The message came in from his men: Tang Qi had been taken, and Chu Zu was on his way.

Luciano Esposito didn’t bat an eye. Then, abruptly, he smiled.

Ever since he’d picked up Chu Zu, the boy had never once disappointed him.

No matter the task—dirty, dangerous, or dull—Chu Zu would carry it out without question. Even when deep in the lower districts, one call was all it took to summon him from the mire.

Chu Zu never asked why. He’d simply wash the blood off his body, dress himself neatly enough to stand behind Luciano, open a black umbrella, and shield his master from the wild, slanting rain.

Silent. Unflinching. Like a shadow that belonged to Luciano alone.

“The Espositos keep a wild mutt that doesn’t bark.” That’s how the upper city described their relationship.

But Luciano knew better. Knew that what they had wasn’t some crude master-pet dynamic.

It went back to that winter when they were twelve.

Luciano had followed his father to handle the aftermath of the train incident. Because the Tang family heir had been aboard, the Esposito clan—who controlled the gates between upper and lower city—had to clean it up fast.

His father had no interest in the lower slums. At most, he asked, “Was it half-burned or completely gone?”

The answer: “Half.”

His father made a soft, unimpressed sound, the kind he’d make when losing a bet on a gladiator match. Not true disappointment—just mild annoyance.

Children mimic their parents, and so, Luciano too developed little interest in the lower city.

But because of the disaster, the sun—which rarely reached this far down—shone generously that day, casting flickering shadows from the airships above.

The wrecked train lay curled like a black dragon across layers of concrete and steel, half art, half tragedy.

Around the ruins were houses crushed in on themselves, the stench of charred corpses, and more screaming than he cared to count.

But the lower people always cried too quietly to be heard up top. Luciano appreciated that. Saved him the trouble of sending someone to tell them to shut up.

He stayed behind at the wreck site, away from the others, kicking around debris like it was a soccer ball. Even if it hit someone, they’d apologize to him.

Watching people apologize was far more entertaining than waiting for his father.

“I’m so sorry, sir! I shouldn’t have been in your way!”

This time it was a middle-aged man, maybe fifty. Worn-out suit, prosthetic hand, and an artificial right eye that caught the sun just wrong—clearly replaced.

He stood a good seven or eight meters away, shouting his apology like a dog begging not to be kicked.

Luciano kept kicking. Finally, red-faced, the man stumbled back—and, not watching his step, fell right off the ledge.

His father glanced over at the commotion. “What happened, Luci?”

“I kicked someone off,” Luciano replied.

“Be careful. Don’t fall yourself.”

Luciano nodded. Only then did he notice the boy lying in the spot where the man had stood.

He had perfect vision—thanks to prenatal gene editing, no ocular replacements needed.

So why hadn’t he noticed the boy?

Because the kid barely registered as alive.

Jet-black hair. Eyes tinged red in the sunlight—maybe genetic. He was skin and bones, draped in a tattered vest three sizes too big, hem tucked awkwardly into his pants.

What little skin showed was covered in bruises—some fresh, some faded.

Luciano kicked another chunk of metal toward him, casual as ever.

It struck the boy square in the nose.

He staggered, lowered his head, pressed a hand to his face, and then bent down, picked up the thing Luciano had kicked, and tucked it into his shirt.

Then, shockingly, the boy began to climb.

Hand over hand, he scaled the jagged remains of the wall like some starved little beast. By the time Luciano turned to report what had happened, the boy’s fingers were already clutching the edge near his feet.

Luciano stomped down hard.

Fall. Fall!

But even under his polished boot, the boy’s filthy, scar-slicked hands clung on, avoiding pressure points with the instinct of a cornered animal.

And then, he made it up.

The airship above had already circled three times and drifted away. The winter sun hit them full-on now, warm and gentle.

In that light, Luciano got his first real look at the boy.

Face as small as a doll’s. Gaunt. Eyes too wide for such a thin frame, and eerily red. No expression behind them—just vacant, inorganic glass under a mop of dark, uneven hair.

The boy rummaged in his pocket.

Before he could finish, Luciano’s men closed in and seized him easily.

Still, he fumbled in his clothes—then, just before being dragged off, extended his hand toward Luciano.

“I only have this.”

Crushed, wrinkled bills. The kind is only used in the worst parts of the lower slums.

Luciano recognized them only because of that idiot from the Tang family.

Tang Qi—brain fried from gene splicing, spoiled rotten by his emotional wreck of a mother, always sneaking down to the slums to play saint and spouting nonsense at banquets.

This time, he’d nearly gotten himself killed.

So… that thing the boy had retrieved—was it a burnt piece of bread from the wreck?

Luciano was amused.

He waved off his men and stepped forward. The boy had fallen during the scuffle and now lay at his feet.

Looking down at him, Luciano said, “That’s not enough. Don’t you know sunshine isn’t free?”

The boy stood up, palm still extended, shoulders drooped like a kicked dog. “It’s all I have.”

“You crawled up here, didn’t even let go when I stepped on you, just to pay for some sunlight? Are you stupid?”

“Maybe.” He nodded. “That’s what they all say.”

“…It’s not something contagious, is it?”

“What’s contagious?”

“Something that makes me sick after touching you!”

“They hit me a lot. Does that count?”

