“When a Schwarzstahl train is late, it is because the planet was.”

  — Schwarzstahl Mobility Internal Slogan (never approved, widely used)

  The D?mmergrund Line was one of the elevated routes, and “elevated” didn’t quite do it justice.

  We were high. Easily fifty, sixty stories up, suspended on mag-rail tracks that threaded between the massive towers of Tago’s corpo district like a needle through fabric. The train car I was in had windows from floor to ceiling, and the view was...

  Dizzying.

  To my left, a residential tower stretched up, its surface covered in thousands of windows. Apartments, probably. I could see into some of them as we passed, little rectangles of other people’s lives. A family eating dinner at a table. Someone exercising in front of a holo-screen. A kid pressed against the glass, waving at the train.

  I didn’t wave back.

  To my right, another tower. This one corporate, all glass and steel with glowing logos near the top. Jeup, if I was reading the holographic branding correctly. One of the Sol Fortune 500, but good food. Well, for sols strapped man like me, who had free meals courtesy of mom, but was too lazy to leave the bunker for them.

  The train curved, and suddenly we were threading between two towers so close I could’ve reached out and touched both if the windows opened.

  They didn’t, obviously.

  Aurelia’s safety regulations and all that, but it felt claustrophobic weirdly. Surrounded by massive structures on all sides, the train cut through the gaps as if it was navigating a canyon made of money and concrete.

  I leaned against the window, watching the city scroll past. My mind drifted back to what Cecilia had said at the noodle stall.

  “I know how to use them.”

  The way she’d said it. Confident. Not boasting, just... stating a fact. She’d trained with those weapons. Properly trained, not the half-assed “here’s how you don’t immediately die with a sword” lessons we’d gotten at System Prep.

  And I’d realized something in that moment… I didn’t actually know how to fight.

  Sure, I could swing a sword. I’d killed bugs with it. I’d even taken down that Incursion, and the dog-things in the chaos shard, but that was... instinct.

  If I faced someone trained? Someone like Cecilia, who’d spent years learning proper technique, who had sub-traits dedicated to sword combat, who knew how to read an opponent’s movements?

  I’d get destroyed.

  The bugs in the school mines were easy and predictable. They charged straight at you, and if you timed your shots right, they died before they got close. The ones that got close? You swung wildly until they stopped moving.

  That wouldn’t work forever. Eventually, I’d face something, or someone, who didn’t just charge mindlessly. Who could dodge, counter, exploit openings I didn’t even know I was leaving.

  And then I’d be dead. “Damn,” I muttered to my reflection in the window.

  The train announced our first transfer in that pleasant automated voice that every transit system in the Sol Alliance seemed to share.

  I needed training. Real training. Not just “how to survive bugs” training, but actual combat instruction. But that cost money and time. And probably required a system that wasn’t held together with digital duct tape and spitting ancient symbols.

  The train slowed, pulling into the transfer station. I stepped out onto the platform with the crowd, following the signs toward the D?mmergrund Line connector.

  Equipment I could get from Grandmother’s store. Eventually. Once I jumped through whatever security hoops Kallum Holdings demanded, but information?

  System information? The kind that wasn’t sanitized through corporate filters or locked behind academy paywalls?

  That was harder.

  I’d read the public documentation, obviously. Everyone had. The basics were free: you got a system; you leveled up; you got stronger physically; you learned magic. Simple, easy to understand.

  But the details? The mechanics behind it? Why did some people manifested and others didn’t? What plugins actually were? How sub-traits worked? What the hell “pp” stood for and why my weekly allotment was zero?

  That information was controlled. Kept behind academic institutions and corporate training programs, shared only with people who’d proven they had a system and were worth investing in and the system actually punished those who spoke to who weren’t ready to listen, if that stunt in the registration office told me anything.

  And I hadn’t been worth investing in.

  But Omar would know. He’d been at Creston Academy for half a year now, learning all the things they didn’t teach at mining school. He’d share with me. Probably. At least something…

  The connector train arrived, and I boarded, finding a spot near the door this time.

  [Paid: ￠2]

  Through the windows, more towers. More lives happening in little rectangular boxes stacked a hundred high. More proof that the city just kept going, up and out, endlessly sprawling in every direction until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the next district began.

  The train curved again, and I glimpsed the mid-morning sun through the gap between two particularly massive structures. The colors reflected off thousands of windows, like the city was on fire.

