The cell was suffocating, damp and dim. The flickering overhead light cast a cold, sickly glow over the space, failing to push back the darkness. The air was thick with the stench of bleach and rust, clinging to everything like a second skin, while the faint hum of the city beyond the vent grille was a constant reminder of the world outside.

  Beneath the vent, Cordell sat on the edge of the cold metallic cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the prison bars that confined him. The bars were sturdy, old-school steel. His thoughts raced, searching for any possible way out.

  He summoned the system menu with a thought, and a violet holographic interface flickered into view. Translucent and minimalist, it hovered just in front of his eyes.

  [Skill Grid]

  [Traits]

  [Options]

  His hand hovered over [Skill Grid], and he tapped it.

  Skimming through the list, he paused as his eyes caught a skill entry.

  [ - Boxing — Novice ]

  A smirk tugged at his lips.

  "That's... useful," he muttered to himself. "In a fight, maybe. But not gonna help me punch my way out of this."

  He scrolled further.

  [ - Photography — Novice ]

  His brow furrowed. "Photography? I’ve never studied photography..." He paused. "The system must've scraped it together from all the documentaries and media I've watched over the years. Probably pieced it out of memory."

  Another scroll.

  [ - Pottery — Novice ]

  Cordell blinked at the world, then said flatly, "Useless."

  “What’s useless?” A voice broke through from the next cell.

  Cordell stiffened, caught off guard. "Nothing."

  There was a soft chuckle, low and amused. "Talking to yourself, huh? You haunted or something?"

  Cordell glanced over toward the voice, approaching the bars, trying to make out the figure on the other side. Through the shadows, he saw a figure lounging, calm and at ease. Unkempt tousled dark brown hair, smirk playing on his lips.

  “Who are you?” Cordell asked, his voice cautious.

  The figure’s grin widened. "Name’s Felix. Felix Mallorn. You?"

  “Cordell,” he replied curtly.

  Felix leaned back slightly, studying him. "What’s your story?" he asked. "You don’t look like you belong here."

  Cordell stayed silent, not offering anything.

  Felix continued, unfazed. "Where you from? Lemme guess. You sure as hell ain’t from The Grit. Skin that clean? You wouldn't belong there."

  Cordell tilted his head slightly but said nothing.

  "Little Sado, maybe?" Felix continued, tapping his chin. "Nah, I’ve never seen a no-chip there. Doesn’t fit. You don’t have an implant, do you?" He waited, studying Cordell’s unmoving posture.

  The back of Cordell’s neck twitched, remembering the officer’s scan.

  "No implant, clean skin, decent teeth. A no-chip like you... you're either some fringe monk or a drifter from The Wastes. Bet it’s the latter, huh?"

  Cordell shrugged, a nonchalant gesture. "Yeah, maybe."

  Felix's eyes gleamed with a knowing smirk. "Thought so."

  Cordell shifted the conversation. "This city... what's The Grit like?"

  Felix chuckled darkly, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. It was a laugh tinged with cynicism. “The Grit’s a real hellhole. Trust me, you wouldn’t last an night down there. Hell, you wouldn’t last a hour with that soft skin of yours."

  He leaned casually against the bars of his cell, casting a sidelong glance at Cordell as if sizing him up. “The Grit's divided in two. First, you've got Driftshore, used to be a major shipping hub back when the city gave a damn. Now it’s just rust and regret. Picture rows of rotting cargo containers, cranes frozen in place, and a fog that smells like diesel and burnt plastic. That’s Driftshore for you.”

  Felix smirked. "If you’re in the market for a black-market spleen or a cheap neural deck ripped off a corpse, that’s your spot. The Cutthroats run the show there. Paranoid bastards with more knives than teeth. Stick your nose in the wrong place, they’ll carve your curiosity out of you real quick. Fast, clean, like they’ve done it a thousand times."

  He tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with dark amusement. “And then, there’s Iron Verge, the other half of the Grit. Looks like someone tried to stack the city's garbage and call it architecture. Just endless rows of cracked concrete towers and rust-eaten skywalks, all tangled up like a bad wiring job.”

