. Even for a low-grade job, she carried the weight of command. Julian shifted the odachi slightly, feeling its comfort against his back. The city was hostile, yes, but with the blade at his side he felt ready. He had dreamed of this: walking the streets not as prey but as someone with power, with purpose. The meeting ended without issue, but as the Guild broker departed, Mira motioned for Julian and Corin to escort him back through the crowd. Veyl stayed near Mira, scanning the rooftops. At first, it was quiet—just the hum of vendors, the hiss of neon, the mutter of deals in dark corners. Then a shout cut through the air. “Hey! Guild dog!” Julian’s hand went to his odachi instantly. A group of five men in patchwork coats stepped from a side alley. Their arms were tattooed, their weapons crude but deadly—pipes, machetes, and one pistol tucked into a belt. Syndicate thugs. The broker froze, fear written across his face. “Relax, old man,” one thug sneered. “We just want what’s in your bag. Won’t take long.” Corin stepped forward, knives flashing into his hands. His grin was sharp, but his eyes flicked nervously to Julian. “Guess this is our welcoming party.” Julian unslung the odachi, the steel whispering free. The crowd around them scattered instantly; no one wanted to be near Fixer work. The thugs laughed at the sight of the oversized blade. “What’s that? Compensation?” Julian didn’t answer. He slid into stance, breath steady, both hands gripping the odachi. The first thug lunged, swinging a pipe at his head. Julian’s blade cut through the air faster than the man expected. The odachi met the pipe with a scream of steel, cleaving it in half before carrying through into the thug’s shoulder. The man collapsed, blood spraying across the market tiles. Corin moved at the same time, his knives a blur as he slashed another across the thigh, then buried steel into his side. The thug went down cursing. “Two down!” Corin shouted, breathless. The third drew the pistol. Julian’s stomach dropped—firearms were lethal to rookies. The thug aimed for the broker. Julian moved before he thought. The odachi swept in a wide arc, the flat of the blade smacking the pistol aside just as it fired. The shot went wild into a vendor’s sign. In the same motion, Julian twisted the odachi upward, the tip piercing clean through the thug’s chest. The man gurgled and fell. Corin ducked another swing, knives flashing in desperate counter. The last thug tried to grab him, but Julian’s blade sliced clean through his arm, severing it at the elbow. The man’s scream echoed before Corin finished him with a stab to the throat. Silence. Only the crowd’s distant murmurs and the broker’s ragged breathing remained. Blood pooled around their feet, glistening under the flicker of neon signs. Julian stood still, the odachi dripping red. His chest heaved, but his hands didn’t shake. He had killed them before he realized it. The blade felt strangely light in his grip, as if it wanted more. Corin wiped his knives on a corpse’s coat, his grin returning though his face was pale. “Not bad, man. Guess you can handle that oversized toothpick.” Julian looked at the bodies. The fight had lasted less than a minute. The thugs had been nothing compared to the predators further up the food chain. But even so, his heart raced—not from fear, but from exhilaration. The broker mumbled thanks, clutching his bag tighter, and Mira’s shadow fell over them a moment later. She gave only a curt nod. “You’re alive. Good. Move before more arrive.” They obeyed. Back at Ashthorn Office later that night, Mira dismissed them with only a few words: “You didn’t embarrass us. That’s a start.” Julian collapsed onto the couch once she was gone, muscles aching from tension more than exertion. Corin flopped down beside him. “You still breathing? Congratulations, that’s your first victory as a fixer.” Julian didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ceiling, the flickering light bulb above. His hand rested on the odachi’s hilt. He thought of Mira’s cold eyes. Veyl’s unreadable tone. Corin’s grin that hid unease. The other offices in the street, laughing at violence like it was currency. Survive. That was the rule. But survival wasn’t enough. Julian closed his eyes, gripping the blade tighter. He would climb. He would rise through the grades, past Nine, past Seven, past One. And maybe, someday, even glimpse the Colours. Whatever it took.