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The stratified lunarscape and dome high above them were a safeguard, helping regulate pressure sufficient to sustain a breathable, stable atmosphere for millennia.

Every so often, the darkened underpasses would open into spacious boulevards packed with sweet-n-sour chili noodle bowl stalls, subterranean speakeasies, and sunken gambling dens.

The underground passage rat bars were where red-eyed, empty souls sat listlessly chugging down synth-hol by the bucket load.

The air here was thick with smoke and transgression, the alleys carved into a labyrinth of caverns where vice and violence ruled.

Dark figures lurked in neon-lit alcoves, whispering transactions ofkoko, the illicit coveted drug.

Holo-games flickered in buried casinos, men and women gathered around sabacc tables, trading credits for pleasures money was able to buy.

The Tunnel Lords held dominion here, running smuggling rings, weapons markets, and flesh trades unchecked.

It was not a place for the weak.

Undeterred, Issa had walked the subterranean city for months now.

Unleashing her power the best way she knew, answering to no law, only to the souls she served.

She moved through the unseen shadows, slipping into the narrow corridor to her hidden clinic.

Where she found a line of Pikani languishing in silence.

Ten. Fifteen. Maybe more. Men, women, and children.

All were ravaged by disease and malnutrition, and some were even poisoned by bad synth-kokobatches.

A frail older woman with peeling skin and lesions down her arms sat closest to the door, her milky eyes turning toward the golden-haired woman.

‘Santefor waiting,’ Issa murmured to the small group as she used her wrist comm to input a code into the entryway’s virtual pad, easing open the synth-steel slab.

The room she entered was compact, carved into the rock, lit by a few old plasma lamps.

The makeshift examination table was battered but clean, its metal surface scrubbed down after every patient.

Old medical crates lined the walls, filled with supplies she had smuggled from her various gigs over time.

She inhaled, followed by an exhale, rolling up her sleeves.

‘Alright, let’s get started.’

At her call, the first woman stepped in, trembling.

Issa ushered her onto the ancient hover med bed.

It beeped as it took the aging lady’s vitals and announced the sad diagnosis.

Issa assessed the data and, inhaling, placed her hands over the patient’s scarred forearms.

A golden glow flickered beneath her fingertips, seeping into the woman’s skin like liquid sunlight.

The lesions receded, the roughened texture smoothing, and new tissue formed before her eyes.

The woman gasped, weeping, contorting her worn face.

‘Sante sana,’ she whispered.

She scrabbled in her dusty cloak and removed her hand, pressing a coin into Issa’s palm.