Copyright 2025 Old King. All rights reserved.

  The black clinic’s basement reeked of antiseptic and rust, a sour tang that stung Ruoxi Lam’s throat. Flickering LED sign outside cast a jaundiced glow, their buzz grating against the wheezing 3D tissue printer in the corner. Shelves sagged under scavenged cybernetics—dented alloy limbs, cracked neural jacks, jars of murky bio-gel—while a wall screen looped an ad for “Phoenix Hill Cyber-Enhancements: Source Factory Price!” Outside, the New District’s industrial sprawl hulked under a sodium-orange dawn, cranes clawing the sky like skeletal fingers. Ruoxi sat in a steel chair, her body aching from the escape from SpecterForge and the depot—bruises blooming on her arms, her legs heavy with exhaustion. Her pants were crusted with mud, her white cartoon T-shirt torn at the shoulder, sweat-soaked and clinging to her skin. She clutched Avei’s scuffed Peppa Pig keychain, its faded grin her anchor. “I found you, little brother. I’m not letting go,” she thought.

  With a bag of synthetic blood hanging overhead, replacing her lost blood through an IV, VenomSpike slumped on a dented metal surgical table, her neon-green hair matted with blood and sweat. Her left arm, wrapped in a crude bandage, seeped red from a gunshot wound taken in the depot’s chaos, the bullet lodged deep. Her ankle, sprained in the chaos, throbbed painfully. Her factory uniform was slashed, and a garbage bag, taped tight and bulging with stolen Premium Soul Ore drives, sat at her feet like a guilty confession. Her eyes, shadowed by pain and fatigue, flicked between Ruoxi and the door, through which Amin had just left with Kim Eun-hee. The truck driver’s broad frame had vanished into the stairwell, a faint bloodstain on his sleeve from a graze—a stray bullet’s kiss during the depot’s firefight. Kim’s AR goggles had flashed as she tossed a curt “Don’t die, yo” over her shoulder, her North Korean lilt sharp. Each had taken a Soul Ore drive—payment for the ride, no strings. Ruoxi’s gut twisted. Amin’s carrying a ghost, like me. That photo of his sister… Lili’s lost, just like Avei.

  The “doctor,” a gaunt man with cybernetically enhanced eyes that offered a microscopic view and whirred like a drone, prepped a surgical tray for VenomSpike, his worn white coat hanging loose. His voice was a gravelly rasp. “Bullet’s deep, girl. 3,000 ChainCoins to dig it out, or you’ll lose the arm. Pay, or I toss you to the drones.” His cyber-eye glowed blue, scanning VenomSpike’s vitals with cold precision. VenomSpike cursed, her face ashen, but nodded, pain etching her features. Ruoxi’s jaw clenched; her dark web wallet held under 10,000 ChainCoins. “I’ll pay,” Ruoxi said, voice rough but firm.

  VenomSpike shifted, wincing as her wounded arm brushed the table, her smirk tense and strained. “I’ll pay you back. Helluva night, NeonEdge. That driver bro saved us, yo.” Her eyes darted to the garbage bag, guilt flickering beneath her bravado. Ruoxi’s fingers tightened on the keychain. She’d found Avei in SpecterForge’s server room, his consciousness a ghost in Weak Water Sea’s ancient arrays, trapped in a virtual coffin. VenomSpike’s betrayal—snatching drives while Ruoxi grieved—burned like a fresh scar. “She’s out for herself. Always will be,” Ruoxi thought.

  Amin’s truck had been their lifeline, his grim face a mirror of her desperation. His graze, a shallow red line, hadn’t slowed him. His was like a big brother to all of three girls.

  VenomSpike broke the silence, her voice low, pained. “You’re mad, Neon. I see it. Those damn drives?” she asked, nudging the garbage bag with her boot, wincing. “I grabbed ‘em for him. Hospital bills are crushin’ me. You think I don’t understand your brother’s worth?” Her eyes softened, a rare fracture in her armor. “I saw you in that server room, breakin’ down. I ain’t stone.”

  “You played me.” Ruoxi said, “We were after Avei, not your damn heist. Those drives—” She pointed at the bag. “They’re souls, Sisi. Like Avei. Like your boyfriend. You’re as bad as HuaCent, carvin’ up lives for coins.”

  The words struck deep, and Spike’s smirk vanished, her face paling further due to blood loss. Spike leaned up slightly, her good hand gripping the table’s edge, voice barely audible. “You think I don’t know? Every night, I see him—breathing, but gone. Damn ThunderVolt’s eraser stole him, and I’m drownin’ to keep him alive. Those drives are my lifeline. You want Avei? I want my man. We’re chasin’ the same ghosts.” She paused, eyes locking with Ruoxi’s. The doctor plunged a syringe of black-market anesthetic—milky white and faintly viscous—into VenomSpike’s vein. Her neon-green hair slumped against the dented surgical table as consciousness fled, her body going limp.

