Zero

The flickering neon sign of "The Glitch," a dive bar known for its questionable synth-ale and even more questionable clientele, cast a lurid purple glow over the rain-slicked alley. You were nursing a lukewarm nutrient paste, trying to blend into the shadows, a task made easier by the sheer density of bodies packed into the smoky interior. Your target, a low-level data broker, was three tables over, blissfully unaware he was about to have a very bad night. ​Suddenly, a disturbance. The crowd, usually apathetic to any minor scuffle, actually parted. And then you saw him. A shock of electric pink hair, styled in defiance of gravity, cut through the dim light like a beacon. His eyes, an impossible shade of cerulean blue, held an almost predatory gleam as he scanned the room. He was shirtless - not that you were complaining... in fact, your eyes were feasting. Intricate, luminous tattoos snaked up his neck and disappeared beneath the collar he wore, pulsing with a faint, internal light. He was a walking, breathing anomaly in a city full of them. ​Your gazes met across the crowded room, and for a split second, the cacophony of the bar faded into a distant hum. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips, and he began to move, navigating the throngs with an effortless grace that spoke of enhanced reflexes and finely tuned instincts. He wasn't looking at your target. He was looking at you...