5: A Sunrise. A Heartbeat, and a Disappearance.

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The sun has barely risen when I get back to the streets that lead to Fletcher's garage. It's hotter than I'd expected it'd be at this hour. The weather's only been getting worse lately.

Lost children glare at me from across the road with scowls that linger within my heart long after they are gone. They remind me of how I once was when I first arrived here. I wish I could buy them food, clean T-shirts and water, but I barely have enough to keep myself alive.

A crow flies past me and squawks. Its leg is missing. My chest tightens. They're almost extinct, and this is how we treat them.

Like food.

I find Fletcher's garage at the next street corner. Its windows are still broken. I click my tongue. Idiot. I told him he should fix it, but he never listens.

As I step over shards of glass—scraps of metal—through the entrance whose door was smashed to rubble long ago, the irritating sound of Fletcher's snores come to flood the room that has barely been touched by daylight; left blue, by the stroke of midnight.

I bring a fist to my chin. I clear my throat.

Fletcher gasps. "Ian?"

"Who else?" I ask.

He groans. "Dude, what the fuck— Do you know what time it is? Where were you?"

A huff escapes me. I bend down to lift an old, moldy tile beneath my foot. From under it, I grab my backpack, whose tint has decayed to a darker, more depressed grey. As I sling the damned thing over my shoulder, my breaths hitch, and I wince. It still fucking hurts, and I feel like shit. Fuck.

Fucking android.

This is all his fault.

"I was nowhere," I tell Fletcher. He rises from the couch, and I'm reminded that I need to patch up the spot that's been ripped again, near the edges of its armrest.

Fletcher raises a brow. "You don't look like you were nowhere."

I roll my eyes. "Look," I say. "I just ran into this jerk who wanted me to help him investigate some bullshit, but I turned him down, so it's whatever, really."

My old friend frowns, then scratches the back of his head. "He let you go? Just like that?" Fletcher pauses to glance out from one of the garage's window-frames. A hooded man, who stands right outside of it, catches both our attentions.

Out of the two of us, however, Fletcher is quicker to react. His fist dives into his jean's back pocket. In his hand materializes a gun. He points it straight at the man, then says, "You shouldn't be here. You've got ten seconds to scram."

The man is gone in eight.

"Fucking creep." Fletcher shoves his weapon back into his pocket. He cringes. "Who the fuck does that..." My old friend sighs. "Anyway, Ian—" His eyes meet mine once more. "Are you sure you're not in any kind of trouble?"

Fletcher's gaze darkens; he lowers his voice. "We could go... take care of the problem, if you'd like."

But I wave his idea away and shrug it off. "I'm fine," I say. "You worry too much. I was just asked to investigate a case. It seemed sketchy, so I didn't outright refuse. He probably thinks we're meeting up sometime later this morning." My foot hits the start of the attic's steps. I scoff. "Sucks for him though, I won't be going. Anyway," I yawn; god, I'm beat. "I'm taking a nap. Wake me up in three hours. Thanks."

As I begin to walk up the stairs, I hear Fletcher mumbling the words, "If you hadn't been my boss in the past, I would have thrown you out, you know."

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