Zeke leaned against the frame with a tired expression, watching Fredric preen in the reflection of the darkened window. The apartment still smelled faintly of steel and rain; the city beyond hummed like a sleepwalker.

"Are you sure about this?" Zeke asked with a tired expression.

"Of course, you've been doing nothing but training since getting suspended. Letting loose once in a while won't bring you any harm." Fredric retorted, putting a plaid shirt over his gray t-shirt, which he matched with blue jeans and some sneakers.

"You're wearing my pants," Zeke remarked.

"No, my friend, I'm wearing what used to be your pants before you outgrew them," Fredric smirked. "Now they are just pants, inside your closet, that I am borrowing."

"Aren't you trying a little too hard for this?" Zeke sighed.

"There's nothing wrong in looking good in front of the girls is there?" Fredric asked, combing his hair.

"Not it they were your age," Zeke remarked. "But they aren't and you're like way older, uncomfortably so," Zeke pressed.

"Well, physically we're still the same age, since I haven't aged a day since I became a contractor, so its fine." Fredric remarked.

"Yeah, I'm not talking about your physical age." Zeke shook his head. "Mentally you're like an old man."

"It's fine, they're rather mature," Fredric winked.

"It's bullshit and you know it," Zeke crossed his arms.

"I know it, you know it. Why point it out?" Fredric wondered.

"Because you're morally ambiguous," Zeke replied.

"Aren't we both?" Fredric smirked.

"I won't answer that question." Zeke shook his head.

"That's fine, just hurry up and get dressed," Fredric said, putting things in his backpack.

"I am dressed," Zeke gestured at his attire.

"Are sweatpants and hoodies really the fashion statement you want to be making?" Fredric asked, putting a baseball cap.

"What do you suggest?" Zeke sighed.

"Switch the sweat's out for cargo pants and you should be good," Fredric stated.

Zeke swapped the pants with a resigned tug, the fabric whispering against scarred skin. He pulled the hood tight, then loosened it—half habit, half armor. They stepped into the corridor's dull fluorescence and out into air washed clean by last night's storm.

And so he did. They left the house making their way to the shopping district where they had initially agreed to meet near the monorail station.

The station rose out of polished concrete and glass, a bright artery threading the district. Advert screens scrolled silent color over the crowd; the rails above breathed a warm metallic wind each time a car blurred through. Neon bled into puddles, smeared by passing feet; a violin busker sawed out a stubborn melody no one heard until it stopped. The city felt briefly lighter up here—like a lung between coughs.

As Zeke and Fredric left the monorail they saw Amy and Melanie standing, waiting for them. The two girls appeared absolutely stunning. Melanie wore a beige skirt a white knit sweater and a black jacket, with a dark blue backpack on her back , while Any was dressed in a white baggy dress and stockings, a dark green beret, and pink bag.

Closer now: the knit at Melanie's wrists catching light; the faint citrus-clean scent when the breeze turned; Amy's beret tilted with unstudied precision, a painter's green on a winter canvas. They held their ground in the flow of bodies like two quiet beacons.

As the two walked closer they noticed that the girls were approached by two other guys. These men tried their best initiating conversation, but no matter what they did the girls kept ignoring them.

"Come on, give me your number," one of the guys asked.

"Fuck off!" Amy glared.

"That's mean, she's mean," the other guys said.

"Who cares if she's mean dumbass, she's hot, it's all that matters." The first guy retorted.

Zeke's shadow folded over them before his voice did.

"Achem," Zeke cleared his throat, standing directly behind the two guys.

"Who the fuck are—" Mohawk said while turning around. "Oh hi boss, didn't see you there." He smiled anxiously.

"You know these guys?" Melanie anxiously wondered with her gaze aimed at the ground.

"Yeah," Zeke sighed. "You two should get the fuck out of here." He told Mohawk and Bun.

"We didn't know they're your women boss," Mohawk pleaded. "We're sorry boss."

"They we're awfully mean thought," Bun remarked.

"Shut it!" Mohawk punched Bun in the stomach. "We'll be leaving now," he said, dragging away his companion.

Their retreat left a ripple of silence that the station swallowed in a beat—the rails hissed, the crowd re-knitted, and the busker's bow found the string again.

"Okay, that was weird," Amy remarked.

