Malik moved like a shadow between shadows, boots quiet on rain-slick concrete, coat trailing behind him like the whisper of a rumor. The city's neon haze painted the alleys in faded pinks and electric greens, but none of that light seemed to stick to him. It slid off, like he belonged to the dark more than the day. Something had changed since the fight. The rush of D?o energy that surged into him after leveling—it wasn’t just power, it was clarity. A sense of purpose, edge sharpened. He could feel it in his limbs, in the way he moved through space like he owned the gaps between heartbeats.

  The system hadn't left him empty-handed either. That cold voice had whispered again, listing what he could now do with growing precision. The abilities didn’t come with ceremony, just understanding, deep in the marrow.

  

  

  Then there was

  

  The newest thing, though—the one that hummed through his muscles as he moved—was

   Just grace under fire.

  He felt it all humming beneath his skin now, a slow thrum of power from his D?o pool. Ten points per level. Thirty now, with Level 2 under his belt.

  “I guess the system counted level 0 as well.” He thought.

  Either way he had to be smart with it, measured. Couldn’t go empty in the middle of a shootout and expect instinct to carry him the rest of the way.

  But still… it was a hell of a thing.

  A half-smile flickered across his face, the kind that didn’t make it to his eyes. This city might’ve been built on glass and steel, but it was the shadows that moved the world. And Malik? He was starting to feel like one of them.

  Malik crouched in the shelter of a crumbling doorway across from the warehouse, the cold bite of rusted metal and wet concrete creeping up through his boots. The place sat hunched beneath the weight of the city’s smog like some sleeping beast. Low-lit security lamps cast jaundiced halos around its edges, turning the fenced yard into a stage of shadows. He stayed still, a ghost stitched into the fabric of the alley, watching the corrugated walls breathe beneath a layer of soot and silence.

  He wasn't about to make the rookie mistake of walking in without a good look first. No, Kuroyami City didn’t play fair, and something about this Quest already stank of setup. There was a rhythm to the city at night, and the warehouse was offbeat—too quiet, too still. That kind of silence always screamed trap.

  While the dark kept him hidden and the warehouse gave up none of its secrets, Malik called up the system. It wasn’t with a word or a flick of his hand, but more of a pull somewhere behind the eyes—like reaching into a place just outside reality and bringing something forward. The ghostlight of the HUD flickered into view, faint and almost imperceptible, like smoke curling on the edge of his vision.

  [D?o System – Character Sheet Accessed]

  A translucent overlay hung in the space just before him, as though etched in glass and lit from behind. It shimmered with violet light, the letters dancing like smoke from a long-smoldering cigarette.

  Special Abilities Overview:

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  Malik studied the sheet with the same intensity a man gives a bar tab he didn’t expect to pay. It all made a strange sort of sense, like remembering a dream you weren’t sure you had. Each ability felt like a worn tool in a kit he'd forgotten he owned, his fingers itching just thinking about the weight of the gun at his side. The pool sat steady at thirty points now, and he knew better than to burn through it like a drunk with a payday. He shifted his weight, slow and silent, eyes narrowing on the warehouse. Somewhere in that shadow-boxed hulk of sheet metal was the package. The objective. The next notch in a game he hadn’t agreed to play, but damn well intended to win. Something in his bones told him he was getting close—too close to let his edge dull now. The city might’ve made the rules, but Malik? He was starting to figure out how to cheat.

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  Malik squinted toward the warehouse, watching it like a man waiting for a ghost to blink. Nothing stirred. No motion behind the rain-streaked windows, no light slithering under the doorframe. No guards, no patrols, not even a stray cat nosing around the shadows. Just the wind brushing against corrugated metal like dead leaves across a grave.

  He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the crumpled paper of that half-empty cigarette pack he’d taken off the thug in the alley. The carton was bent, water-damaged, the print faded to a dull off-white. The smokes themselves were harsh and smelled of cheap tobacco and bad decisions—but they grounded him. The lighter he flicked open had a strange symbol etched on one side, something sharp and angular like a rune or a clan mark, and it sparked to life with a snap that felt too loud in the quiet night.

  Malik lit the cigarette and took a slow drag, watching the ember glow in the dark. If someone was gonna put a bullet in his back for the flicker of a match, they’d missed their window.

  He moved in. Careful, quiet, like a shadow with a purpose.

  The place was old, worn down by time and weather and the slow rot of abandonment. Rusted siding, busted fence, a section of chain-link peeled back like something mean had crawled out of it years ago and never looked back. Yet despite the dust and grime, he could see them—carvings. Thin, deliberate sigils etched into the seams of the warehouse’s ribs. Arcane, old. Protective, maybe, or something worse.

  How the hell did he even know that?

  That’s what kept getting under his skin. The big question. Why could he read symbols of warding carved into metal like faded tattoos but couldn’t remember his own favorite color? Or the taste of his last meal before waking up in a stranger’s blood-slicked bedroom?

  It didn’t sit right. None of this did.