  With a grunt, the doctor probed VenomSpike’s arm, his gloved fingers holding a forceps steady. A wet squelch accompanied the bullet’s extraction, the slug clinking into a metal tray. The clinic’s hum filled the silence, broken only by the faint drip of synthetic blood. After fifteen minutes, VenomSpike stirred, her eyelids fluttering. She murmured incoherently, her voice a fragile thread weaving a man’s name—CobraLens, perhaps—each syllable heavy with longing. Suddenly, she burst into tears, her bandaged arm trembling as sobs racked her frame, raw and unguarded in the sterile gloom. Ruoxi watched; a pang twisted her chest, but this broken display cracked her defenses. She’s chasing a ghost, just like me. Ruoxi’s throat burned, torn between pity and distrust. She realized that perhaps love was the only force driving these two girls to survive this wretched world.

  As the doctor stitched Spike’s arm and secured her ankle brace, Ruoxi’s mind churned. She needed a plan. Spike’s treatment drained 3,000 ChainCoins, leaving Ruoxi’s wallet at 6,700—barely enough for their next move. She glanced at the garbage bag, its drives both a fortune and a curse. They could fund the job, but they’re blood money. Her AR glasses pinged—a low-battery warning.

  “Sisi,” Ruoxi said, voice low as the doctor left the room, “gimme your terminal. I need Sima.” VenomSpike, pale and sweating, fumbled with her good hand, sliding a cracked StarLink portable from her jacket, its screen flickering. “You’re nuts, callin’ from here. Drones might ping us.” She smirked weakly. “Password’s ‘Co6braLe9ns.’” Ruoxi ignored the jab, syncing her Neuropulser. The dark web relay connected, and Sima’s half-burned face appeared, his holographic mask glitching in the clinic’s dim light.

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  “Neon, you’re breathin’?” Sima’s voice mixed relief and irritation. “Dark web’s on fire—SpecterForge’s hit was a mess. ScarBlade lost half his drones to a small EMP, and his bounty’s at 200 grand for you and Spike, you were made, again!” His eyes flicked to VenomSpike, who managed a weak greeting, her face still pale. Ruoxi’s voice held firm. “Sima, I found Avei. Weak Water Sea’s server, long-term storage. I’ve got his consciousness there, but it’s sluggish, trapped.”

  Sima’s mask flickered, his sigh heavy. “Real talk, sis, that’s only a copy, possibly broken. AbyssNet’s runnin’ experiments—diggin’ deep into consciousness, mappin’ rational from emotional. Avei’s a lab rat, cycled for data. I pulled some strings. The stash is in Nanshan, SilverEye’s server room—biometric locks, quantum encryption, security on steroids. You’d need an army.” He paused, eyes softening. “My sister… I know your pain, but Nanshan’s really a death wish.”

  Ruoxi’s grip on the keychain tightened. She swallowed, voice fierce. “I don’t care. Tell me how, Sima. I’ll make it work.” Sima rubbed his scarred jaw, muttering, “Damn stubborn. Fine. Ex-HuaCent engineer, runs high-end black-market deals in Nanshan. Calls herself LureSiren. She might know AbyssNet’s backdoor. Spike’s met her—owes her from a bad deal two years back. LureSiren’s pricey and a snake, so watch it. You’ll need new IDs—Circuit North’s ghost market can forge ‘em.”

  Overhearing the name, VenomSpike’s head jerked up. “LureSiren? That bitch? She sold CobraLens to ThunderVolt, left him a husk!” She sighed, “you’re goin’ alone, Neon. I’m no good like this. LureSiren’ll bleed you dry. She’s charging a damn 10,000 upfront as a shadow bond.” Ruoxi nodded, her mind racing. It’s a risk, but she’s my shot.

  The doctor slapped a bandage on Spike’s arm and adjusted her ankle brace. “No walkin’ for a week, or it’s worse,” he warned. VenomSpike sat up slowly, pain flashing in her eyes. She said, “Take me to Circuit North. I got a spot to lay low for a while. Take half of the drives—use ‘em smart.” She nudged the garbage bag with her good hand, guilt in her eyes. “I fucked up at SpecterForge, but I’m with you. Get Avei.”

  Ruoxi hesitated. “Deal,” she said, picking up drives from the garbage bag to a medical sack, its weight heavy with stolen souls. She helped Spike limp to the stairwell, the New District’s dawn light seeping through cracked windows. A Circuit North contact, tipped via VenomSpike’s terminal, arranged a safehouse—an abandoned loft near the ghost market. Ruoxi settled VenomSpike there, “Stay low. ’ll be back.” VenomSpike’s eyes met hers. You better, NeonEdge.

