Milo and I were as close as Flux Jackals could be.

  Between runs, we passed the time with rounds of Time Crisis, drank bottles of Iron Lung Stout, and exchanged the same war stories we swore we'd forget. We never referred to it as friendship or family—not in the way Dez and I had. Instead, we remained men who bled together in the trenches.

  We took on jobs, divided Neon, and moved on to the next opportunity presented by the Flux Jackals. That was the rule.

  But rules lose significance when a man dies before you.

  Watching him bleed out in the gutter right at your feet changes something in you.

  I leaned back against the cold wall of the 404 Bazaar; my breathing slowed and became steady. I tried to calm myself, but Milo's final moments' gurgling rasp wouldn't leave my ears.

  That sick, wet sound of a man realizing in real-time that he is already dead.

  I should have kept moving. I should have shaken it off and buried it. That's what survivors do.

  Instead, I stood there, drowning in it and losing myself, just as I had on the holo-train. The kid's face floated to the forefront of my mind. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was open—neither screaming nor breathing, but frozen in the act. His body felt so small beneath my hands, so light and fragile.

  It wasn't clean. It wasn't fast.

  Milo's blood was still fresh on my boots, returning me to the present. I sucked in a breath, trying to bring focus back to my thoughts.

  Milo's loot.

  I'd stripped him without thinking—pure instinct.

  With no time to check what I had looted from him, I felt relieved when the notification feed appeared with a list of everything I had taken. I needed to clear it before reading, fully aware that whoever had taken Milo out was still nearby.

  I would have to check my HUD later, and hopefully, I won't regret reading it sooner. I needed to see what he had, but it wasn't safe.

  Not even close to secure.

  My pulse spiked.

  My right hand glided down, grazing the grip of my concealed blaster. It hadn't seen much action.

  I wasn't a gunslinger. I was a netrunner—a talker.

  Flux Jackals didn't start fights; we slipped past them, made the deal, and vanished before the dust settled. We went in, took what we needed, and sprinted our way out.

  Blasters were just a failsafe—a distraction to buy time.

  Most of the time.

  But the holo-train. The drowning.

  My fingers curled around the grip, and I tightened my hold. I needed to clear my head. Milo's bracelet. That was my edge now. A boost, a buffer, and a greater chance of surviving the subsequent gunfight if one broke out. When one did break out, the odds had increased exponentially.

  I exhaled.

  The bazaar was filled with sale items that appeared to exist only as flickering and stuttering holographic projections, hovering like untouchable ghosts.

  Sticky fingers weren't welcome here. No lifting, no pocketing, and no mistakes.

  Once a transaction is confirmed, the goods materialize and are drawn from a concealed vault somewhere in Helstalgia. At times, I wondered if the goods originated from elsewhere in the Metaverse. I didn't know whether 404 Bazaar was simply a hidden corner of Helstalgia or if it had an extensive influence beyond what the inhabitants here suggested.

  Against the right-side wall, a row of shadowy alcoves stretched like waiting graves. They appeared darker than the rest of the bazaar. From my vantage point, I couldn't discern their purpose.

  Storage? Private dealings? Something worse?

  Not that it mattered. That was where I needed to go.

  So, I moved quickly and quietly toward the cubbies.

  The front of the store was empty. Even without active customers, that didn't mean I was alone.

  There were numerous ways to monitor a location without entering it. The entrance posed a silent threat that could open at any moment, inviting the wrong kind of company.

  I had to move. Now.

  Having slipped into the nearest alcove—surrounded solely by darkness and the hum of the holographic displays—I finally accessed my inventory.

  The list was brief.

  Considering whom I had just looted, it was shorter than I had expected.

  Milo hadn't carried much.

  That wasn't like him. Flux Jackals were always prepared, had an escape plan, and packed accordingly.

  The latest items in my inventory were:

  Combat Vest

  "Silver Tongue" Neural Mod

  Stim-Pack (x2)

  Encrypted Data Drive

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  5,000 NEON

  Immediately, a red flag went up as I stared at the list of items.

  Something about it felt off. It was as though Milo had curated this for me—as if he knew something I didn't.

  Would Milo do that?

  Am I merely searching for meaning in his death?

  If he did, and my assumptions were correct, he would have had it all figured out.

  A thought struck me: the Flux Jackals already knew.

  He had just died, and his implant would have powered down. They would instantly know he had expired because a notification would follow proper channels and alert those monitoring the data-runner network.

  This seemed planned.

  There was a reason he carried these specific items— and only these items.

  Combat Vest (Chest - Light Armour)

  ITEM CLASS: Uncommon

  DESCRIPTION: Standard-issue combat vest. Lightweight and reinforced plating designed for mobility over protection. This slim-fitting vest will disappear under your coat, making it perfect for quick movement while protecting against damage.

  STATS:

  Armour: 100

  Integrity: 77%

  Pockets: 4

  +5 Damage Resistance

  +5 to Dexterity

  +3 Evasion

  This vest wouldn't stop a railgun to the chest or neck, for that matter. But still, it was better than nothing, which I had since escaping the Flux Jackals. Nothing. However, it would help protect my backside from getting burned, so I immediately equipped it in my empty vest slot.

