Fenn slipped out of the Last Drop through an open window facing the back alley. He slid down the morning-dewed wall, landing with a muted thud onto the uneven cobblestones. Scrubbing his palms against his legs, he glanced around for watchful eyes. Like most dark corners in Zaun, this one held shadows and bodies alike, but none paid him any mind. Fenn chose a direction and scurried off. As he stepped onto the main road, he reached into his pocket for the remaining heel of bread.

  Fenn gnawed at the loaf, dragging the crust against his gums as he walked. It was yesterday’s bread: dense, stubborn, and refusing to soften no matter how long he chewed. It tasted more like sawdust than bread, but his hunger had long stopped caring. It gave him something else to chew on. The morning air clung to the back of his throat, leaving a metallic taste with each bite. Steam curled from pipes to the southeast. Somewhere below, machinery was coughing to life.

  Vander sent him this way—toward the Arcade and the rest of the kids in the Lanes. Vi’s crew. The Arcade was where they gathered. Vander kept it powered. Better the lights and noise than whatever trouble the dark might breed. Most mornings, that was where they could be found. Fenn traveled the twisted roads of Zaun. With each block he passed, the noise diminished. The concrete buildings began to sag as if an invisible hand continued to push down. Many had completely collapsed, leaving only concrete rubble behind. The labyrinthine roads confused first-timers and veterans alike. With each step, the image of her appeared in Fenn’s mind.

  Not of Vi—but of Powder.

  He knew she was never far when her older sister was around. His stomach always twisted in knots when he thought about her. The girl who was just as curious as he was—maybe more. Smarter in ways he couldn't quite follow, brilliant in ways that made his eyes widen when he watched her work. He wanted to tell her about the story. About the king who walked away. They had done this before—in quiet corners and half-finished afternoons. He told her about the stories he read; she told him about the machines she built. It never quite lined up—two conversations running alongside each other, close but never touching. The thought made him slow without realizing it.

  The Arcade wasn’t far from the Last Drop, only a few blocks away. This side of Zaun was calm this morning—too calm. The kind of quiet that made every corner feel watched. The shadows reached out, grasping. The darkened windows stared with ghastly eyes. The wind whistled through gaps, echoing off rusted iron plates like distant, gasping voices. He took each step with hesitation, peering at every corner as if it hid a threat.

  —Shouting. Laughter. Loud enough to carry a block down, cutting through the stillness of the street. His eyes left the shadows and focused on the Arcade ahead. He circled to the back of the building, to a hole in the concrete wall just big enough to crawl through.

  Doors draw attention.

  Fenn slipped through the cracked section of the wall. This way was quieter. Safer. A learned habit—and one that had kept him alive so far. Arcade cabinets filled the room. The exposed floor was caked in dirt and soot. A dull orange glow bathed the room from the overhead lanterns. Chatter drifted from the front door—the one Fenn never used. Everyone stood near a raised wooden platform with an odd contraption hanging from the ceiling—an iron frame with sprouting arms holding thick crimson pads. In the center of the room, Mylo stood mid-story, his lanky arms flailing as if motion alone could hold everyone's attention. "I totally pantsed that guy." Mylo hooked both thumbs into his waistband and yanked his oversized, discolored slacks upward. "You should've seen him—flopping around like an idiot."

  Powder popped out from behind the hanging contraption, wiping sweat from her brow and smearing grease beneath her blue bangs. She raised a bronze cog wheel to the light and examined where the spokes had snapped. Sweat darkened her purple striped shirt. She tugged at her collar, seeking relief from the dampness. "Was that before or after you fell on your face?" she asked, already turning back toward the boxing machine's open casing.

  Mylo blinked. "I mean—no, that was—" He hesitated and ran a hand through his auburn, spiked hair. His brown eyes darted around the room looking for support—and found none. Laughter caught him before he could finish.

  "Powder, you almost done?" Vi said, impatience edging her voice. She leaned against the machine, tipping it under her weight, arms folded across her chest. Her blue eyes flicked to Fenn as he entered, then returned to the iron cavity. "I'm bored. I need to hit something."

  From inside the metal casing came a hollow echo of clanking and thuds as Powder's voice bounced off the frame. "Uh—maybe. Yeah. This wire's fried, give me a sec."

  "Hey… guys," Fenn said, catching the lull.

  "Oh—yeah," Ekko said, his brown eyes widening with realization as he glanced at Mylo. "I remember." Mylo stiffened. "You got one step in," Ekko went on, "then tripped. Enforcer didn't even have to chase you." He lunged forward, deliberately stumbling and grabbing at the air, giggling when he landed with a puff of dust exploding around him. He rolled across the floor, covering his clean white shirt with grime, unable to hold back his laughter.

  "You did try," Claggor added. He let out a quiet, deep chuckle. Seated on the edge of the raised platform, he cleaned his bronze-edged goggles with the tail of his white undershirt, his hazel eyes fixed on Mylo with amusement. Mylo opened his mouth, then shut it again as the room dissolved into another round of laughter.

