He needed the instinctive knowledge of how systems fit together, the kind of knowledge that only comes from a lifetime of breaking and building.

He pulled a file from his memory, a bounty profile he had saved a few days ago.

It was time.

[TARGET ID: Caspar "Wireman" Grentz]

[DESCRIPTION: Gaunt, stoop-shouldered, with a patchy, filth-matted beard. One eye replaced with a mismatched, flickering red cyber-optic. Arms sleeved in a chaotic jumble of old, exposed data ports and crude, amateurish wiring tattoos.]

[NOTES: "Nobody will even notice if Wireman vanishes. Not even the damn cockroaches." —Anonymous forum comment]

The description was perfect: a disgraced but knowledgeable tech scavenger with a criminal record and no social ties.

To Ray's cold, logical processors, Wireman was just a perfect, unclaimed resource.

After a bit of investigation, mostly asking around some people in exchange for some credits, he found Wireman in a desolate, forgotten alley of the Lower Bastion.

The place was overflowing with trash heaps that smelled of rust and the sharp chemical tang of toxic substances. The fresh rain from above mingled with the spilled chemicals, making multi-colored puddles. His optics zoomed through the droplets, onto him.

He was exactly as the profile described: a gaunt, stooped figure in filthy clothes, muttering to himself, his mismatched red cyber-optic flickering erratically as he sifted through a pile of discarded electronics.

Ray observed from the shadows of a collapsed gantry, his Forearm Blade ready, the ghost of Ripjaw whispering in his mind.

Rush to him and kill.

Just as he was about to make his move, a new sound cut through the quiet desolation: the soft scrape and spark of metal on concrete. A small, battered dog limped into the alley. He was a pitiful creature, his fur matted and patchy, his back legs replaced with a crude, noisy set of robotic prosthetics that scraped and sparked with every, hesitant step.

Wireman's entire demeanor changed. The paranoia and madness melted away, replaced by a look of pure, gentle affection. He smiled, a genuine, toothless grin that transformed his haggard face.

"Hey there, Scrappy," he whispered, his voice a soft, raspy sound. "Look what I found for you."

He knelt down, his movements slow so as not to frighten the poor dog, and pulled a scavenged, half-eaten piece of synth-jerky from his pocket. He carefully tore off a small piece and offered it to the dog, who wolfed it down gratefully. Wireman stroked the dog's matted fur, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle.

Ray froze.

This pathetic, broken man, this piece of human refuse that the city had discarded, was capable of a moment of pure, selfless kindness. Ray's hand shot to his chest, fingers splaying wide as they closed around the spot where his heart would have been. He could almost hear its frantic, desperate beat, a phantom rhythm echoing in the hollow chamber of his synthetic form.

He couldn't bring himself to kill Wireman in this moment of grace. He was a monster, yes, but even he had lines he was not yet willing to cross. He lowered his arm, the blade retracting with a soft, unheard click. He turned around and left. He will find someone else. In a city like Virelia there were thousand just like Casper.

Ray had barely walked a dozen meters away when two sharp, silenced gunshots echoed between the buildings.

He rushed back and was met with silence, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed down on the narrow alleyway. The acrid scent of gunpowder mingled with the metallic tang of fresh blood.

Wireman had collapsed, a neat, dark hole in his chest, a stark, precise puncture wound that bled sluggishly, staining his threadbare coat a deeper, sinister red. His hand, gnarled and trembling just moments before, was still resting on Scrappy's head, a final, tender gesture frozen in time. Scrappy lay beside him, his own life extinguished by a second, cruelly efficient shot that had silenced his whimpering and stilled his small, trembling body forever. Their blood, two distinct crimson rivulets, pooled together on the grimy pavement, slowly merging into a single, expanding stain.

His moment of mercy, that fleeting flicker of humanity that had urged him to hesitate, to consider a different path, had changed nothing. The city was still the city, a relentless, unforgiving concrete beast that consumed and destroyed without remorse. His hesitation, that brief, agonizing pause, had merely delayed a death, a cruel illusion of choice in a world where none existed.

The iron fist of reality slammed down, taking two souls.

He was now faced with a grim, tragic opportunity. He walked to the fallen man and the dog, and dragged their bodies behind a big trash bin, away from any prying eyes. He knelt, placing his hands on them, and his nanites flowed out, a silent, grey tide consuming them both.

