The Silent Edge

The neon city lights pierced through the streets of Hayer, the city that never slept. The skyscrapers stretched so high they seemed to touch the heavens, yet their shadows fell so deep they reached into hell. Somewhere in between, old magic struggled to resist the relentless rise of technology.

Amidst the fast, chaotic city below, she lay on her back atop the roof of her apartment, her guitar resting beside her, reflecting the neon lights of the city and the neon clan tattoo on her arm. The moonlight shone brightly in her pink eyes as she pondered its distant, unwavering presence. A cool breeze swept past, brushing her black silky hair from her forehead before carrying it to the floor.

Amaya loved her rooftop time, especially at night when the city revealed its colours. The vibrant hues on the streets reflected her mindset—various thoughts, pulsating and fluctuating, just like the neon signs. Yet, the moon and the wind were there to calm those restless colours within her.

She strummed a chord on her guitar, a sound that seemed to match the vibe of the night. Her emotions spilt over, her colours pouring out in the form of tears. “Why am I like this?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “There are people out there fighting just to survive, and here I am, crying over a dream I’ll never have. How selfish is that?” Her tears fell silently to the floor, shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

After spending a few minutes lost in thought about her dreams and struggles, Amaya glanced at her neon-lit holographic watch, which displayed the time: 10:58 PM.

“Ah, shit! I need to push my changes to the repository before 11,” she muttered. Her tears seemed to dry instantly at the sight of the time.

Her fingers brushed past the holographic neon posters of her favourite rockstars plastered across her bedroom walls. The Neanderthals—her all-time favourite band—had always sung about life before technology, celebrating nature, elements, and magic. Unfortunately, the band had been shut down by the Gunners, who deemed their music a threat.

Somehow, their lyrics echoed her own thoughts—the longing to escape the monotony of sitting in front of a screen all day. If things had been different, maybe she could’ve been part of The Neanderthals.

“Haha, I wish,” she thought, letting out a small laugh as she turned back to her screen. With a few swift keystrokes, she pushed her code into the company repository, and the task was completed just in time. She leaned back in her chair with a sigh of relief.

Slumped in her chair, she glanced at the mandatory ad flashing on the corner of her PC. “Join us to make the world a better place.” The neon lights of the ad blazed in her peripheral vision. “Pff— a better place.” She smirked, letting her thoughts drift to the clans.

Hayer was divided into five clans: the Gun Clan, the Sword Clan, the Hacker Clan, the Shamans, and the Strays—people with no home, and no allegiance.

The Gun Clan, or the Gunners as the residents called them, ruled the city with an iron fist, dominating all other clans through their advanced, tech-infused magical weapons.

The Sword Clan, known as the Blades, had once been the most powerful until the Gunners devised a way to crush their reign. The Blades had mastered the art of imbuing elemental power into their handcrafted swords—one strike from a skilled swordsman could deal unimaginable damage. For years, the swords could even deflect ordinary bullets which covered a bigger area of deflection. But then came the researchers, who found a way to merge tech and magic. That’s when the downfall of the Sword Clan began.

The Hacker Clan, known as the Jacks, and her own clan were cryptic and elusive, much like the codes they manipulated. They were the backbone of the city, driven by loyalty to money. While the majority worked for the Gunners, drawn by the high cash flow from their side, whenever better offers came in from other clans, they’d quickly swing the other way. They were trusted by no one.

The Shamans, known as the Dusts, were masters of channelling elemental energy through ancient rituals and knowledge. Once revered for their healing abilities and their understanding of the ancient lores, they became largely obsolete after the rise of the Gunners. Now, their once-valuable skills were considered outdated, and they were left to fade into obscurity, earning the derisive nickname “Dusts.”

The last clan or whatever they were, were the people on the streets called the Strays. They never belonged anywhere or were thrown out of their clans. They were mostly robbers or resourceful scavengers who lived by their wits.

Amaya shook her head, pushing away the thoughts about the clans as a notification chimed on her mobile phone.

“Hey, Kreyo, open message,” she said, and a holographic display sprung up from her phone.

“A paycheck of 250 Hr has been received,” the message read.

“A mere 250 Hayro for a week’s work? Bullcrap,” she muttered, her frustration cutting through her voice. Her disdain for the Gunners was painfully evident.

The only two things that could temper her anger toward the Gunners were her music and her ongoing project with it—a magical combination, she thought. Her love for music, coupled with her skills in coding and her identity within the Hacker Clan, felt like her only chance to achieve something meaningful in the world of music. Music was a part of Hayer, sure, but it had lost its value in the wake of the Gunners’ rise to power.

Her project wasn’t just about becoming a musician. It was about uncovering something no one had ever found—a harmony that remained undiscovered. She believed that with her deep understanding of music and algorithms, she could unlock the perfect symphony.

Sometimes, a fleeting thought crossed her mind: Could her discovery bring an end to battles and wars? Could music prevail and restore peace? But the idea felt hopelessly idealistic. How could a mere musical breakthrough challenge the dominion of a clan whose entire rule was built on weapons and fear?

Amaya leaned back in her chair, staring at the tangled mess of wires and code that had become her nightly obsession. For her it was not just an obsession but her life’s work in progress—a bridge between two worlds that most people had abandoned: art and logic, music and code. A rebellion.

She tapped a few keys on her console, watching as the simulation ran across the holographic interface. Each note she played on her guitar triggered a series of corresponding algorithms, visualized as vibrant waves of light dancing across the screen.

The sound resonated through her connected console, which translated it into a waveform. The hologram shifted, displaying potential harmonics she could use to form a new sequence.

Music was more than just a sound, she believed—it was energy, a magical power capable of healing the world. As a child, she had always thought the Shamans healed people with music, as they often sang during her visits when she was sick. Even at 24 years old, she still believed that music could do more than heal wounds—it could heal people, end wars, and dissolve hatred. But she also knew that this was just her idea and Shamans healed with magic and not music, but her heart felt otherwise.

None of her compositions seemed to have the breakthrough that she wanted. Sure, they had amazing symphonies, but nothing resonated with her ideology. She was hoping to find a melody that would heal minds. Maybe capable of giving a therapeutic effect.

Amaya reached for the dial on her console, tweaking the settings to push the boundaries of her experiment further. “Let’s try this one more time,” she whispered to herself.

Suddenly, the feedback she had been experimenting with spiked—an anomaly. A series of distorted notes echoed back, forming a pattern she hadn’t programmed. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the screen. It wasn’t just noise; it was…a signal.

The air in the room seemed to change, charged with a static she couldn’t explain. The screen displayed a single, cryptic message:

Location Identified.