  Beautiful, in a dystopian sort of way.

  My holoband buzzed. A message from Omar:

  Meet at Café Orbital, Level 22, near the D?mmergrund central station. I’ll be there at 2!

  I typed back a quick confirmation and pocketed the band. One more transfer. Then, it’s ten minutes to the station. Then I’d have to deal with Kallum’s office and whatever bureaucratic nightmare waited there.

  The train chimed as we approached D?mmergrund Kallum Station. I straightened, adjusting my armor, checking that the rifle was secure on my back.

  The train glided to a stop, and I stepped out onto the platform. Except it wasn’t really a platform. Not like the ground-level stations or even the elevated ones I’d used before.

  This was... integrated.

  The station opened directly into a building. There was no transition, no walking outside and through an entrance. Just step off the train and you were inside, surrounded by polished floors and corporate signage and that specific filtered air that smelled like nothing.

  And there, mounted on the wall in letters easily three meters tall, gleaming chrome that caught every light:

  KALLUM

  Underneath, smaller but still prominent:

  Custom Engineering & Premium Weapons

  I stood there for a moment, staring at the sign.

  Grandmother’s empire. One office in one district of one city on one planet, and it still looked more expensive than everything I owned combined.

  People flowed around me, moving with purpose, most of them in business attire or high-end contractor gear. No one gave me a second glance despite my armor. This was D?mmergrund. Half the people here were armed.

  I took a breath and started walking toward the reception desk…. which was empty.

  Not “someone’s on break” empty. Not “they’ll be right back” empty. Just... empty. A pristine counter with a terminal that displayed a cheerful, animated logo, the Kallum insignia rotating slowly in three dimensions, and absolutely no sign of where an actual human being might be.

  I stood there for a solid thirty seconds, waiting for someone to notice me.

  Nothing.

  There was an elevator on my right with a nice-looking beige color, so I walked to it and beeped my band to the machine.

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

  ACCESS DENIED. REQUIRES K2+ PRIORITY

  I let out a suffering sigh and glanced around, looking for someone to murder. So I was not a priority for the company. Figures. To my right, a small sign mounted on a sleek chrome stand read:

  ALL VISITORS UNDER K2 MUST CHECK IN AT SECURITY

  → PROCEED TO CHECKPOINT ALPHA

  An arrow pointed down a corridor that branched off from the main lobby.

  Of course. Why would customer support be accessible directly? That would be convenient, and Kallum Inc., like every other megacorp in the Sol Alliance, had apparently decided that convenience was for people who didn’t have enough money to matter.

  I followed the arrow.

  The corridor was wide, well-lit, and completely devoid of personality. White walls. Gray floors. Recessed lighting cast everything in a neutral corporate glow designed to be neither welcoming nor hostile, just... present.

  Doors lined both sides, each marked with alphanumeric codes that meant nothing to me.

  K-7B ENGINEERING LAB.

  K-12A MATERIALS TESTING.

  K-19C AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  I kept walking until the corridor opened onto a small security checkpoint.

  A single guard sat behind a reinforced desk, surrounded by scanning equipment and monitors displaying what looked like a dozen different camera feeds. He was maybe forty, balding, wearing the standard gray Kallum security uniform with a bored expression that suggested he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

  He glanced up as I approached. His eyes tracked over my armor with a disinterest that came from seeing armed people walk through every single day.

  “Checking in?” he drawled, already reaching for his scanner.

  “Yeah. I have an appointment at customer support.”

  He snorted. Actually snorted. Like I’d just told him a joke. “Customer support’s on sub-level two. You’ll need to take the elevator you just came from.”

  “Can’t, despite having Level-2 store and K1. Even my security clearance is S4! Still, no budging. My account’s just... suspended, elevator won’t work. That’s why I’m here.”

  The guard made a noise that might’ve been acknowledgment and waved me forward. “Step up to the scanner. Arms out.”

  I complied, spreading my arms slightly. My armor clanked as I adjusted my stance. He pointed a handheld device at me and pressed a button. A beam of pale blue light washed over my body, head to toe, accompanied by a soft humming that made my teeth itch.

  The scanner beeped.

  The guard glanced at his terminal, then back at me. His expression didn’t change. “Got a lot of gear on you.”

  “I’m a licensed hunter. Gray certification.”

  “Uh-huh.” He tapped his terminal, logging something. “Armor? Rifle?”

