Time stretches and warps when the hunt is on. It becomes a suffocating, slow countdown where you can't remember which number was last. Every second feels like an eternity ticking away. You're never sure when your past will claw its way out of the darkness to drag you under, deep into that dark void where suffering is endless.

  Drowning in a vast, bottomless pool with no light, air, or life, just the weight of everything pulling you down. There's no swimming to the surface, only sinking.

  I hadn't slept in what felt like days. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the faces. In each one was emptiness where life once was, as though someone had erased them mid-thought. Though they haunted my past dreams infrequently, they had worsened recently to the point that it now happened every damn night. During the first few nights, I chalked it up to stress.

  Weeks on the run and constantly looking over my shoulder, switching safehouses, burning old contacts, ripping out my implant so the Flux Jackals couldn't track me—I was barely holding it together. The glitches began when this all started and were incessant while I was awake. Flickering shadows in my rearview mirror, people on the street blinking out of existence for half a second before reality caught up.

  Today, the glitches had stopped; there were no flickering shadows. There were no missing faces. Maybe it was withdrawal from ripping out the Flux Jackals' implant, the one I never wanted but was forced to take. Maybe something else. Perhaps I'd lost more than I realized.

  My hand slid under my unique synthweave jacket, my palm pressing against the day-old dressing on the left side of my chest, feeling the dull ache where I had the implant ripped out. The pain was grounding and something tangible to focus on, yet it did nothing to quiet the unease clawing at my mind. My hand then slid down to my holster and lightly brushed over the smooth surface of my blaster.

  Protection. Security. Just in case.

  I forced my attention back to the only thing keeping me alive: the stolen data fragment. I had no idea what was on it; hopefully it was worth enough to get me far away from Helstalgia and this mess. I pulled up my inventory and navigated to the Mission Items tab to ensure it was still there.

  There it was, the newest addition.

  Much like our HUD and everything else in the metaverse, inventory was more than storage; it was an encrypted wallet, locked down and almost entirely untouchable. But that still didn't stop me from triple-checking.

  Through the wet car window, Helstalgia blurred past in decay. Derelict businesses with humming signs flickering in and out of life, shuttered storefronts covered in digital graffiti, and the occasional flicker of a failing holo-ad still attempting to sell a future that hadn't arrived. At least not here in this district of the city. Like me, abandoned promises are stacked on top of each other, hopeless and false.

  The Metaverse sells a dream of Helstalgia, filled with its Synth Lords, the Showdown, and the nostalgia of a city designed like a living arcade, trapped in the endless year of 1986. The propaganda is real, but this side is rarely shown. The city stacks itself layer upon layer.

  Down here in the lower layers live those who are fractured and forgotten, those who don't fit the bill. They linger like dust in a broken game console, abandoned on the back shelf of a forgotten electronics shop, forever waiting to be played again.

  If my buyer were down here, if I could make the trade, I could disappear before the Flux Jackals found me and maybe escape this godforsaken digital Hel, somewhere beyond the Grid's archives, beyond Helstalgia, deep into the dark sectors of the Metaverse. The system doesn't index or map these places, ensuring they remain hidden. That's where I needed to go.

  "Thanks again, Dez. I appreciate what you're doing for me," I said gratefully, staring out the window. My inventory window remained open, floating in my line of sight, allowing me to see the data fragment clearly.

  Dez let out a low hum; his accent clipped but fluid, each word giving off a faint digital glitch, like a slightly out-of-sync old cassette tape. "Look, man, whatever I can do to help. I'm just glad you called again. Where are you even crashing tonight?" he asked.

  I exhaled, rubbing my hand over my face. "Still figuring that out." Low Charisma makes everything an exhausting challenge, and I felt it.

  "You're running out of hidey-holes," Dez said, grinning like it was some kind of joke. "Three in a week? That ain't great."

  I kept my eyes on the window and didn't bother looking at him. "Well, I didn't exactly plan on pissing off my entire past life."

  Dez snorted, shaking his head. "You better hope your buyer's got a safe house, or you might not have one for tonight."

  I grunted and pulled up my stats screen habitually.

  Strength: 6

  Dexterity: 14

  Constitution: 10

  Intelligence: 8

  Wisdom: 8

  Charisma: 3 (9)

  Luck: 12

  When the implant was ripped from my skin, severing my connection to the Flux Jackals, my stats fell back to level 1. It was as if I had never run a job, bled for this faction, or even existed.

  The deal was clear from the start: join up, get the implant, and level up fast, but there was a catch in the fine print. Everything the Flux Jackals provided, they could take away. Rip it out, and you reset yourself. Your rank and access are lost forever—no exceptions.

  Skills? Gone.