“…”

“…”

“You climb pretty fast. Don’t you fight back when they hit you?”

“Fight back…?” He blinked. “If I don’t, they give me food. And money.”

Luciano was fascinated now. He stepped closer, pointing at the boy’s bruises. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

The boy looked puzzled. “What’s ‘hurt’?”

Luciano blinked—then laughed.

He doesn’t remember exactly what he thought at the time. Maybe it was the sunlight. Maybe it was excitement. Maybe just instinct, whispering that this kid could be useful.

What he did remember was this:

He stood tall before the ragged boy, sunlight like spun gold between them, dust swirling like diamonds.

“I’ll give you food. I’ll give you sunlight. I’ll give you the best of everything. Come with me.”

He raised his voice like his father did in speeches. “But you don’t deserve any of it—not yet. So you’ll have to pay me back. More and more. Until I say it’s enough.”

The boy hesitated. When he thought, his red eyes grew brighter enough that even Luciano paused, admiring the color.

If he agreed, he’d get a hug. If not, Luciano would push him off the ledge.

Simple choice.

In the end, the boy received a hug, warm and perfumed with artificial fragrance.

Luciano was taller by a full head. Enveloping the boy in his arms took no effort at all.

The golden-haired boy had found his shadow.

“I’m Luciano Esposito,” he whispered in the boy’s ear.

“I’m Chu Zu,” came the reply.

Luciano never owed Chu Zu a thing. It was the other way around.

He’d given Chu Zu the best, so Chu Zu had to repay him.

Running errands, handling the dirty work—that was repayment.

Killing every last member of the Esposito family after Luciano’s father died? Repayment.

Culling sparks of rebellion in the lower city? Repayment.

Extracting every backdoor code to the Tang family’s cybernetic prosthetics—securing Luciano’s control of both upper and lower districts? Repayment.

The right person should do the right job.

Born with a body built for endurance, incapable of feeling pain—what else should Chu Zu be doing?

Luciano had given him everything.

But now, Chu Zu had screwed up.

“Your heart rate exceeds the safe threshold. Please remain calm. Shall I administer a stabilizer?”

Luciano turned toward the floating orb beside him. It glowed softly, about the size of a tennis ball, voice aged and gentle.

It had once been the Esposito butler, Jeeves. Chu Zu had eliminated him alongside the rest, loyal to the will, but inconvenient.

Still, he was too useful to discard. Luciano had uploaded his data into this device.

“Why should I stay calm?” Luciano’s lips still curved upward, expression almost benign.

“I gave him time,” he said softly. “Even before handing over Tang Qi, I gave him an extra thirty minutes. And what did he bring me?”

“Chu Zu is one of the few you can trust. I advise against taking it out on him.”

Luciano narrowed his eyes. The blue in them deepened like an ocean trench. “Take it out on him?”

“No matter who you send to interrogate Tang Qi, the outcome will be the same—he won’t talk. I ran the numbers. Eliminating him was the optimal solution.”

The butler, unfazed, carried on.

“And when you assigned the mission to Chu Zu, he was still in the lower city. He returned in five minutes. For context, the fastest safe return time is twenty-three.”

“He spent ten minutes in the treatment pod. Then immediately moved on to his next task.”

“Biometric reports show that in the last two weeks, he’s slept for only those ten minutes in the pod. The remaining fifteen minutes? He spent uploading detailed mission reports.”

A stack of over thirty appeared before Luciano, each one flawlessly formatted.

That many?

The soft glow reflected in his deep blue eyes, and for a moment, the smile froze on his lips.

Of course, there were that many. As Jeeves had said, Chu Zu was one of the few people Luciano could rely on completely. In times like these, he entrusted him with everything.

Time was never his concern.

All he needed was to hear that familiar, steady voice say: “It’s done.”

It had been that way since they were twelve.

“This is his job…”

Luciano muttered, then lifted his chin again, steadier.

“If my schedule was flawed, he should have told me. If he pushed himself too far, that’s his fault. I’ve always kept my promise—to give him the best. That’s his problem.”

“I understand,” Jeeves said mildly. “You plan to settle accounts with Chu Zu.”

His voice, programmed to sound warm and wise, now echoed with chilling clarity—eerily like Luciano’s own knife-edged smile.

“Chu Zu must always give you more… until you decide it’s enough. So—do you think it’s enough?”

No answer.

Luciano had never felt guilt in his life.

But now, staring at the evidence of broken promises and crushed contracts—something twisted in his gut.

He didn’t want to name it. Didn’t want to know if this unfamiliar, suffocating weight counted as guilt.

All he knew was—he felt heavy.

A soft beep disrupted the silence. Biometric scan completed.

Only one person could enter unannounced.

Sure enough, the doors parted—and Chu Zu walked in, smelling faintly of soap and antiseptic.

Now grown, he stood a full head taller than Luciano. He never lowered his gaze for others—just kept his eyes half-lidded. But in front of Luciano, he hunched slightly, chin tucked in.

His lashes were still damp with water. Beneath them, his eyes—those same vivid reds—shone against a face that was ghastly pale.

Luciano said nothing.

And then, in a blank, even tone, Chu Zu spoke.

“My fault.”

—Of course it is.

Luciano watched as his shadow crumpled silently at his feet.

Shattering, like glass on marble.