  Alone, Ruoxi stepped into the alley. The air reeked of a mix of champagne, perfume, and vomit. Circuit North’s ghost market was a short ride. Sima’s warning lingered: “SouthSea’s sniffing HuaCent. Those drives might be interesting to them.” Victor Chan’s name echoed from dark web whispers—a SouthSea Transport CEO, retired admiral, hunting HuaCent. If he’s after these drives, I’m in the crossfire. She pulled her hood low, the face scrambler’s hum steady, and boarded a battered e-scooter, its motor whining in Circuit North’s chaos.

  The ghost market’s din hit like a tide: vendors explained to customers the exquisite craftsmanship of luxury watches and designer bags, and how antiques held great potential value due to their rarity. In the air, Holographic escorts purred, “Full service upstairs, $80!” The air reeked of burnt bioplastic and sweat, the market’s pulse a chaotic heartbeat. Ruoxi weaved through the maze, her face scrambling, casting geometric patterns—sharp cheekbones, crooked nose, wide eyes. GhostWire was in a third-floor loft, its LED sign flickering “Data Work: No Questions Asked.” Rail-thin with a glowing neural jack, he worked a quantum rig. “You’re Spike’s friend,” he rasped, his eyes fixed on his screens. “SpecterForge’s mess, huh? BladeScar’s got 200 grand on your head. ID ain’t cheap with that heat.”

  Ruoxi put five drives on his desk. “premium grade. Payment for one ID, clean, Nanshan-ready. Biometric fakes, cam-proof.” GhostWire’s eyes gleamed, scanning the seals. “HuaCent’s best, huh,” he muttered, whistling. “Deal. One hour.” Ruoxi watched, unease prickling. Five souls for Avei’s shot. She pushed it down, focusing on GhostWire’s rig, its screens flashing forged biometrics.

  GhostWire later tossed her an ID chip, its seal glinting, a plastic bag of face patches, and a set of contact lenses. “Clean,” he said, pocketing the drives. “You need some fancy outfit, gal. Nanshan’s rich.” Ruoxi slotted the chip into her Neuropulser: Mei Lin, 27, Nanshan tech consultant of a huge corporation. “Oh, by the way,” GhostWire slipped a tube into her hand, “Life-Taker 3000, on the house.”

  Skyline Club was a fortress of light and sound, its holographic facade pulsing like a heartbeat. From there, Nanshan’s skyline literally loomed. Ruoxi passed the Abai bouncers’ scans, her ID holding. Inside, the dancefloor writhed, digital drugs fueling frenzied highs. Ruoxi’s heart raced. LureSiren’s here. So’s my shot.

  She slipped into a VIP booth, its privacy shield blocking all noises from outside. LureSiren waited, a woman in her thirties with a decent figure under silk, her eyes cold. “VenomSpike’s friend, huh?” she drawled. “Where’s the green-haired bitch?” Ruoxi met her gaze. “Lin Mei,” she said, voice firm. “Spike’s out. I’ve got a Premium Soul Ore drive. You’ve got AbyssNet intel. Trade.”

  LureSiren’s red lips curled. “Bold. BladScar’s tearing Nanshan apart for those drives. SpecterForge heist, right?” She leaned forward, eyes glinting. “One drive’s not enough. AbyssNet’s core is SilverEye’s—biometric locks, quantum encryption, drone swarms. Five drives, and you name BladeScar’s HuaCent source.” Ruoxi’s jaw tightened. “Three drives, access codes. Take it, or I walk.”

  LureSiren’s smile was predatory. “Desperate,” she said, leaning back. “Fine. Three drives, but I want BladeScar’s source. Deal?” Ruoxi’s mind raced. I don’t have names. She nodded, playing the bluff. “Deal, one now, two with codes” she said, sliding one of Spike’s stolen drives across. LureSiren scanned it, her arm’s sensors humming, then pocketed it with a smirk. “Codes by the noon. Don’t die first,” she said, vanishing into the crowd, her silk dress a flicker in the neon.

  Outside, Nanshan’s streets were a LAPSS drone-filled maze, red beams sliced through the night. Ruoxi moved fast, her face scrambler humming, the sack slung under her jacket. LureSiren had one of those drives. If she betrays me, I’m done. Sima’s warning echoed: “SouthSea’s after HuaCent. Those drives might be Chan’s target.” She pulled her hood low, slipping into an alley. Skyline Club’s pulse fading, a shadow lunged. A black hood slammed over her head, stifling her gasp. Hands yanked her arms, shoving her into a vehicle’s cold interior. Ruoxi thrashed, her muffled cries lost in the cargo box, but a sharp sting pierced her neck. Darkness swallowed her.