He was flooded with two lifetimes at once, a chaotic, searing torrent of memory.

He felt Wireman's life, a long, agonizing story of self-erasure. He felt the sting of the needle as a back-alley modder installed a new data-port he didn't want but a corporate lover demanded. He tasted the bitter, expensive synth-wine at a party he hated, a forced smile plastered on his face to please a boss who would later fire him. He felt the crushing loneliness of an empty apartment after a woman he had reshaped his entire personality for left him anyway. He saw, through Wireman's optics, the moment he finally cracked under the pressure, abandoned by everyone he had tried so desperately to please, his brilliant mind fracturing into the paranoid, muttering ghost he had become.

And then, woven through the complex human tragedy, came Scrappy's memories. They were pure, raw sensations. A family, a kid, a little boy, smiling and playing with him. Many days of joy, days that finally came to an end. The boy crying to his mom and dad. The dad dragging the boy into the car and then leaving. Scrappy was left alone. Then came the hunger, the cold, the bites from other dogs. The most painful day was when the sudden, shocking pain of a skiff impact; the terror of dragging his own useless back legs through the cold, wet streets; the memory of a calloused, grimy hand gently lifting him from the gutter.The phantom taste of synth-jerky, a feast for a starving creature. And above all, an overwhelming, all-consuming feeling of pure, uncomplicated loyalty and love for the sad, broken man who had shown him a kindness the rest of the world had denied.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Ray stood alone in the rain-soaked alley. He had the master-level engineering knowledge he sought, but the price was witnessing a profound tragedy from two different, heartbreaking perspectives.

He slowly stood up, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead. He looked up at the smog-covered sky, at the bleeding neon glow that passed for stars in this city. He closed his eyes for a moment, just… trying to be present.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a memory that felt both a lifetime away and as fresh as yesterday. A memory of his mother, years ago, after his father had died. He had walked into her room and asked, with the simple, heartbreaking sincerity of a child, if his dad was in heaven. Lina had looked up from her datapad, her tired eyes meeting his. She had pulled him into a hug, her hand stroking his hair, and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Yes, sweetie," she had whispered. "He's watching us from up there."

That's the funny thing about being young. You truly believe everything you are told. As he grew up he understood that his mother was lying, a kind, gentle lie to shield him from a truth she didn't even believe in herself.

When we die, we die, Ray thought, the cold logic of his reality, a stark and brutal truth. But I wish… I wish Caspar and Scrappy… had finally found peace.

He took a deep breath he didn't need and slowly opened his eyes.

Another stone in an endless ocean, along with all the others.

Back in his apartment, Ray began the last arrangements for his mission. The Looking Glass was an exclusive club situated in the Echelon Heights, the city's elite arcology zone. He pulled up all the data he had on the sector—a fortress of skyscrapers that pierced the cloudline, isolated from the city below by armored transit tubes and automated checkpoints. The entire zone was a private fiefdom run by a corporate AI, complete with its own controlled weather domes. The security was top-tier, and the moment things went south, elite private security and the VPD's best would come crushing down on his head.

He had already secured a way in, using the corporate knowledge he'd absorbed from Ethan and Rex to fabricate a flawless executive-level identity and a reservation, a very expensive one. He stared at the 3D map projected before him, at the lines he had drawn, the entry and exit points, the contingency plans.

The biggest problem was the children. If, by some chance, Max and Selena were being held at The Looking Glass itself, getting them out would be the biggest hurdle in the whole plan. And the fact that he didn't know what condition they were in was a massive, dangerous question mark.

But there was a way to solve all his problems at once.

He pulled up the image of Porcelain Jack, staring at the dark optics that were like two void pits in his perfectly symmetrical skull. His finger twitched.

With a silent, deliberate grace, descended a spider of unusual size and obsidian hue. Its eight legs, moved with a horrifying fluidity, carrying its segmented body closer to the figure below. Ray, piercing blue eyes, the color of a winter sky, were fixed intently on the arachnid's approach. He looked at it with a profound, almost analytical curiosity.

The air in the abandoned maglev service station was cold, still, and tasted of ozone and old, settled dust. This was a forgotten place, a redundant artery in the city's ever-evolving circulatory system, located deep in the transitional zone between the Midspire's corporate gloss and the undercity's raw decay. The only light came from the faint, rhythmic pulse of the active transit tubes overhead, their passage a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the very concrete of the platform.

