The screen flickered in a flash of digital carnage.
"Take that, ya furball!" Mou roared, claws hammering the controller like a caffeinated bear. His eyes narrowed in fierce Russian focus, tongue poking out slightly—his Game Face™.
Meow, lounging on the other side of the couch like a velvet playboy, adjusted his sunglasses with a single claw. "Your reaction time is as outdated as dial-up, comrade."
Mou snarled. "You wouldn't know tactics if they chewed your tail."
"I don't need tactics. I have finesse."
The screen erupted. Victory screen. Again.
"Boom, baby," Meow purred, smug tail flicking. "Kneel before the king."
Alya leaned on the wall, arms crossed, her face halfway between amusement and concern. "How long have they been at it?"
Nolan checked the on-screen match counter. "Three hours, twelve minutes, forty-six seconds… and counting."
"So... basically morning."
Meow didn't look away from the game. "Alan's out. Big boy business. Left like a shadow. Said he'd be back when the 'stars burn sober.'"
Alya's eyes gleamed with rebellion. "VIP Velaria exploration it is."
"Denied," Meow said flatly. "I've got enemies to destroy, levels to flex on."
"Mou'll go," Nolan said, smirking.
"No, I won't," Mou said without missing a beat. "Team betrayed me. Now I must carry."
"You baited me!" Meow snapped. "I sacrificed you strategically!"
"You left me for pixel crumbs."
"You're a tank!"
"You are a clown!"
"A stylish clown."
"Boys." Alya stepped between them. "You've lost your minds."
Meow paused, tail twitching like a metronome. "Fine. Leave. Take your wild curiosity out there into the capitalist jungle. But remember this—"
He pointed a claw like a prophet on catnip. "VIP Velaria is pretty on the outside, like candy laced with poison. These people smile like saints and stab like surgeons. Stay sharp. Here, kindness is a product, and you're the receipt."
Alya winked. "We'll try not to die before dinner."
Meow snorted. "Try harder."
The moment they stepped into the sun-splashed streets of VIP Velaria, it was like entering a new universe—one where money didn't just talk, it screamed in gold-plated poetry.
Hovercars purred past like sleek panthers on air. Streetlights were elegant vines of soft neon. Buildings gleamed like they were sculpted from diamonds and ego. People strutted around in designer armor, their faces radiant and empty.
Alya gawked. "This place is... stupidly beautiful."
Nolan turned a slow circle. "Even the trash cans are self-cleaning."
They wandered into a boutique. A dress floated in midair, shimmering with AI-controlled starlight. It twisted, turned, sparkled—tauntingly.
"Price?" Alya asked.
"More than a space shuttle," Nolan replied.
Alya blinked. "Let's buy three."
She pulled out Alan's VIP card like it was Excalibur. "Let's make capitalism cry."
They zoomed through the sky park on hover boots, Alya daring Nolan to a race. She won. Twice. He claimed faulty wind resistance. She didn't buy it.
Next stop: ice cream cart.
The vendor handed them cones that changed flavor every lick. Alya's went from caramel to starberry to something called "cosmic mint."
"This one tastes like childhood," she whispered.
Nolan's eyes softened. "That's what it's supposed to do."
Later, they found a VR arena. Nolan chose dragon mode. Alya? A bounty hunter with a flamethrower and zero chill. They fought, died, fought again, and laughed like kids who finally forgot the monsters chasing them.
Then came the quiet.
They stumbled upon a balcony garden, high above the city—floor 32 of some dome plaza. The wind was soft. The view? Infinite.
Alya sat on the ledge, legs swinging.
Nolan stood beside her, hesitant.
She patted the space next to her. "Come on. Don't make me do the emotional stuff alone."
He sat.
Silence. Not awkward. Just full.
She looked at him—really looked. His lavender eyes held storm and peace. War and softness.
"I forgot what this felt like," she whispered.
"What did?"
"This. Being. Breathing. Without worrying if the next breath is the last."
Nolan didn't reply. Just leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing hers. It was enough.
She closed her eyes. "Sometimes I feel like... if I stop moving, I'll disappear."
"I'll find you," he said.
Her eyes opened.
He was looking at her. And this time, it wasn't a glance. It was a truth laid bare.
Their hands brushed.
She didn't pull away.
Fingers tangled.
And just like that, two kids covered in scars found something they'd forgotten how to want—hope.
Alya leaned her head on his shoulder. "Do you think we're allowed to feel this?"
Nolan tilted his head gently against hers. "We've survived worse. We deserve this."
She turned to him, her face inches away.
The kiss was slow. Hesitant. Raw. Not perfect. Not practiced. Just... real.
She smiled against his lips. "You're trembling."
"You're terrifying," he whispered.
They laughed into each other. Then just sat there, hearts calm, for once.
But peace doesn't last.
They turned a corner, hand-in-hand, back on street level—and collided with it.
Them.
A pack of five sharply dressed Velarian men. Their suits were tailor-cut. Their smiles sharper than the razors hidden in their sleeves.
The tallest sneered. "Watch it, peasant."
Alya's eyes narrowed.
"Oh look," another chimed in. "The Psychiatrist Man's little orphans. Spending his money like they belong."
"Cute, really," said the one closest to Nolan.?"
Nolan didn't flinch. "Back off."
The tallest leaned close, his breath like mint and menace. "Velaria doesn't like strays playing noble."
Alya stepped forward, her voice low and lethal. "Touch us, and you'll be choking on your own teeth."
The man laughed. Too calm. Too cocky.
Then—
"Or what, little girl?"
The air shifted.
Nolan clenched his fists.
Alya's eyes lit like fire.
To be continued.....