  “TitanWard custom build. Scavenged parts, self-assembled.”

  More tapping. “Pistols?”

  “Two. Plasma discharge, low-grade.”

  “Sword?”

  “Family heirloom. System crafted.”

  He nodded slowly, still typing. The entire process felt mechanical, as if he was filling out a form just to check a box on some compliance document no one would ever read.

  Finally, he reached under his desk and pulled out a small adhesive badge. Bright orange, with a barcode and the word VISITOR printed in bold black letters.

  “Stick this on your chest plate. Visible at all times. Don’t remove it until you leave the building.” He slid a paper slip across the desk. “This is your security clearance pass. You’ll need to show it at every checkpoint.”

  I picked up the slip. It had a timestamp, my name, and a long alphanumeric code I didn’t bother trying to memorize. “Checkpoints?” I repeated.

  “Yeah. Every floor change requires re-verification. Security protocol.” He was already looking back at his monitors, clearly done with me. “Follow the arrows. Good luck.”

  I stuck the badge onto my chest plate with a magnet and took the slip.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, though he wasn’t listening anymore.

  The corridor beyond the checkpoint split in three directions. Arrows mounted on the walls pointed toward different destinations:

  ← ENGINEERING WING

  → ADMINISTRATION

  ↓ LOWER LEVELS

  The path to customer support was a labyrinth.

  Not the fun kind. Not the “oh, this is challenging, but there’s a rational solution” kind. Just pure distilled corporate inefficiency masquerading as security.

  I descended a stairwell, because of course there were stairs; why waste elevator space on visitors, and emerged into another corridor that looked identical to the one I’d just left.

  Same white walls, same gray floors, same neutral lighting and a sign on the wall read:

  CHECKPOINT BETA →

  I groaned and followed the arrow.

  Checkpoint Beta was a smaller version of Checkpoint Alpha with the same reinforced desk, same bored guard, this one younger, with visible chrome along his forearm. Same scanning procedure.

  “Arms out.”

  I spread my arms.

  The beam washed over me. The scanner beeped. He glanced at his terminal, compared it to my slip, and waved me through without a word.

  “Thanks,” I said flatly.

  No response.

  I kept walking.

  The next corridor forced me to make a choice at a T-intersection. No signs. No arrows. Just two identical hallways stretching in opposite directions.

  I picked left at random.

  Three minutes later, I hit a dead end. A door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - KE3-B CLEARANCE REQUIRED.

  “Great.”

  I backtracked to the intersection and tried right this time.

  This corridor curved, which should’ve been a good sign, something different, at least, but it just led me to another stairwell. Down again. Sublevel one now, according to the sign.

  Another corridor. Another checkpoint.

  “Arms out.”

  I was starting to hate that phrase.

  Checkpoint Gamma’s guard at least looked awake. She scanned me, checked my slip, frowned at her terminal.

  “Purpose of visit?” she asked.

  “Customer support. Account verification.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You know customer support is on sublevel two, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s where I’m going.”

  “This is sublevel one.”

  “I know. I’m taking the stairs.”

  She shrugged and handed back my slip. “Your funeral. The next checkpoint’s down the hall, take a left at the junction, then straight for about fifty meters.”

  “Thanks.”

  At least someone was trying to be helpful.

  I followed her directions and found the next stairwell. Down again. Sublevel two.

  The air felt different here, and the lighting was slightly dimmer. Like they’d decided anyone coming down this far didn’t deserve the same budget as the upper floors.

  Another corridor. This one narrower than the others, with doors spaced farther apart. I passed a break room with flickering lights and a vending machine that looked like it hadn’t been restocked since the building opened.

  CUSTOMER SUPPORT →

  The arrow pointed down another corridor.

  I followed it and hit Checkpoint Delta.

  “Arms out.”

  I was beyond frustration now, past annoyance. Approaching some kind of zen acceptance that this was just how things were and there was nothing I could do about it.

  The guard scanned me. Logged my equipment. Again. For the fourth time. As if the previous three checkpoints hadn’t already confirmed I was carrying the exact same gear I’d walked in with.

  He waved me through.

  I kept walking.

  The corridor made three more turns, each one seemingly random, before depositing me in front of a final checkpoint. Checkpoint Epsilon, presumably, though there was no sign.

  The guard here looked like he’d given up on life entirely. Slumped in his chair, staring at his terminal with dead eyes, one hand resting on a half-empty cup of something that might’ve been coffee a week ago.