  Boosts? Wiped.

  Reputation? Buried.

  Additionally, any Flux Jackal-branded items are rendered useless without the implant. That includes enhancements, neural mods, armour, weapons, and whatever else is scattered throughout Helstalgia.

  I was young, foolish, and desperate.

  The moment I was old enough, I signed on, thinking I was making a smart move. But now, I'm right back where I started. I'm just older, angrier, and with some heavies gunning for me.

  The Flux Jackals weren't muscle. They didn't strong-arm their way through Helstalgia's underbelly. Their power lay not in brute force but in the con, the game, the lie.

  Flux Jackals were infiltrators, netrunners, and smooth talkers who could slip through locked doors and walk out of a deal with more than they deserved.

  A skilled Flux Jackal didn't need to fire a shot if they played it right. They could charm their way into high-security zones, talk their way past a kill order, and negotiate their way out of a bullet to the skull. The faction lacked the reach of the major players. They were small-time, confined to Helstalgia, forced to scrape by running data and street trades, constantly relying on the larger syndicates and playing the underdog to stay afloat.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  While they were adept at smooth talking and harnessed speed to collect data and information, the faction never reached the level of others, such as the Cybercobras or even the dreaded Nex Machina.

  Sure, sometimes you had to run, sometimes you had to shoot, but the real weapon? Charisma.

  And mine? Shot to hell.

  Every conversation felt heavier as if I were wading through knee-deep water just to be heard. What used to be as effortless as a Jedi mind trick—a casual wave of the hand and a smirk like Obi-Wan Kenobi—was slipping through my fingers.

  My lack of charisma was increasingly making it difficult to secure a long-term safe house. Dez had noticed this, too. While he hadn't said anything, his glances revealed something else.

  It seemed he sensed my words weren't landing with the same impact they once did. It wasn't just the removal of the implant; holding the data fragment was also worsening the situation.

  Charisma: 3 (9)

  -6 debuff. No wonder I felt like a malfunctioning vending machine.

  "Look, you still have me, man. We ride till the signal dies." Dez smiled at me, his fist raised, looking for a bump.

  I raised my left hand and made a fist to meet his. "There's no logging out."

  Dez and I had been riding together since we were kids. Born into the digital chaos of the Metaverse, our calling stemmed from old NES games like Contra, where survival meant trusting one another to have each other's backs and mastering the art of the perfect spread shot. We forged a bond that no one could break. He never joined the Flux Jackals, and I wish I hadn't, but I did. Our paths weren't always aligned, yet they managed to cross and weave together throughout our lives, somehow leading us to this point.

  My navigation system pinged as I neared the waypoint. "This is it," I muttered.

  Dez brought the car to a slow, coasting crawl. The engine hummed with a deep, synthetic purr as the glowing neon rain slid off its curved, chrome-plated hood.

  The vehicle was a retro-futuristic Verlander Stratos Nitro that appeared as if it had been pulled out from a forgotten dream of the future. Low and wide, with a heavy-duty body that had witnessed its fair share of shady back-alley dealings, its gullwing doors were lined with faint blue track lighting. It pulsed with the city's electric heartbeat.

  The body was matte black, broken only by streaks of glowing cyan trim that pulsed along the frame, resembling a fading heart rhythm on an ECG—a dying beat trying its best to hold on for just a bit longer.

  Dez brought the car to a stop beneath a fractured overpass, about half a block from the entrance to the Undernet, where codes, identities, and lives could all be bought or traded for the right price.

  Dez gripped the wheel, his vigilant eyes scanning the dark corners beyond the slick pavement before he turned to me. A low sigh escaped him, slightly distorted by the digital resonance in his voice. "Try not to flatline before next week."

  "We'll talk soon," I said, grabbing my bag and exhaling slowly. I stepped into the cold, neon glow of the city.

  The air was thick with exhaust fumes, laced with the sharp bite of ozone and the lingering scent of old circuitry. I adjusted my jacket and shook out the tension in my arm. The coat itself was made of synth weave, which was both light and breathable despite being reinforced. I still felt claustrophobic about it, but that was more due to my situation than the actual attire.

  My zero-noise boots lived up to their name as I shifted my stance and flexed my legs, testing the fit of my tactical joggers to ensure I could move quickly; they were tight but built for speed and tough enough to take a hit if necessary. It was uncertain when dealings could go south, and I needed to be ready for anything, including running.

  A notification flickered in my HUD.

  MISSION UPDATED: The Final Transaction.

  CURRENT TASK COMPLETE: Hitch a ride to the shadiest part of town without getting flatlined.

  NEW CURRENT TASK: Convince someone to take the data fragment off your hands.