"Tell me about it," Zeke shook his head. "Out of all the people It just had to be those two."

"How do you know them?" Melanie wondered.

"They're our neighbors," Fredric explained. "You look great, Melanie," he said grabbing her hand.

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"Thank you," she replied blushing slightly.

Amy looked at Zeke and rolled her eyes; he pretended not to notice, studying a passing ad screen like it held state secrets.

"Well let's get going! The best cakes and coffee in all of lower babel are waiting for us at café blue," Fredric said, grabbing Melanie and walking off arm in arm.

Zeke and Amy drifted after them, a step behind and slightly apart. Amy kept throwing shady, sidelong looks at Zeke the entire way—measured, unreadable—while the city's evening crowd ferried them along in a warm, neon-lit current.

Before long they arrived at the café. The little bell over the door chimed; roasted beans and caramelized sugar rushed out to meet them. Brass sconces pushed soft gold into the corners, and the counter glass gleamed with neat rows of mousse-domes and lacquered tarts. Outside, rain-polished stone mirrored the sign's cobalt glow; inside, the hum of conversation folded around the four of them like a worn, friendly coat.

Zeke ordered himself black coffee, Fredric opted for a mocca, and the two girls got some tea and a slice of cake each. Steam curled from their cups, ribboning the air with citrus, malt, and dark chocolate. Forks tapped porcelain; someone laughed at a corner table; the espresso machine exhaled like a small, contented engine.

"Man, no matter how much I drink of it coffee always tastes like battery acid," Zeke remarked.

"You've been a downed lately haven't you?" Amy remarked.

"Have I?" Zeke wondered.

"Yeah, I don't think I've seen you smile ever since you got suspended." She remarked.

"Well you haven't exactly been seeing much of me have you?" Zeke replied.

"Being snarky isn't like you, tell me what's wrong?" Amy asked.

"He's probably just sad about his ex girlfriend," Fredric remarked.

"Ex girlfriend?"

"Shut it!" Zeke growled.

"No, I want to know, tell me," Amy said with a slightly aggravated expression.

"Well, when we joined unit 22 Zeke got himself a girlfriend. It was one of those adrenaline rush types of relationships so it likely wouldn't have lasted no matter what." Fredric explained.

"So what happened?" Amy wondered.

"She died," Zeke stated.

"You're a dick," Amy said to Friedric.

Fredric laughed anxiously, eyes sliding off his cup. A server floated past with a tray of lemon chiffon and pistachio slices; sugar dust brightened the air for a heartbeat and settled like quiet snow.

"By the way, you know who else is different than their usual self. Melanie, you're always this commanding presence at the academy. You're our proud club president, yet now you we're barely able to speak when confronted by those two idiots," Fredric smiled.

"She's always been like that," Amy replied.

"True, I'm not comfortable causing a scene in a public place," Malanie explained.

"Right," Fredric smirked. "I'll make it a point to never invite you over to my house."

"You never invite anyone to your house," Zeke stated.

"Not even you?" Melanie wondered.

"Nope," Zeke replied.

"Doesn't he stay with you?" she asked again.

"Yep!" Zeke called out enthusiastically.

Malanie glared at Fredric.

"There hasn't been an occasion yet," Fredric scratched his head.

"That's it, next time, we're going to your place!" Melanie stated.

"Sure," Fredric smiled. "You're still not invited."

"Then were else would you take her?" Amy asked.

"Artificial love," Fredric smiled.

"Not a place you should take a girl," Amy remarked. "Besides isn't that place really exclusive?" she wondered.

"Oh don't worry, I have some connections," Fredric winked.

"How so?" Amy asked bluntly.

"Would you believe me if I told you that I worked there?" Fredric asked.

"Would I believe you if you told me that you worked in a strip club?" Amy asked.

"He did security," Zeke sighed.

"Security? He doesn't look that strong," Melanie laughed.

"We're top of our class," Zeke stated. "We're invited to the battle club but chose to stay with you instead."

"Why thought? Haven't you heard the rumors?" Amy wondered.

"What rumors?" Zeke inquired.

"That we're supporting the green root terrorist organization," Amy replied.

"Are you?" Fredric asked.

"We're not!" Melanie stated. "Nor will we ever support any criminal organization."

"Rumors are just rumors I guess," Fredric laughed.

