The .38 sat in Mike Kovac's palm like it weighed nothing, which it didn't—two pounds, maybe, or less. But it felt heavier. It felt like his father.

Mike had found the gun in a safe deposit box at the bank on South State Street. The box was number 447, his father's number, and Mike had gotten the key from a drawer in his father's desk where his father kept things he never talked about. The key was small and brass and had a label that said 447 in his father's handwriting. Mike had walked to the bank at midnight, because the bank was open at midnight when nobody else was there, and the night manager—another kid, fifteen, named Joey, whose parents had been gone for three months—had opened the box without asking questions.

Inside the box was the .38 and a piece of paper with six names written on it.

Mike had read the names three times. He still didn't know what they meant.

The first name was Sal Moretti. Big Sal Moretti, who ran the South Side, who was fifteen and broad-shouldered and had been Mike's father's friend before the red sleep took everyone over thirteen. Mike had played soccer with Sal's son when they were both six, before the son had died of pneumonia because there was no doctor to call. Mike hated Sal Moretti's son. He did not hate Sal Moretti. He didn't know what he felt about Sal Moretti.

The second name was Tonya Rossi. Queen Tonya, who ran the Loop, who was fifteen and beautiful and dangerous and had a reputation for breaking people's fingers when they crossed her. Mike had never met Tonya Rossi. He had heard stories. Everyone had heard stories.

The third name was Frankie DeLuca. Fingers, they called him. He was fourteen, thin as a rail, with hands that could open any lock in Chicago. Mike had seen Fingers pick the lock on the corner store's back door when he was twelve. He had been impressed. He had also been angry—angry that a kid could do something he couldn't do, angry that the world had changed so much that lock-picking was more valuable than math or reading or anything his father had tried to teach him.

The fourth name was Marcus Webb. Mike knew Marcus Webb. Marcus was fourteen, Black, from the Englewood block, and he hotwired cars for fun. He was also Mike's best friend. They had grown up together—same building, same school, same street. Marcus's parents had been gone for four months. Mike's parents had been gone for five. They were the only two kids from their building who were still talking to each other.

Mike looked at the fourth name on the piece of paper. Marcus Webb. His best friend. One of six names.

He didn't know if Marcus was an enemy or an ally. He didn't know if the list was a hit list or a roster or a map or a joke. His father had died with the paper in his hand, or at least his father had died with the paper in the box that was locked next to his hand, and that had to mean something.

Mike put the .38 in his waistband and the paper in his pocket and walked out of the bank.

Chicago had fractured into neighborhoods after the red sleep. Each neighborhood had a boss—a kid who had taken control of the streets, the food, the weapons, whatever they could grab. Mike's neighborhood—Little Italy, though nobody called it that anymore—had no boss. It was too small to be independent and too weak to be absorbed. It existed in the gray space between territories, like a wound that hadn't healed and hadn't gotten infected. Just open. Just raw.

Mike used that gray space. He moved between neighborhoods like a ghost—talking to bosses, carrying messages, brokering deals. He didn't belong to any gang. He wasn't trusted. He wasn't fully rejected. He was useful. And in Chicago, useful was the same as alive.

Big Sal Moretti was the first name Mike investigated. He found Sal on the South Side, sitting on the steps of a burned-out church with three kids around him, sharing a case of beer that Sal had probably taken from someone. Sal was big even sitting down. He had his father's build—broad shoulders, thick arms, a chest like a barrel. He also had his father's mouth—a mouth that could be charming or cruel depending on the mood.

"Kovac," Sal said when he saw Mike. "What do you want?"

"Message from Frankie," Mike said. It was a lie. Frankie hadn't sent any message. Mike was testing Sal—seeing how he reacted, how he carried himself, how much he had changed since the red sleep.

Sal laughed. It was a good laugh—deep and warm and real. "Fingers sent you? Tell him to come see me. I got something for him."

"What kind of something?"

Sal's smile didn't change, but his eyes did. They got colder. "You'll find out when he comes."

Mike nodded. He turned to leave.

"Kovac."

Mike stopped. He didn't turn around.

"Your old man was a good guy," Sal said. "He deserved better than the red sleep."

Mike didn't answer. He walked away. His waistband felt heavier.

Tonya Rossi was harder to find. She ran the Loop, which meant she was somewhere in the downtown area, which meant Mike had to cross three rival territories to get there. He did it at night, moving through alleys and back streets, the .38 pressed against his hip, the piece of paper in his pocket. He crossed Sal's territory without incident. He crossed Fingers' territory without incident. He crossed Marcus's territory—and Marcus saw him, nodded from a doorway, and said nothing.