  “Arms out,” he mumbled.

  I spread my arms without comment.

  Scan. Beep. Check. Wave.

  I walked past him, and finally found a door at the end of the corridor with a small sign mounted beside it:

  CUSTOMER SUPPORT

  WALK-INS WELCOME

  AVERAGE WAIT TIME: 1 HOUR

  I stopped in front of the door and just... stared.

  Five security checkpoints. Three floors of descent. At least fifteen minutes of navigating identical corridors. All to reach a room tucked into the deepest, most inconvenient corner of the building, clearly designed to discourage anyone from actually using it.

  My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

  I wanted to leave. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, walk back through those five checkpoints, take the train home, and forget Grandmother’s store access ever existed.

  But I couldn’t.

  I’d promised Mom. I’d promised I’d use the resources available to me. I’d promised I’d prove I could do this properly, legally, safely and if I walked away now, I’d just be proving everyone right. That I was too stubborn, too proud, too stupid to accept help when it was offered.

  I gritted my teeth, pushed open the door, stepped inside, and the waiting room was exactly as soul-crushing as I’d expected.

  Rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs. Flickering fluorescent lights. A check-in terminal that looked like it had been salvaged from a museum. And sitting in those chairs, scattered across the room like survivors of some corporate apocalypse, were maybe a dozen people.

  All of them looked as miserable as I felt.

  I walked to the terminal, pressed my thumb to the scanner, and entered my registration number.

  The screen flickered.

  REGISTRATION CONFIRMED

  CURRENT WAIT TIME: 1 HOUR 14 MINUTES

  YOUR NUMBER: 141

  I stared at the screen.

  “This is fine,” I muttered to myself. “This is totally fine.”

  I found the least uncomfortable-looking chair, which wasn’t saying much, and sat down heavily. My armor clanked against the plastic. The rifle dug into my back.

  I pulled out my holoband and checked the time.

  11:47.

  Omar wasn’t expecting me until 2:00. That gave me some time to... sit here. In this miserable waiting room, surrounded by other people who’d made the mistake of needing customer support from a megacorp that clearly didn’t want to provide it.

  I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried very hard not to think about how much I hated everything about this situation.

  Fifty-seven minutes later, my number flashed on the display above the desk.

  NOW SERVING: 141

  I stood, joints protesting from sitting in corpo-chair hell, and walked toward the door that had just slid open.

  The office beyond was small and aggressively beige. A single desk dominated the space, its surface covered with terminals and paperwork. Behind the desk sat a man in his late thirties, with thinning hair, wearing a standard Kallum uniform.

  He glanced up as I entered. “Have a seat.”

  He didn’t look at me. Just tapped at his terminal, pulling up what I assumed was my account information. “So,” he said flatly, “what’s the issue?”

  “My account’s suspended,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Says I need verification. I was told I could do that here.”

  “Uh-huh.” More tapping. “And you couldn’t just verify on Mars because...?”

  “Because I live on Earth 2.0 now,” I said, the frustration bleeding through despite my best efforts. “And I had to walk through five security checkpoints, three floors, and half a kilometer of identical hallways just to get here.”

  He glanced up, expression flat. “That’s standard security protocol.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” I shot back. “I have S4 security clearance! And even if I didn’t, your entire facility is designed to make people give up before they reach customer support. No signs, random checkpoints, dead ends—”

  “Are you here to complain about the building layout,” he interrupted, “or do you actually need help with your account?”

  I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe slowly. “I need help with my account.”

  “Then I’ll need proof of identity.” He held out his hand expectantly.

  I stared at him.

  “Proof of identity,” he repeated, wiggling his fingers impatiently. “ID, license, something with your name and biometrics.”

  My hands clenched into fists. I’d just been scanned five times. Five. Times. Every checkpoint had logged my equipment, verified my biometrics, confirmed I was who I said I was. And now this guy wanted me to prove it again?

  I reached into my pocket, yanked out my gray license, and threw it onto his desk. It landed with a soft clack, the holographic surface catching the light.

  The man picked it up with an irritated look, clearly annoyed by my attitude. His eyes scanned the text, reading mechanically. Then he stopped, and his expression shifted. Boredom evaporated, replaced by something between shock and panic.

  “Mister...” He swallowed hard, eyes widening as he looked up at me. “Kallum?!”

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