  The machine began to click and clank as Powder pulled herself free, closing the iron door of the device. "That should do it—for now at least," she said, wiping her oil-caked hands onto her pleated pants. Her light-blue eyes peered up at the bracket holding the machine in place. "But I'm not sure I can fix it next time, so maybe don't wreck it, yeah?" She jumped off the platform, noticing Fenn standing at the edge of the room. "Hey, Fenn." Her eyes widened in excitement.

  "You’re the best, Powder." Vi rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms overhead, grinning.

  "Hold up." Ekko jumped to his feet, brushing dust off his pants. "You always go first and break it before the rest of us even get a chance. It’s my turn."

  Vi groaned. "Ugh. Fine." She hopped off the platform, folded her arms across her chest, and leaned against the wooden banister. Her foot tapped against the floor. "Go. But don't take all day."

  "Really! You mean it." Ekko started hopping in place, his short white curls bouncing in rhythm with each step. "It's my turn, I wanna try."

  "Hold up, little man. I think I should go first. After all, I am the oldest." Mylo placed a hand on Ekko’s shoulder, in an attempt to quell his relentless energy. "To show you how it's done."

  "Nuh-uh, I can do it," Ekko replied. "I’ve seen Vi do it all the time."

  "Scuse me." Powder pushed through the gap between Ekko and Mylo, forcing them apart as she slipped past. "I’m gonna wait over there while you two figure it out."

  Powder slid next to Fenn, stumbling at the last moment. Fenn caught her before she fell. "Thanks." She regained her footing and smeared grease and grime across her shirt, cleaning her hands. "When'd you get here?" she asked.

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  "A little while ago," he said, his eyes unable to meet hers, transfixed on the floor. He noticed Powder's red-leather boots marred with scratches and stitches—shoes too big for her, worn with an age beyond her years. "What was wrong?"

  "Oh—that." She glanced back toward Ekko and Mylo, still bickering. "Power line was cut. Had to splice a few wires to get it working again."

  Powder adjusted and straightened the single pale-blue braid that rested at the nape of her neck. "You read anything good?" She nudged his shoulder, still gripping the end of her braid.

  "Sort of," he said, grinning at her attention. "But you're probably not interested. It was about some old guy." His hands gripped the frame of the arcade machine behind him. It supported him, grounded him in the moment. The thought of the king surfaced as he searched for the words to explain the steward’s story. He reached for something to compare to but wasn’t able to find it. His brow furrowed.

  Before he could fully answer—

  "Can you finally get this over with?" Vi called out, her hands resting on her hips, tapping her foot against the stained cracked concrete floor. The muscles in her back showed through her yellowed shirt, tensing with each delayed moment the boys continued to bicker. "I'm getting bored over here."

  Ekko grinned, stretching his arms and stepping forward, the argument apparently settled in his favor. Mylo slumped against an old splintered crate, his arms crossed, scowling as he watched Ekko climb up onto the wooden platform. The machine whirred to life. Powder beamed with joy as her fix appeared to have held. Ekko moved the moment the lights came on—fast, almost too fast. His fists snapped out in sharp bursts, striking each target as it lit, flying to meet their marks. The worn leather pads drummed with each hit. The rhythm was clean, precise.

  Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

  But the sound was wrong. Each hit landed hollow, more taps than impact, like the idea of a punch rather than the thing itself. The machine responded sluggishly, as if waiting for something that never quite arrived. The score climbed. Then stalled.

  Nine hundred and seventy.

  Not terrible. Not great either.

  Ekko stepped off the platform, away from the machine. He was already lost in his thoughts, eyes flicking back to the display, then to his hands as if replaying it in his head. Imagining each light, each impact, each breath. The pain of impact on his knuckles, the feel of the leather against his skin, and his breath that stalled. He could see it, and so could Fenn.

  Mylo didn't wait. He jumped to his feet as soon as the machine started to slow, brushing the dirt from the seat of his pants. "That's it?" he scoffed, leaping up onto the platform and stepping in front of the machine. "I could do better than that," he bragged, cracking his knuckles as he readied himself for the game to start.

  Fenn glanced at Powder. She was still fixing her braid. "You're not going to give it a go?"

  She shook her head, not looking at Mylo. "Nah. I fixed it. Not gonna be the one who breaks it. Plus, it's fun to watch." She giggled, tying off the end of her braid.

  The machine reset with a dull chime. Mylo lunged forward as soon as the lights came on. His punches came hard—but uneven. Some landed too early, some too late, most never landed, his timing never quite lining up with the machine's pace. He overcommitted to each swing, forcing the next one to catch up. His movements were stiff and jerky as he chased the lights instead of meeting them. The machine responded reluctantly. The score climbed in short bursts, then stalled.

  Nine hundred and sixty-five.

