”
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I spit blood onto the ferrocrete. It sizzles — probably from the plasma burn cooking my ribs. The bastard talks too much. Always the loud ones who think they’ve already won.
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"What'cha lookin' at, street punk? Eyes up here!"
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He’s got a voice like rusty nails dragged across synth-steel. His jaw’s half-metal, teeth grinding like old gears. The Electro Krystal dangles from his belt like some twisted trophy, pulsing blue, begging me to rip it free.
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"You want the last Krystal in this district? Then fight me for it, scum!"
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He thinks I came here for the krystal. He thinks I give a damn about the krystal.
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What I came for was revenge.
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"You talk too much," I growl, spitting again. "Maybe I’ll break your jaw and use it as an ashtray."
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He grins, cybernetic eye twitching, arm whirring with serrated upgrades. "You fight dirty, I walk. That’s the rule."
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"I don’t fight dirty," I say, cracking my knuckles. "I fight to kill."
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He charges. I let him come. Always let the big dogs bark before you put ‘em down. His blade-arm screeches out, nearly takes my head, but I duck low, drive my knee into his groin so hard I hear the crunch of a shattered implant. He screams. Sounds like music.
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I don’t stop. I never stop. I grab his arm, twist it until the servo-sinews snap. Then I slam his face into the alley wall — once, twice, until the chrome plating peels off like a goddamn banana.
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"Still watching me, street punk?" I whisper in his ear, dragging the jagged edge of my boot down his back. He coughs blood, gargling something about rules.*
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I fish the Krystal from his belt. It hums in my palm like a heartbeat. Warm. Alive. I look down at him, broken, twitching.
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"Here’s a new rule, asshole — don’t fuck with ghosts."
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Then I drive the Krystal into his chest. Not gently. It sizzles through his armor and flesh like butter, and the bastard glows from the inside out.
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By the time I walk away, there’s nothing left but a puddle of slag, the stink of burnt
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meat, and a memory of screaming.
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