Prologue

---

 His thoughts drift, as they often do: if he lived in a world not built on bodies, industry and distraction—would he see himself differently?

 Value himself in another way?

Would he have made the choice to shape a different life, not stitched for survival and seduction?

For a moment, the questions reach for him—

 Before sinking back into the quiet ache beneath everything.

Feels like a’got lost somewhere,

an’ now a’aint sure where the road ‘as gone.

TRACE POINT: Elevator in The Northside

GRID MARK: Thar-Korr – Sector 17

DIM-CODE: [TK-S17.∆6:GLS]

BLACK STAR: 54 ROTATIONS

The elevator hums.

 Not just a sound—but a slow, crawling, sliding sound. Moving along the walls like a breath inside metal lungs. It’s constant and steady. Tav swears he can feel the tone crawling across his skin. 

 There are thousands of elevators like this one, he thinks. All over Thar-Korr. Gliding up and down, pulsing, pumping—arteries of a body too big to stand. Palpitations of a dying planet, taking in steel and spitting out noise. 

He sighs, 

“Wha’ m'a' doin wiv ma life? 

A’went an’ swapped out pit-labour for dick-labor. 

A’wuz sleepin’better before.”

 He’s watching his reflection in the chrome framed mirror. He’s not sure who he’s talking to. There are answers—somewhere—just out of reach. His eyes carry the ache of someone who sees everything but rarely feels seen. When he catches that truth, looking back at him, his stomach knots. 

 He watches the flick of the numbers, neon blinking, counting down. Each one bending slightly at the edges, leaving trails like ghost-light. His pupils drink them in, eyes as wide as lunar orbits. 

 The musk of sex clings to his body, blending with the sharp sweetness of Juice sweat. His lips are swollen, tasting of Vryson skin—scented, expensive. 

 Even his jacket—pink and cracked at the seams—carries that burnt-sugar tang of smoke from the Juice pipe.

Don’t even know who a’am when ‘am not being used.

 When ‘am not being wanted. 

 His jaw twitches, static firing beneath flesh. The hours of performance have left him flushed, flesh still clammy. Yet he feels buoyant. Untethered. The high hasn’t died. It lingers—a soft, fluffy echo sliding through his blood. A pulse from an unseen expression that refuses to let go. 

 All a’feel is dis noise.

  A’don’t know where d’world ends and I begin.

The grind jus’ demands so much— 

  ya just end up losin’ track o’yourself.

The elevator shudders. A metal whine slices the shaft. Tav tenses—mind flashing images of freefall, bones scattering like loose change.

He inhales. 

 It’s shallow in his chest..

 He nudges his tinted glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t need them for his vision, they’re a buffer to the distractions of life. Augmented filters. A stylistic shield between himself and too much information. He notices in the mirror, a new bruise blooming across his neck. An artless mark from Vryson. He grips hard when he reaches climax, it’s one of the few spontaneous things left in him. 

“A'guess a’jus’ find it easier ta be someone else's toy.” 

He sighs again, 

 deflated—

 mask folding. 

 A slow return, as the elevator goes down. 

Thar-Korr Sector 17

---

SUBSCRIBE