We now return to your scheduled programming.

“I’m only gonna ask this once,” the armored Peacekeeper said, leaning over the table with his hands splayed. “Who’re you working for?”

“It’s like I told everyone else,” Michael replied, tired. “I work for a Microzon fulfillment center. I’m not a criminal.”

“Last I checked, kidnapping’s a punishable offense. What were you going to do with him if you got away?”

“I wasn’t kidnapping anyone! The idiot who left her kid with a stranger is the one you should be grilling!”

“Because she left her child with a predator?”

“What? No, goddammit! How do I convince you this is all a misunderstanding?”

“By explaining this.”

The Peacekeeper stepped back and tapped a wrist display. A holographic playback of the park incident hovered above the table. It looked exactly how Michael feared. Like a lunatic caught mid-abduction.

“You have to play the audio,” Michael said. “You need the context. Don’t we pay taxes for this kind of thing?”

“Under maintenance,” the Peacekeeper replied. “Look, you fled the scene. Open and shut. Tell me who you work for and maybe there’s wiggle room. Otherwise, you’re looking at a cell. Video alone nails it.”

Michael sighed. “Fine. His name is Kyle Morris. Real hardass. That’s who you want. You can reach him at...”

The Peacekeeper took the info and turned to leave.

“Hey? Can I at least get my yogurt back?” Michael asked.

No reply. The door slid shut.

Michael slumped over the table. This was a nightmare. He should’ve stayed in bed. Getting docked for missing work would’ve been better than this disaster. His Meta-Level was screwed. Job? Gone. Apartment? Gone. Family’s last shred of respect? Gone. All because of some shitty little kid.

He hadn’t wanted Quack42 this badly in years. He craved the fade. And now, with the dairy bar gone, no more fresh lemon yogurt... he feared the spiral was already starting.

“I want my yogurt,” he growled, banging his fists.

Poor bastard still had hope it wasn’t warm as piss.

Addiction is wild.

The Peacekeeper returned. Without a word, he deactivated the table restraints and roughly turned Michael around to cuff him.

“Dedicated to this Microzon story, huh?” he muttered. “Gonna waste my time with Kyle Morris from HR?”

“Did you at least tell him I’ll be late for work?” Michael asked.

“Whoever’s paying you is getting their money’s worth. But alright. You wanna play games? Forget State lockup. I’ll take you to Malone instead.”

Michael froze. Malone?

There were corrupt Peacekeepers—sure. He’d known that since his junkie days. People would be shocked at how many high-functioning addicts wore a badge. Visors hid Quacked-out expressions just fine.

But Malone?

That was next level.

“Wait,” Michael said, legs trembling. “Where are you taking me?”

“We’re done talking.”

A second Peacekeeper was waiting outside. He took point as they marched through the station.

“Where are we going?” Michael asked again.

No answer.

They passed the holding cells. That alone was alarming.

Then they stopped at a caged office. An android Peacekeeper stood inside, sharper build than the humans. Most officers preferred android partners. More loyal. Better shields. The fact Michael was with two humans was suspicious.

“Carragan, Michael,” the Peacekeeper said. “Transfer to a sister precinct. Ongoing investigation match. They’re taking him.”

“Please help!” Michael begged. “He’s lying! I’m being abducted!”

No one cared.

Not the android. Not the undercover officer. Nobody. Everyone acted like they didn’t hear him. Just another screaming perp. Business as usual.

The android returned with a small box: his BraceNet, a cool rock, and—most importantly—his lemon yogurt.

“Hey! I said I need help!” Michael shouted again.

Nothing.

The second Peacekeeper took the container without a word. The android ignored him.

“Thanks,” the first officer said, shoving Michael forward.

He wanted to rage. To scream lawsuits and violations. But what came out sounded more like a cartoon villain than a man betrayed.

“This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me!”

They dragged him away, kicking and yelling, with zero resistance. To Michael, it was some bullshit.

Thrown into the backseat of an all-black cruiser, Michael’s voice cracked.

“You’re not seriously taking me to Malone, right?”

The door slammed shut.

As night fell, Michael panicked. He begged. Bribed. Promised money, drugs, favors—he even offered to suck their dicks. Anything but Malone.

Criminal insanity was a prerequisite for people like him. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Heart like a twisted knot of thorns.

Through all the bargaining, the Peacekeepers stayed silent. Likely communicating through Mindlink.

“Can I at least eat my fucking yogurt?” Michael snapped.

Three years. He’d never missed a yogurt day. It was unraveling him. He sweated. Twitched. The cravings were creeping in. The yogurt was his last defense.

The Peacekeeper opened the container. But instead of handing it back, he dipped a finger in for a taste.

“That’s mine!” Michael barked.

“Ugh. Fuck me,” the Peacekeeper gagged, spitting it back. “Lemon?”

Michael thrashed like he’d just been injected with spiders.

He spit into the yogurt.

His motherfucking lemon yogurt.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!” he howled.