  The door was already broken. Not kicked in, but tampered with. A clean break, mechanical precision—someone had made sure he’d get in without a fuss. That kind of hospitality was never free. He stepped inside, boots crunching glass and gravel, heart beating a slow, steady rhythm in his chest.

  The interior reeked of dust, diesel, and old sweat. Rows of wooden crates, their labels faded and illegible, stood like tombstones. Some had been busted open—emptied or looted long ago. Others remained sealed, undisturbed. There was no power, but moonlight streamed through a crack in the roof, cutting silver slashes across the concrete floor.

  And in the middle of it all—like a jewel in a box of bones—sat a motorcycle.

  It was a beaut. Black frame with deep chrome accents, heavy-bodied and sleek like a predator built for the open road. Old world—definitely mid-century. Leather seat, swept-back handlebars, fat wheels that looked like they could eat up the pavement with no apology. But there was more. This wasn’t just any bike. Tucked along the sides were reinforced panniers, modified and secured with arcane snaps and keyed latches. And damned if he didn’t know exactly which one to open.

  The right panel clicked open beneath his hand, almost too easily. Inside sat a box—lacquered black, no bigger than a toolbox, but heavier than it looked. Strange glyphs danced across its surface like whispers written in ink and fire. The thing hummed in his hand. Not loud, but low, like a warning—or a promise. The moment his fingers closed around it, the voice returned. Cold, flat, not unkind—just uninterested.

  

  Another shimmer rippled across his vision, the HUD blooming like a signal flare behind his eyes. The system voice spoke again, dispassionately:

  Figures.

  He slid the box back into the hidden compartment and locked it down. No sense staring at something that hummed like a live wire and looked like trouble in a pretty suit.

  There was a folded map clipped to the seat, red ink marking a mansion’s location with a circle so sharp it might as well have been drawn in blood. All the way across the city. Out past the familiar districts into the quiet, forgotten edges. And despite not remembering what street he grew up on—or if he ever had a street to begin with—he knew that name. Knew the man who lived in that house. One of the old guard, ancient and powerful, money thick in his blood. He didn’t deal with men like Malik. He had people for that. Servants. Assassins.

  Malik shoved the map into his coat and rifled through the other pannier. He pulled free a tin of healing salve—old but sealed—and three fresh clips. That brought him back to eight in total, a comforting weight in his coat. He let out a breath, one hand resting on the handlebars. The hum of the package still vibrated faintly through the frame. This wasn’t just another courier job. This was the kind of thing people killed for—maybe even died to protect. He took one last drag from his cigarette and flicked the butt onto the floor. The ember hissed as it died on the cold concrete.

  “Alright,” he muttered to no one but the city listening in the dark. “Let’s see where this road ends.”

  Just then the HUD flared again and a different voice spoke to his mind, a voice that was a bit more feminine and cheerful.

  [SYSTEM MESSAGE – D?O OF THE GUN: INITIATION PROTOCOL COMPLETE]

  

  

  

  

  Objective: Survive. Deliver. Advance.

  Encouragement

  

  

  

  As the system message dissolved from his sight like cigarette smoke curling into the rafters of memory, Malik sat in stillness for a beat longer than he meant to. That voice—calm, clear, almost human—faded from his mind like a dream he wasn’t sure he’d really had. But its words lingered, like the echo of a pistol in a dead man’s alley. He knew what this was now. A game. A race. And he was a piece on the board.

  And he hated that.

  But losing? Running second in something where the stakes seemed to be his life, or maybe more than that? That sat even worse in his gut. There was something in him—buried deep, sharp and mean—that didn’t like being behind. Didn’t like being used. But if the game had to be played, then by hell, he was gonna run it his way.

  He climbed onto the motorcycle, the seat cold and worn just enough to feel right beneath him. The frame was built low, powerful without being showy—a machine from another era, all chrome muscle and oil-slick curves. Headlamp covered in a wire mesh cage. Tank painted in matte black with faded lettering he couldn’t make out under the grime. It looked like something that had once belonged to someone who’d ridden fast and kept secrets.

  He popped the kickstand out, leaned his weight, and kicked it to life. The engine answered on the first try, growling low like a wolf disturbed from its slumber. The hum settled in his bones. Felt good. Felt dangerous.

  Rolling it toward the exit, he paused under the half-collapsed doorway. The street beyond was quiet, but not dead. Kuroyami City didn’t sleep—it just shifted. Streets like veins, still carrying the city’s lifeblood in slow, twitching pulses. Neon flickered down puddles, turning grease and rainwater into colored glass. A sign buzzed somewhere overhead, half-lit and whispering static like an electric ghost.

  He glanced at the watch—battered, silver, stolen from a corpse he never mourned. The minute hand ticked past four. He had until nine.

  The case was tucked into the pannier. The mansion was across the city, in a part of town where men like him didn’t usually get invited without a gun to their head—or in their hand.

  He pushed his hat down low, tugged the collar of his coat high, and twisted the throttle. The engine roared softly in response. He let the beast roll forward onto the slick blacktop, and with a breath like the first inhale after a long time under, Malik became a shadow cutting through the veins of a city that never bled easy.