  Felix’s expression turned more serious. “People live in what used to be housing blocks, but now it’s all barricades and makeshift shelters patched together from corrugated metal sheets, broken furniture, tarps, and rusted wire.”

  He paused, then lowered his voice a bit. “The Rats live there. Not the animal kind, the clan. They’re scavengers, pure-blooded ferals with cybernetics they soldered together in the dark. Real insular types. Their turf is a labyrinth, they’ve built it that way on purpose. Get lost in there, and if the building doesn’t eat you alive, the Rats will. They don’t take kindly to outsiders.”

  Felix’s grin returned. “So yeah… The Grit? You’re better off not going anywhere near there, rookie.”

  Cordell said nothing. Instead, he stood and started pacing slowly along the cell walls, tapping the bars, eyeing the rivets in the vent grille.

  "Don’t bother," Felix said lazily. "Tried everything myself. Unless you can turn into liquid, that vent ain’t helping."

  Cordell paused. "So why are you here?"

  "Some exec’s kid got mouthy. He tripped into my fist. Security wasn’t amused. Long story."

  Just then, a loud buzz rang through the corridor, followed by the clack of footsteps. A guard’s voice called out.

  "Felix Mallorn. You’re out. Bail’s posted."

  Felix stood, cracked his neck, and flashed a smile at Cordell. "You know what, drift rat? You seem like someone who could use a drink. Ever been to The Heliotrope? Best dive in the city. My treat. Later."

  With a final grin, Felix turned and disappeared through the door, the sound of the cell door clanging shut echoing in the quiet.

  ________________________________________

  POV: Officer Drey Kalten

  The line clicked twice before connecting. Static bled through, thick with encryption filters.

  "It's me," Kalten said. "I found one."

  A pause.

  "Only one?" The voice on the other end was low, distorted, more growl than speech.

  "Yeah. But he’s clean. No ID chip. No augments. A bit flimsy, but the vitals are solid."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A silence stretched, heavy, expectant.

  "No ID chip?" the voice repeated, sharper now. "You’re sure?"

  Kalten’s tone tightened. "Scanned him myself. Back of the neck’s cold. No trace. He’s off-grid."

  The voice mulled it over. A faint mechanical breath hissed through the line.

  "One isn’t much."

  "Maybe not," Kalten replied. "But this one’s premium stock. No scarring, no implants, no trace of pollution. Completely clean. He’s exactly what you’re looking for."

  A beat. Then another.

  Finally, the voice spoke again. "Driftshore. Same place as last time. We’ll be waiting."

  "Copy that. I’ll bring him in."

  "And Kalten?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If he’s defective… if he so much as limps—"

  "I know."

  "—I’ll fry your head myself."

  The line went dead.

  ________________________________________

  POV: Cordell

  “There has to be a way,” Cordell muttered, summoning the system menu with a thought.

  A familiar violet interface blinked to life. System said something about hidden skills… underleveled, wasn’t it?

  “System,” he said aloud, “show me all hidden skills.”

  [“Request accepted. Neophyte skills are now displayed on the Skill Grid.”]

  New entries populated the screen. Cordell scanned them quickly, and there it was:

  [ - Lockpicking — Neophyte ]

  A small grin tugged at his mouth. “Right… I remember jamming open my dorm door after a party. Guess that counts.”

  But before he could test anything, the cell door screeched open again. Heavy boots. Officer Drey Kalten.

  “On your feet,” Kalten barked.

  Cordell stood slowly, wary. “Where are we going?”

  No response.

  Cordell planted his feet. “I’m not moving until you tell me where you’re taking me.”

  Kalten glanced at him coldly, then grabbed his arm and shoved him forward. “Shut it.”

  He marched Cordell down the corridor, out into the chill night. A police vehicle waited by the curb. Kalten shoved him into the back seat, then slid behind the wheel.