  I opened the mission window to review the information once more. My anxiety was through the roof, and I couldn't help but keep triple-checking everything.

  EPIC UNIQUE MISSION: The Final Transaction

  PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: Discard the data fragment by any means.

  CURRENT TASK: Convince someone to take the data fragment off your hands.

  DESCRIPTION: You're now the unwilling owner of a highly questionable data fragment. This item was fragmented from who knows where and includes who knows what. There isn't a soul in the metaverse who could tell you what it does or how you can use it.

  But there's a catch. This digital contraband? It won't leave your inventory. It doesn't matter what you try: dropping it, deleting it, or tossing it into a flaming trash barrel while no one's looking. Nope. It sticks. Like malware with abandonment issues. Your only shot? Con someone—anyone—into taking it off your hands.

  Holding this fragment reduces your Charisma by -6, making you about as charming as a chatbot trapped in an infinite loop.

  The buyer must accept the trade, so get creative. They may take it for Neon, a half-smoked cigarette, or your digital soul.

  REWARD:

  Whatever you negotiate

  Charisma is restored to its former glory

  The sudden and overwhelming sense of relief.

  This place was disgusting. Old papers clung to the damp ground, and torn flyers from long-dead promotions fluttered in the air or clung loosely to the concrete foundation beneath the low hum of passing traffic above. A barrel full of burning trash cast jagged shadows on the faces of those huddled around it, hands outstretched for whatever warmth they could steal from it while the night fought to take it away.

  It reeked of neglect, despair, and decay.

  Beyond me, people drifted aimlessly, pacing the sidewalks with seemingly no destination. Others slouched against walls, their eyes glazed over, exhibiting the telltale look of scrolling through their HUD feed. No one was paying me any attention. I tightened my grip on the bag and walked through the crowd. My head was down in an effort to blend into the surroundings. One foot in front of the other, a step at a time, dragging me further toward the din of the market.

  The Undernet swallowed me instantly, a tangled mess of flickering neon lights and shifting crowds, their digital whispers incoherent to passersby. Vendors shouted deals on black-market implants, counterfeit data chips, stolen identities, and much more; there was little one could not find here if they knew who to ask and how to ask for it.

  No one policed this place. Not even the automated drones dared to patrol here. They quickly learned it wasn't worth trying. Too much Neon passed through these back-alley deals that found ways to slip into corporate pockets, so no one asked questions.

  Everyone knew half the traders functioning here were funnelling Neon straight to the megacorps, feeding the same machine that pretended to outlaw them. Silence kept them safe, and no one paid the price. My eyes glanced at my minimap again as I entered the market.

  The mission objective waypoint was a circle encompassing the entire market, meaning my contact could be anywhere within it.

  Great.

  I pushed forward, weaving through the shifting crowd and sidestepping a vendor clutching a severed cybernetic arm who was mid-haggle with a twitchy-looking buyer. The thing looked like someone had ripped it clean from a recently deceased torso. At least, I hoped it was a dead body, but there was a chance that maybe it wasn't, and the person was, unfortunately, still alive. It was fully cybernetic up to the shoulder—cold and relentless like a T-800. Hell, it probably would come to life and strangle whoever was dumb enough to install it, even if their name wasn't John Connor.

  "Full limb replacement, top-tier hydraulic muscle density mapping and adaptive torque control," the vendor rattled off to the prospective customer, tapping the dismembered arm like a prized antique. "Pre-synced for rapid grafting. Connect it, let the nanites fuse the nerve links, and you're good to crush steel. Simple installation."

  The buyer, jittery with half a jaw replaced by raw steel plating, looked at the limb and his still-attached flesh arms as if contemplating the mother of all impulse buys. "Yeah, but is it stronger than these?" He asked, flexing his arms the best he could.

  The vendor blinked, deadpan. "Items like this? Usually for someone who's missing a limb," he said, nodding toward the buyer's fully functional arm. "You're... clearly not."

  The buyer nodded slowly, still staring at the metal limb as if it held the meaning of life. "Yeah, okay, but what if this one's better? What if I've been walking around with mid arms my whole life like a goddamn idiot?"

  The vendor sucked his teeth, clearly baffled by the buyer's response. "Fair point," he responded, shrugging his shoulders. "You planning to triple-wield, or should I start hacking one of yours off? I got an old bone saw, a dirty towel, and half a stim-pack, and by the looks of it, this probably won't even be the worst thing that happens to you today."

  I exhaled sharply, shaking off the absurdity of the situation and moving through the market. The things people spent their Neon on never ceased to amaze me. As soon as it hit their wallets, it was gone before it had a chance to cool.

  Then, a hand clamped down on my arm unexpectedly like a vice.

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