  Mylo stared at the display, his jaw sunk in disbelief. Ekko rolled with laughter, while Claggor chuckled. "This stupid thing still busted," he snapped. "Should've been way higher than that." He placed his hands in his pockets, kicking at nothing as he walked away from the machine. He glared at Powder, convinced she was the reason his score was so low.

  Vi's attention flicked to Powder and Fenn. "Either of you wanna give it a try?"

  Powder shook her head. "Nope."

  Fenn hesitated, then shook his head as well. "No... no, I don't think I could do that," he murmured.

  Vi shrugged, unfazed, her arms were folded across her chest. The impatient energy was gone. She watched both Ekko and Mylo closely, studying their movements, her fighter’s mind already at work. "Never know unless you try." She glanced past them. "What about you, Claggor? You wanna give it a go?"

  "I can throw a few," Claggor said as he stood, shifting the weight of his heavy frame. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck from side to side before stepping onto the platform. The wood groaned under his weight as he drew closer.

  He lowered the brass cog-wheeled goggles resting in his tangled mousy-brown hair over his chestnut eyes, the worn leather strap grasping around his head. He tugged at his muted blue tunic—too small for his broad shoulders—as the fabric stretched across his frame. The machine reset with a chime and started the next round.

  When Claggor hit the machine, it answered.

  Each strike landed with a deep, solid thud, the metal support shuddering under the force. The lights blinked on—but not always in time. Sometimes he was still pulling back from the last hit when the next target flashed to life. Claggor chose his targets, never chasing, always placing his jabs where he intended. He let a few escape his attention, only for the next one to learn why.

  The score climbed steadily.

  One thousand five hundred and thirty-three.

  Claggor hopped down, landing with a heavy thud. He glanced at the scoreboard, nodding to himself. "Eh," he said. "Getting better," he sighed, removing his goggles from his face and wiping the sweat from his brow. He glanced over at Powder with a smile. “Don’ listen to Mylo. It works great.”

  “Thanks, Clag,” Powder said. She leaned in close, pulling on Fenn’s sleeve and murmuring into his ear, "Now watch this."

  "Finally," Vi said, rolling her shoulders as she stretched. Her teeth pulled on the strings of a pair of cracked red leather boxing gloves. "My turn.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair. We didn’t have gloves on!” Mylo protested, flailing his arms to the side. “My hands are stinging.”

  Vi glanced at Mylo with half-lifted eyelids, her pale blue eyes drilling a hole into him. “These wouldn’t have helped you. Plus, you never asked.” Vi glided toward the platform, throwing a few fists into the air to test the weight of the gloves on her hands. “Ekko, Claggor, you both did great.” She hopped onto the platform with easy familiarity, like she'd done it a hundred times before. "Pay attention," she added, glancing back at them. "It's not just speed. Or power. Or whatever the hell you were doing, Mylo."

  A grin tugged at her mouth. "It's about all of it, all at once." For a brief moment, the entire room was silent in anticipation. We all felt it—the calm before something important was about to happen. Then the machine came alive. Vi moved. Not rushed. Not heavy. Each step flowed into the next—dodge, counter, strike. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't forced. It was rhythm. A cadence only she seemed to hear. Every hit landed with weight. Not sharp cracks like Ekko's. Not wild swings like Mylo's. Not slow, crushing blows like Claggor's. Each strike pressed outward, a dull wave that could be felt through the floor, through the air.

  Unlike Claggor, Ekko, or Mylo, the machine didn’t just answer, it responded.

  It had taken punishment from the others. With Vi, it had enough and lashed back. It threw its own attacks, its own counters. Vi rolled with each swing. She wasn’t forcing her way in—she placed her jabs in the gaps that formed. The machine responded eagerly, throwing more at her—and she was already there, already ready. The air around her glistened with each strike as sweat sprayed from her body, catching the light as it hung in the air like stars forming around her. This wasn’t a game to Vi. It was a fight—a battle that she was going to win. And win she did. The score climbed. Faster. Higher. When it finally stopped, the room stayed quiet for a beat longer than expected. Vi stepped back, breath steady, sweat beading below her short crimson pixie-cut hair.

  Four thousand and thirty-eight.

  She glanced at the display, then shrugged. "Huh." Only then did the room breathe again. Fenn didn't cheer. He didn't speak. He watched. Ekko had been fast—fast enough to keep up with the machine—but it never truly felt him. Mylo had hit hard, but every strike chased the last, always behind himself. Claggor carried power, steady and honest, but couldn't move it forward fast enough. Powder hadn't needed to try at all. She'd already proven herself—quietly, completely.

  Vi hadn't done any one thing better. She'd done all of it together. Power. Speed. Control. Acceptance. Not proving herself. Not posturing. Just moving forward. Is this what it means to be powerful? Fenn wondered.

  Is this strength?

  The question lingered as the others drifted off, already arguing about what to do next. Fenn stayed where he was a moment longer, watching the machine go dark.