Ray stood alone in the shadows, his form a perfect replica of the impeccably tailored corporate executive he was pretending to be. His current appearance was an amalgamation of every face he had ever consumed. He had meticulously ensured that no single feature dominated. The result was an unremarkable mediocre face .

His hair was a common dark brown. His eyes, too, were a generic brown, devoid of any discernible warmth or depth, reflecting nothing but the cold, calculating emptiness within. His face was a study in calculated neutrality. It was not handsome, for beauty held a certain distinction, a memorable quality he actively sought to avoid. Yet, it was not ugly either, for ugliness could also be striking, drawing unwanted attention. It was simply… there. A face designed to blend, to be forgotten the moment it passed from view, a perfect disguise for a predator who moved through the world unseen.

He had arrived early, his Advanced Sensor Suite sweeping the silent, cavernous space. The security here was not human; it was old, automated, and ruthlessly efficient. He could see the faint, shimmering lines of laser tripwires, the subtle, almost invisible shimmer of motion sensors, the quiet, watchful lenses of dust-covered security cameras. He had bypassed them all with an ease that was almost contemptuous.

He was waiting.

The arrival was precisely on schedule.

A single, sleek maglev car, its obsidian shell gleaming under the soft, ambient lighting of the subterranean station, gracefully peeled away from the tumultuous, roaring river of traffic that flowed incessantly through the main tube above. With an almost ethereal silence, it glided effortlessly onto the deserted service platform, its landing gears extending with barely a whisper as it settled into place. The air, though stale, held a faint hum of residual energy from its rapid descent. It was not a luxury vehicle, but it didn't matter, as long as it reached its intended destination.

Its chassis a matte-black, non-reflective alloy, its windows so heavily tinted they were perfect, opaque mirrors.

The door hissed open, and a man stepped out. He was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in a simple, dark grey suit. His face was a mask of calm, professional neutrality, his eyes hidden behind a pair of simple, dark glasses. He moved with a quiet, economical grace, a man who had perfected the art of being completely and utterly unremarkable.

"You're the client," he said, his voice a calm, even baritone. It was not a question.

"You're the transport," Ray replied the code phrase, his own voice a perfect imitation of a bored, arrogant corporate executive.

The man nodded once, a small, precise movement. "The fee has been received. Destination: 'The Looking Glass,' Echelon Heights. There is no return trip scheduled. Is this correct?"

"Correct," Ray confirmed.

The man gestured towards the open door of the maglev car. "The transit tube into the Heights has a series of high-level security scans—biometric, genetic, and cybernetic. They are thorough, but I have arranged the path as included in the price. Still, there's only so much one can do on such short notice. If you are carrying anything not on your official corporate manifest, you will be flagged."

Ray met the man's blank, mirrored gaze. "I'm a very good packer."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of the man's lips. "I'm sure you are. The car's internal security is my responsibility. Once you are inside, you are on your own." He paused. "A piece of advice, if I may. In a place like The Looking Glass, the most dangerous threats are the ones that are smiling at you."

With that, he stepped back, a silent, professional ghost.

Ray stepped into the private maglev car. The interior was as spartan and functional as the exterior—a single, comfortable seat, a small interface panel, and nothing else. The door hissed shut, sealing him in a bubble of absolute, humming silence.

The car lifted from the platform with a smooth, almost imperceptible motion, and then accelerated, merging seamlessly back into the roaring river of the main transit tube, beginning its silent, inexorable ascent into the glittering, dangerous heart of the elite's corporate power.

The private maglev car ascended through the armored transit tube, leaving the chaotic, neon-drenched grime of the lower city behind. It emerged into the controlled, sterile atmosphere of Echelon Heights. The air here was different—clean, crisp, and tasting of nothing, scrubbed clean of the city's pollution by massive, unseen filtration systems. The "sky" was a perfect, artificial blue, projected onto the inner surface of a massive weather dome.

The buildings here were pristine, elegant monoliths of polished chrome and dark, shimmering glass, their clean lines a testament to a world of unimaginable wealth and power. Silent, luxurious corporate skiffs moved between the towers with a silent, effortless grace. The people on the sky-bridges were the city's elite, their bodies sculpted and perfected, their clothes made from fabrics that seemed to drink the light, their every movement a study in bored, confident power.

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