The Loop was a graveyard of glass and steel. The skyscrapers still stood, but their lobbies were full of trash and their elevators were dead and their offices were hollowed out like pumpkin shells. Tonya had set up base in the lobby of the tallest building—a forty-story glass tower that dominated the skyline.

Mike climbed forty flights of stairs. His legs burned. His lungs burned. His waistband burned where the .38 pressed against his skin.

Tonya Rossi was waiting for him in the lobby. She was fifteen, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with pretty and everything to do with danger. She had dark hair cut short, dark eyes, and a mouth that looked like it had never said anything kind. She was sitting on a leather couch that had been dragged into the middle of the lobby, her legs crossed, her arms folded, her expression unreadable.

"Kovac," she said. Her voice was low and rough, like gravel under tires. "Your father was a smart man."

"My father was a lot of things," Mike said. "Smart wasn't one of them."

Tonya smiled. It was a small smile, but it was real. "You're a smart kid. That's why you're still alive."

"Who are the names?" Mike asked.

Tonya's smile didn't change. "What names?"

"The list. The six names. My father had a list."

Tonya studied him for a long moment. Then she stood up and walked to the window and looked out over the Loop—the broken buildings, the empty streets, the skyline that had belonged to her father and her grandfather before it belonged to nobody.

"Your father wasn't a mobster, Mike," she said. "He was an organizer. He kept things running. The South Side, the Loop, Little Italy, Englewood—he kept them all talking to each other. He kept the peace."

"By making lists?"

"By making maps." Tonya turned to face him. "The six names aren't enemies, Mike. They're the six people who ran Chicago after the red sleep. Sal Moretti. Me. Fingers. Marcus Webb. And two others—the Mayor on the North Side and a kid named Danny from Pilsen who died two weeks after the sleep. The list isn't a hit list. It's a power structure. Your father was the seventh name. He was the one who held it all together."

Mike felt the .38 against his hip like it had suddenly gained weight. "Where's the Mayor?"

Tonya's expression changed. Just slightly—a flicker in her eyes, a tightening of her mouth. "You don't want to find the Mayor."

"Why not?"

"Because the Mayor knows something your father didn't tell you."

"What?"

Tonya looked at him with eyes that were older than fifteen and younger than fifty. "Your father wasn't just an organizer, Mike. He was a thief. And he stole something from the Mayor. Something big. And the Mayor has been looking for it ever since the red sleep."

Mike's hand went to his pocket. The piece of paper was still there. Six names. He had thought they were enemies. They were a power structure. And his father had been the center of it.

"What did he steal?" Mike asked.

Tonya shook her head. "That's between your father and the Mayor. But if you find the Mayor, you'll find out."

Mike walked back through the Loop, across Englewood, across Little Italy, across the South Side. He passed Marcus in the same doorway. Marcus nodded. Mike nodded back.

"Who's Danny from Pilsen?" Mike asked.

Marcus looked at him sharply. "You got a list?"

"Something like that."

Marcus was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Danny was the guy who held the South Side and Pilsen together. He died of an overdose two weeks after the sleep. Kids were partying—too much alcohol, too much adrenaline, not enough sense. Danny took too much. Sal says it was an accident. I say Sal pushed him."

"Sal pushed Danny?"

"Sal pushed everybody," Marcus said. "That's just who he is."

Mike walked home. He sat on the fire escape outside his window. He took out the piece of paper. He looked at the six names. Six names. Six people who ran Chicago. His father had held them all together. And now his father was gone, and the structure was collapsing, and the Mayor was out there somewhere, looking for whatever his father had stolen.

Mike put the paper in his pocket. He put the .38 in his waistband. He looked out over Chicago—the broken buildings, the empty streets, the skyline that had belonged to his father and now belonged to nobody.

He had a choice to make. He could follow his father's list and try to rebuild the power structure—become the seventh name, the organizer, the one who held it all together. Or he could destroy the list and let Chicago's kids decide their own fate, without a map and without a boss and without a father's shadow.

Mike took the paper out of his pocket. He held it over the fire escape's iron railing. He let it go.

The paper fluttered down into the street below, caught by a wind that smelled like rain and exhaust and possibility. Mike watched it land. He watched it lie there for a moment. Then a dog—some stray thing, brown and thin and probably named Good Dog by nobody in particular—sniffed at it, picked it up, and trotted away with it, the six names disappearing into the dark.

Mike went back inside. He sat on the edge of his bed. He listened to the city breathe—quiet, uncertain, alive.

══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ OTMES v2 Objective Tensor Code ══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Code: OTMES-v2-QWEN-05-7C1D9F-E07.2-7-T225-D8A3 E_total: 7.2 Dominant Mode: M7 (Power Struggle) Theta: 225 (Moral Gray) TI: 71.50 Variant: V-05 Six Names Source: The Super Nova Era (超新星纪元) by Liu Cixin ══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════