In the sprawling waste zones of Ashfield, a city choked by the refuse of a broken society, Jack Vesper sorts through discarded junk with no real future in sight. At 25, he's just another misfit, another person tossed aside by the world, now working...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I wake up in a dimly lit guest room, the kind of space that feels lived-in yet hastily tidied for company. The walls are a muted gray, decorated sparsely with posters of retro games and a couple of faded photographs in cheap frames. The bed I'm lying on is surprisingly comfortable, with mismatched sheets that smell faintly of detergent and Finn's ever-present scent of cheap cologne. A desk sits against the wall, cluttered with wires, small tools, and half-assembled gadgets—classic Finn.
A single window, covered by a set of dark blinds, lets in just enough light to outline the faint dust motes floating lazily through the air. There's a faint hum of an old fan sitting in the corner, its rhythm adding to the house's quiet charm. The rest of Finn's place reflects his personality: practical, a bit chaotic, but ultimately functional.
The faint smell of frying eggs and bacon wafts into the room, pulling me fully from sleep. My stomach growls, reminding me how little I ate last night after we cracked the chip. I hear voices coming from the kitchen, one of them undoubtedly Finn's, the other... female. My head aches faintly from last night's drinks, but curiosity pulls me out of bed.
I slip into the hallway, which is narrow and lined with shelves crammed with old books, mismatched knickknacks, and a few photos of Finn from his younger days. The house has a worn but cozy feel, with scuffed hardwood floors and walls painted in warm tones that Finn clearly didn't choose himself. The faint sound of sizzling grows louder as I step closer to the kitchen.
When I enter, the scene surprises me. Finn is standing by the stove, wearing an apron that reads "Kiss the Cook" over his kimono, flipping bacon in a pan. At the small table in the center of the kitchen sits Rin, her legs crossed and a cup of coffee in her hand. Her sharp eyes glance up at me, a catlike frown on her face.
Rin sits at the table leaning forward, looking as sharp and intense as ever. Her black hair is cropped short, messy in a way that looks deliberate, as though she cut it herself just to save time. A few stray strands frame her face, accentuating her sharp cheekbones and narrow jaw. Her skin is pale, giving her an almost ghostly appearance, but it's her eyes that stand out the most—deep crimson and piercing, like they can see straight through me. Those eyes have always been her trademark, unsettling and captivating all at once.
Her expression is familiar: a permanent scowl etched into her features. She has this way of looking at the world like it's either a challenge or a disappointment. Right now, her gaze is fixed on me, her thin eyebrows drawn together just enough to show she's already annoyed—or maybe she always just looks that way. Her lips are pressed into a line, but there's a faint twitch at the corner, like she's debating whether to smirk or scoff.
Rin's outfit matches her personality: all black, sleek, and practical. She's wearing a fitted jacket over a high-collared shirt, with sharp lines that accentuate her lean frame. Her pants are just as dark, tucked into scuffed boots that look like they've seen a few too many rough nights. A single silver chain dangles from her belt, catching the light whenever she shifts. She's always had a flair for looking like trouble without even trying.