  Silver Tongue (Neural Mod – Slot Required)

  ITEM CLASS: Legendary

  SLOT: Frontal Cortex

  DESCRIPTION: An outlawed persuasion mod, banned from corporate negotiations for "unfair manipulation." It is a favourite among con artists, fixers, and those who wouldn't typically walk away from a deal better off than they ought to be.

  STATS:

  +18 Charisma

  +12 Deception

  +28% Persuasion Success Rate

  Damn. This mod was impressive. It should be more than enough to negotiate the data fragment. And if not? I now had backups: the vest could buy me time, and the bracelet could help me escape.

  I needed no downtime to install the mod in my neural slot. The automated installation protocol allowed me to slot the mod on the fly. This thing would integrate in seconds.

  Yet, the thought of the specificity of his loot continued to gnaw at me. Milo packed light—too light. The more I examined what he had left me, the more it felt like a setup, as if he knew. It felt like he was preparing me for something I didn't see coming.

  Ultimately, I inspected the drive.

  Encrypted Data Drive (Unreadable)

  ITEM CLASS: UNKNOWN

  DESCRIPTION: ??mQ?????y?@í?ùé????íêq? ˉìq÷???í>?è|÷üZ@G??óT??Y?1?=ò #áá??y×?éíü%Y???~?#×??k?ú???t—üuá ó–?é?`''è÷`oYé{?í?–μ′????×??"??$?ù

  SYSTEM WARNING: UNRECOGNIZED

  ENCRYPTION. UNAUTHORIZED

  DECRYPTION ATTEMPTS MAY CAUSE

  SYSTEM INSTABILITY.

  Whoa. That was messed up.

  Something was very wrong with this drive.

  Without my Flux Jackal inscription, I had lost the ability to identify different encryptions—not that I ever truly understood them to begin with. But these warnings? I had never encountered anything like them.

  Perhaps it was encrypted in a way that shouldn't have been.

  Perhaps it had something to do with the fragment.

  Either way, one thing felt certain: Milo left it for me.

  And whoever killed him didn't want me to have it.

  None of this felt right.

  Too many questions. There are too many gaps.

  Was this a setup? Why was Milo here? How did he know I would walk by at that exact moment? Was he waiting for me? Or was I simply stepping straight into something I could never escape?

  Nothing was adding up.

  My minimap was still blank, and there was no time to dwell. The mission gnawed at the back of my mind, tugging at me, refusing to be ignored.

  If I allowed myself to sink into Milo, I'd drown again—just like before.

  He was a new trigger. A fresh wound. Like the bullet wound in his neck.

  I recognized it and understood its meaning, and had to move before it pulled me under.

  I peered out of the alcove.

  No one was in sight.

  It was time to make my move.

  I drifted into the open like a dart, and just as I did, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a man sitting alone in the empty nook next to the one I had just occupied.

  No merchandise. No holo-ads. No inventory projections. Just him.

  Dull eyes stared straight ahead. His palms lay flat on the table as if waiting patiently for something to happen.

  Had he been here the entire time? Did he witness what happened when Milo and I attempted to enter the bazaar?

  "What year is it?" the strange man asked slowly.

  His tone was barely more than a whisper—like static struggling to take shape—yet still loud enough for me to hear him.

  I paused.

  This has to be a set-up.

  There's no way he's asking me what year it is.

  But no one else is here to pay attention.

  He wouldn't be saying it out loud if he were talking to his HUD, and there was no indication that he was interacting with it.

  I mentally hit the vision record feature on my HUD, turned to the man and replied, "Uh, 1986."

  A long pause.

  "No, I don't think that's the one," the man finally murmured.

  I should have ignored him and walked away. There was just something about him—his clothes, flat facial expression, and voice trailing a second behind his lips—that felt wrong. He turned his head slightly as if he were listening to something else. "Again, what year is it?"

  I took a slow step back, trying to distance myself. "Right. Good talk," I said, turning and quickening my pace as I continued through the shop. There was no way in Hel; I was sticking around for whatever glitch that was.

  Row after row of holographic items stretched ahead, flickering in and out like ghosts. I must've passed five already, but it felt endless. Maybe that was the point; perhaps the Bazaar was designed to feel infinite, reminding you just how small your wallet really was. Cybernetic eyes promised x-ray vision, spinal neuro mods meant to turn you into something unstoppable—like the Wolverine. The list went on. Even if I wanted one of these, even if I needed one, it didn't matter. Neon, like mine, didn't buy dreams.

  Finally, the contact I had been looking for.

  He didn't look up, idly sorting through a glowing display of data slates. He wore a coat too delicate for the underbelly of Helstalgia yet too lived-in for corporate. He appeared to be a man who existed in the cracks between the systems and knew how to navigate them. His fingers were thin and aged, but steady. They moved with that kind of quiet precision that comes only from years of handling things you're probably not supposed to. He was something more than just a seller. A curator. A gatekeeper. The kind of guy who deals in things people don't even admit they want.

  He was the kind of merchant who thrived in such a place. Not merely a guy pushing goods but someone who traded in knowledge, data, and intel—the type of information people whisper about but don't record on any ledger. He understood the value of that information and recognized what it cost when someone was desperate enough to seek it out.

  The type of contact I had been searching for.

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