The Peacekeeper hit a button. A puff of mist sprayed from the seat. It hit Michael square in the face. His muscles relaxed. His heartbeat slowed.

On the outside, he looked peaceful. Inside, he was screaming.

“That’s better,” the officer said. “Should’ve done it sooner.”

They laughed.

Unable to move, Michael cried. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

wept for his dad. For the days when calling him meant help was on the way. Now he was just a fuck up. That’s how his family saw him. How everyone saw him.

Quack42 had hollowed him out. He’d sold everything he could lift. Took from his parents, siblings, uncles, friends, even shelters.

He needed that fix.

QUACK. QUACK.

Unless you’ve felt it, you don’t get it. Addiction doesn’t change you—it replaces you. That feeling becomes your god. And your god is cruel.

Miss a payment, and your god makes you suffer.

Withdrawal is a bitch.

Michael had robbed everybody blind. No other way to put it. He was a piece of shit. He’d caused problems and broken hearts. So he didn’t blame anyone for cutting him out. He didn’t deserve their forgiveness. Trusting him again would be hard. He pawned his grandma’s urn for Christ’s sake. Who does that?

But damn, did he ever wish his dad would save him.

Just once more.

The tiny bit of respect he’d earned back meant everything. It was dignity. The ability to look in the mirror without shame. He wasn’t perfect, but he was trying. Every sober day was a win. A gift. A reason to hope that maybe, just maybe, he could still build a life. That, and some lemon yogurt, was all he needed to keep going.

But it felt like everything was about to crash down.

If he even survived Malone.

And if he didn’t, then please—just let him castrate the bastard who spit in his yogurt.

It took another fifteen minutes before the Peacekeeper said, “Take manual control and black out the AI. Then make a left.”

His partner obeyed, guiding them through an industrial zone long since abandoned. Half-built housing and rotting commerce centers. The State promised to finish it. Never did. Transients and Quackheads had moved in. Michael used to be one of them.

As his body regained control, he scratched his many itches. Nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch. That alone should count as police brutality.

Anyone who dabbled in the underworld knew the Factory. That it still existed was a mystery. Too obvious a spot not to get raided. Yet the State never came near. Now he understood why. The corruption went deeper than he thought. A human trafficking ring, possibly supported by Peacekeepers?

His stomach turned.

The lower your Meta-Level, the less the elites cared.

When the Peacekeeper opened the door to pull him out, Michael spat in his face.

The officer wiped his visor, then punched Michael hard across the jaw. The taste of blood hit fast, but he stayed defiant. It wasn’t the first time he’d been beaten.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you break,” the Peacekeeper sneered, yanking him forward. “You won’t be so mouthy then.”

A twitch in Michael’s eye gave him away. He was scared. The Factory’s reputation was infamous. He’d always avoided it for a reason.

Three men met them at the entrance. All armed. All in expensive suits. The obese one in front nodded.

“Were you followed?”

“Ask me that again and I’ll slap the cheeseburger out of your mouth, Smalls,” the Peacekeeper growled.

The two goons behind Smalls reached for their weapons. He held up a hand.

“If you weren’t such highly esteemed State officers, I might take offense. Tell your little girl to sleep tight. We know what the boogeyman can get up to.”

The Peacekeeper froze. The visor hid his face, but the threat landed.

“I’m here for Malone,” he said coldly.

“Malone’s busy.”

“He’ll want to make time. I brought one of Harlem’s.”

Smalls was handed a photo of the kid from the park. He eyed Michael with renewed interest.

“You don’t say. You pricks finally did something right. What do you want, a fucking cookie? Hand him over and get lost. You’re bad for business.”

The Peacekeeper didn’t release his grip.

“Malone’s going to know I brought him.”

“Wrong. You’re nothing but a State thug. Either keep Harlem’s boy and deal with Malone’s wrath, or hand him over and keep getting paid. Simple math.”

He snapped. The goons grabbed Michael.

“I get the cheeseburgers, bitch.”

Reluctantly, the Peacekeeper released his arm and uncuffed him.

Michael lashed out, kicking the officer’s knee on the way out. Still angry about the yogurt. The Peacekeeper stepped forward, ready to retaliate. One of the goons slapped him instead.

As satisfying as it was, it didn’t help. Michael was still heading into the unknown.

The Factory.

He eyed his yogurt in the box. It gave him chills. Cold sweat trickled. He was overheating but cold to the touch. It was withdrawal. Just like Quack42. A panic response. But psychological or not, the craving was real.

“You’ve got it wrong,” Michael said as they led him in. “I don’t know Harlem. I work for Microzon. I’m nobody.”

“That why you were on his mark?” Smalls asked.

“What, the kid? He bugged me until I gave him yogurt. Then he screamed pedophile!”

“We’ll see.”

They passed through a massive assembly wing. It was a drone factory once. Stripped bare. Derelict. Lifeless.

They stopped at a set of heavy iron doors. Smalls nodded. The doors opened onto a staircase that descended into shadow.

Michael whispered, “Please God.”

Smalls laughed and patted his back.

“It’s showtime.”