  The drive was silent. Cordell tried again. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t do anything.”

  Kalten said nothing, but his glare in the rearview mirror was answer enough.

  They passed the city’s edge, the skyline crumbling into scattered towers and skeletal cranes. Shantytowns blurred by, walls of corrugated metal tagged with angry graffiti. Cordell pressed his face to the window.

  “Where are we?”

  Kalten finally answered, voice flat: “The Grit.”

  They pulled up to a rust-streaked warehouse, its walls pitted and blistered with age. Kalten stepped out first, scanning the alleyway. No witnesses.

  Cordell spotted shattered glass under a broken window. As they passed it, he crouched for just a second, long enough to scoop up a jagged shard and slip it into his back pocket.

  Inside, the warehouse was vast and hollow. Kalten led him to a corroded pipe column in the center of the floor and tied him to it with coarse rope scavenged from the ground.

  Cordell thrashed. “What the hell are you doing?!”

  A fist crashed into his jaw. His lip split, warm blood seeping down his chin.

  Kalten didn’t say a word. He shoved a rag into Cordell’s mouth and stepped back into the shadows.

  ________________________________________

  Minutes stretched on, the silence hanging heavy in the air. Then, the sound of an engine broke the stillness. A matte-black car slid to a stop, its tires grinding against the cracked concrete floor of the warehouse.

  The same two men Cordell had encountered earlier that day stepped out. Unmistakable. One with dull red-glowing eyes, the other with arms like articulated slabs of chrome and steel.

  Kalten straightened, his usual aggression replaced by a sudden, almost rehearsed politeness. “Evening,” he said, his voice smooth, controlled. “Here’s the merchandise. No chip, no record.”

  "Origin?" the red-eyed man asked, voice like crushed gravel.

  Kalten didn’t miss a beat. “Probably a drifter from the Wastes. Doesn’t matter, he’s clean.”

  The man with the red eyes gave a short, approving nod. Without a word, he turned to the cyborg. “Mike, the trunk.”

  The cyborg moved without a word, hauling two devices from the trunk, one a scanner Cordell recognized. The same model the officer used on him.

  Tied to the pipe, Cordell’s heart raced. His hands were still bound, but the shard of glass nestled in his pocket, his only hope, was within reach. He shifted his hand subtly, inching closer to the shard, working it against the rope that held him captive.

  The red-eyed man approached, his movements deliberate. He pressed the scanner to Cordell’s neck.

  [NO DATA DETECTED]

  [UNREGISTERED SUBJECT – NO SIGNAL FOUND]

  "See?" Kalten said. "Told you. Now, my payment?"

  Red-Eyes didn’t answer. Instead, he pricked Cordell’s finger and slid the blood sample into a second machine. It whirred, beeped.

  A moment of silence followed as Red-Eyes studied the results. His eyes narrowed, then he spoke, his voice steady. “Compatible.”

  Kalten’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. So where’s my money?”

  Without a word, Mike reached into the trunk, grabbed a sports duffel bag, and tossed it at Kalten’s feet. Kalten crouched, unzipped it, and his expression shifted. His brow furrowed in confusion, then twisted into a snarl of pure rage.

  “What the hell is this?” Kalten growled, his voice rising. “This isn’t real money.”

  He drew his gun, the sound of the safety clicking off reverberating in the warehouse. “You trying to screw me?”

  Red-Eyes exhaled slowly, his voice thick with indifference. “You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s more than you deserve for your incompetence.”

  Kalten, now absolutely livid, pointed his gun at Cordell. “Transfer the money. Now. Or I’ll kill him. We had a deal.”

  Cordell’s pulse surged. He was almost there, his hands were nearly free. But as the tension mounted, the glass shard slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor.

  The room went quiet, save for the heavy breathing in the air. Kalten’s gun never wavered, his anger boiling over.

  Red-Eyes gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “Fine.”

  A second later, Kalten’s expression softened just enough to reveal the faintest glimmer of satisfaction. “Transfer complete.”

  “I got the money. Now leave me alone.”