Amy stood up, picking up her bag.

"Zeke, excuse me, could you escort me to the bathroom?" she asked.

"Sure," Zeke stood up, walking of after her.

Fredric snorted into his mocha. "They're about to ditch us," he laughed, already leaning back like a man resigned to fate and sugar.

Zeke and Amy drifted toward the bathrooms set beside the café's street-side exit. Light from the sign washed the corridor in a soft cobalt; the door chime tinked behind them, swallowed by city noise.

"Hey Zeke," Amy called out. "I wanna show you something," She grabbed him by the hand taking him outside the café.

Zeke nodded and let her lead. The evening had that rinsed-after-rain clarity: streetlamps haloed in silver, pavement slick as black glass, the smell of ozone braided with coffee and the faint mineral tang from the monorail rails. Their steps synced without thought—hers quick and sure, his steady, a bodyguard beat he couldn't shake.

They walked until the Trade Tower shouldered up out of the district like a dark monolith—one of the city's throbbing hearts, facades latticed with office grids and neon sigils. Inside, marble and brushed steel reflected them in thin, repeating ghosts. They slipped into an elevator with wood-inlay panels and a polite chime that made the ride feel civilized even as it whispered speed.

"This is the last floor available for visitors," Amy smiled when the doors parted on the hundredth. "I would sure love to get to the very top."

"I'll see what I can do," Zeke remarked.

He cut across the mezzanine as a security guard rounded a corner at pace. Their shoulders glanced; Zeke let himself spill to the floor in a practiced tangle that made the collision look worse than it was.

"Watch where you're going!" the guard screamed out before storming of.

"I'm sorry sir!" Zeke apologized with a slight smirk.

He rejoined Amy with a new rectangle of plastic warming in his palm. They stepped into another lift; chrome walls caught their faces, then stretched them into lines of light. Zeke slid the card; the panel blinked approval, and the car purred upward.

"I didn't take you for the type," Amy remarked.

"What type?" Zeke wondered.

"The type who'd steal," she stated.

"I did it for you," Zeke retorted.

The doors sighed open to the 250th maintenance level—where the tower stopped performing and started breathing. A service deck opened into wind, girders, and the open city. The vista punched outward in every direction: buildings below turned toy-small and ash-blue, traffic like capillaries lit by red and white beads. Above them the space elevator's celestial spine climbed into the heavens, splitting the purple sky as if a god had drawn a line with a ruler and fire.

"We can still climb higher," Amy remarked, pointing towards the metal ladder leading to an antenna access platform at the very top of the tower.

She set a hand to the rung and began to climb. Zeke followed, keeping a respectful distance—and then, suddenly, not; her dress fluttered in the updraft, hem lifting like a curtain, and for a brief, mortifying second the world narrowed to pink florals, black suspenders, pale skin. Heat shot across his face. He snapped his gaze to the ladder's spine, jaw clenched, while Amy's giggle trembled on the wind.

The gust rose. The whole structure gave a long, old-creature creak. Her foot slipped. A breathless yelp—and empty air.

She braced for impact that never came. Wind died; warmth folded around her like hands. When she opened her eyes they were already on the platform, the city poured out beneath them like mercury and lamps.

"You should be more careful," Zeke remarked looking the distance as the sun descended into the horizon.

"You should have told me you could do that," Amy remarked. "Or did you not say anything because you were curious to see what was under my dress." She giggled.

Zeke blushed red.

"That's not- " he said before being interrupted.

Amy placed her hand on his cheek, gently caressing it as she swooped in, kissing him on the lips. The wind paused, as if listening.

"I wanna start going out?" she asked, with a smile.

"Mhm," Zeke nodded, placing her back on her feet.

"Deal!" she kissed him on the cheek before approaching the handrail and looking really deep into the sunset.

"You know I was really mad at you today," she sighed.

"About what?" Zeke's gaze turned somber and serious. Immediately "his mind ran through all the things he was hiding from her, all of his horrible actions, his guilt."

"You forgot to compliment me," Amy stated turning around to face him.

"Huh?" Zeke wondered in shock, unable to understand her words.

"Don't I look good?" she pouted.

"Uhhh, yeah you look great." Zeke blushed looking at the velvet sunset as the two continued their conversation away from prying eyes.

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