  Kalten lowered his gun, the anger still bubbling beneath the surface. But before he could react, his body spasmed violently. He staggered, his face contorting in pain.

  Red-Eyes had hacked into Kalten’s deck, sending electrical pulses directly into his pain receptors. Kalten’s breath came in ragged gasps.

  “You—!” Kalten gasped, stumbling back, eyes wild with shock and pain.

  “Mike. Now!” Red-Eyes commanded, voice devoid of emotion.

  The cyborg lunged, his movements swift and brutal. Kalten, disoriented, fired his gun, emptying his clip into the cyborg’s shoulder. Sparks flew from the impact, one arm jerking violently before failing.

  Mike didn’t falter. He closed the distance, grabbing Kalten by the neck with his remaining good arm, and drove him to the ground with a sickening thud. The sound of metal against flesh echoed through the warehouse.

  Cordell saw his opening. He crouched quickly, grabbing the glass shard from the floor. His hands trembled slightly, but his focus was clear. The ropes that bound him to the pipe were nearly gone. One last tug, and he was free.

  Red-Eyes, his interest in the situation seemingly waning, stepped forward, intent on detaching Cordell from the pipe. But Cordell was faster. As Red-Eyes neared, Cordell acted. With a swift motion, he plunged the shard deep into the man’s neck.

  Red-Eyes let out a gurgled scream, his body jerking before collapsing to the ground in a heap of blood and metal.

  “Dalten!" Mike roared in fury, his rage palpable.

  Without a second thought, the cyborg lunged at Cordell, his movements frantic and wild. Cordell scrambled for the fallen pistol.

  He fired. Missed.

  Another shot, this time hitting Mike in the torso, but the cyborg didn’t stop. He continued his brutal assault, forcing Cordell to the ground, his grip like iron.

  Cordell fought, but with every passing second, he felt his strength slipping. His grip on the gun faltered, and it was knocked out of reach.

  Mike’s voice was cold, taunting. “The boss needs you alive, but don’t worry... I’ll take my pleasure torturing you before collecting your organs.”

  The cyborg stood, shaking off the injury, and turned toward the trunk. Cordell, still on the ground, managed to crawl toward the weapon.

  He grabbed the gun, his hands trembling. His mind raced back to the countless shooting tutorials he'd watched online, the scattered tips from random videos. He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, and then fired.

  The bullet hit the cyborg square in the throat. Mike staggered, and then, with a final, gurgling noise, collapsed to the ground.

  The sound of a Windows 95 startup tone rang in his ears

  ["Skill Leveled Up: Firearms Proficiency – Neophyte → Novice"]

  Cordell stood, battered and bruised, his body screaming in protest. His ribs ached with every breath. His lip was split, and his arm throbbed with the memory of the fight. But he was alive.

  He looted the bodies swiftly, rifling through their pockets for anything of value. He found some cash stashed in wallets, along with a police badge and two working pistols. But Cordell left the electronics untouched, cautious of any tracking devices.

  As he approached the car, he opened the door and rifled through the interior. His fingers brushed against something, a small, elongated shard resembling a futuristic SD card. The label on it read “Boss mission.”

  Cordell frowned, slipping the shard into his pocket. “I wonder what this is about.”

  Just then, the car’s dashboard beeped, an incoming call. He hesitated, then answered.

  A crackling, grating voice came through the line, the voice of an older man. “Why the hell aren’t you responding on your neural link!?”

  Cordell didn’t answer, letting the silence stretch between them.

  “Anyway, where’s the deal? I hope it’s a good one for once.”

  Still no response from Cordell.

  “Why aren’t you answering? Who is this? I swear, if you screwed this up—”

  The man’s tone turned ice-cold. “My men are cold, aren’t they? I’ll find you. I’ll put every one of my men on your trail, and I’ll kill everyone you know.”

  Without a word, Cordell ended the call. He glanced back at the chaos one last time before walking off.

  The night swallowed him whole as he disappeared into the shadows.