Pain came first.

  Cordell stirred from unconsciousness, eyes fluttering open as the sting behind them returned like a floodlight turned on too fast. The dull ache had evolved into something sharper, like friction grinding against bone. He groaned and rolled to his side, breathing in the sharp stench of hot oil and sour garbage. Concrete scraped his back. His fingers brushed across the edge of a rusted can. His back throbbed. His head pounded.

  The alley hadn’t changed. Still hidden behind dumpsters and rotting crates, tucked in the shadow of a city that had no idea, or perhaps no concern, that he existed.

  But something had changed.

  A soft glow pulsed in the corner of his vision. Not from the city. From inside his head.

  “System Integration: Complete.”

  “Cognitive tagging successful.”

  “Would you like to customize your interface?”

  Cordell blinked at the translucent blue prompt that hovered just within peripheral view. His breath caught. It was still there. This wasn't a fever dream or a dying hallucination.

  He reached up instinctively, trying to swipe or touch it, and as his hand moved, the system followed. Menus rippled out like a blooming flower.

  [Skill Grid – 87 new skills detected]

  [Traits – 1 new trait detected]

  [Options]

  “Jesus…” he whispered.

  No device. No implants. No cables plugged into his spine. And yet here it was, floating.

  Cordell didn't understand it all yet. But he understood enough.

  This world was different. And he’d brought something with him.

  He focused on the hovering menu, still suspended gently at the edge of his vision. As he blinked again, it sharpened into focus, crystal-clear, as if etched into the air.

  He selected the [Skill Grid].

  A new interface unfolded, structured like a branching tree, categories, subcategories, and glowing nodes stretching beyond what he could count. Most were dimmed out. But a few shone faintly in deeper shades, like embers that had caught fire.

  "Neophyte-level and underdeveloped nodes hidden by default.”

  “Convenient,” Cordell muttered.

  He glanced through a few randomly displayed skills

  ? Cybersecurity of Networks & Systems — Advanced

  ? Scripting— Capable

  ? Microcontroller Development— Capable

  ? Circuit & PCB Design — Intermediate

  ? CAD Design — Capable

  ? Applied Mathematics — Intermediate

  ? Basic Physics (Mechanics, Electricity, …) — Intermediate

  ? Home Cooking — Capable

  ? Archery — Capable

  ? Graphic Art — Novice

  ? Lockpicking — Novice

  ? Basic First Aid — Beginner

  ? French — Expert

  ? English — Master

  There were others, tucked away behind filters and level gates. But just these alone gave Cordell pause. He knew this stuff. It wasn’t fantasy or fiction, it was him. Maybe scattered, maybe rusty, but real.

  It was like staring at a résumé someone else had written for his brain.

  He moved to the [Traits] tab.

  Only one entry blinked:

  [Trait: Empathetic – Common]

  (You have a natural ability to somewhat understand others’ hidden feelings, even if you don't always show it.)

  Cordell rolled his eyes. “Great. People-reading. Real useful when you’re stranded in an alley.”

  He closed the trait window with a flick of his eyes and opened the [Options] menu. If nothing else, he could at least make the damn thing pleasing for his own retinas.

  A list of themes appeared:

  ? Default Blue

  ? Night Crimson

  ? Iris Voltage

  ? Graphite Fade

  ? …

  He hovered a moment, then selected Iris Voltage. The menus responded instantly, the translucent overlays darkening to rich, electric violets with soft, cool highlights.

  Next came Sound Settings. A small menu of notification tones appeared.

  ? No Sound

  ? Page Turn

  ? Warp Ping

  ? Soft Click

  ? Chime Bell

  ? Glass Tap

  ? Heartbeat Pulse

  ? ...

  Cordell frowned. “Hey... system. Can I use a custom sound instead?”

  There was a soft delay, then:

  “Custom audio input accepted. Please hold thought or emotional signature associated with desired sound.”

  Cordell blinked. Then the memory welled up, uninvited.

  The old Windows 95 startup chime. That warm, strange harmony that used to echo through his childhood home as his dad booted up an ancient desktop. Cold winter mornings. Microwave oatmeal. Buzzing CRT screen glow. The kind of nostalgia that sank teeth into your chest.

  “Audio signature locked. Custom notification sound applied: [Windows 95 Startup Sound]”

  Cordell smiled faintly. “Now that’s neet.”

  Just as he was about to scroll deeper into the theme settings, a sharp voice cut through the stillness of the alley.

  “…I don’t care how you do it…”

  Cordell froze.

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  He hadn’t noticed them approach. Too absorbed by the surreal glow of the system, the unfamiliar menus, the strange comfort of customization. Now his breath held tight in his chest.

  With a slow blink, he pushed the interface into standby. The menus receded like mist, folding into the corners of his vision until they vanished.

  Careful not to make a sound, he shifted toward the edge of the dumpster and peered over.

  Three men stood a few meters away.

  One wore a beat-up police jacket, creases like old scars, patches peeling at the seams. The man inside it looked just as worn: sweating, twitching, eyes scanning the ground instead of the people in front of him.

  The other two? They didn’t look like they belonged in this alley.

  The first was lean, dressed in a slate-gray suit tailored so tight it barely creased when he moved. Under short-cropped hair, his eyes, if they were eyes, glowed faintly red beneath his brow. They glowed. Faint, steady red. Not like a trick of light. Like something lit from inside. Cordell had never seen anything like it. Not in real life.

  The second was broader, built like a freight container. Both of his arms were… wrong. Too rigid. Too smooth. From shoulder to fingertip, they gleamed with a dull metallic sheen, the kind Cordell had only seen on state of the art factory robots in documentaries. Joints rotated with an unnatural click, wires shifting beneath synthetic muscle. There were no weapons on him. He was the weapon.

  “We don’t care how you get it. You get us what we need.”

  The officer looked like he was chewing on gravel, jaw clenched so tight it twitched. “I told you, it’s not that easy to—”

  The first man stepped closer, his voice dropping dangerously low. “This is your last chance, officer. You don’t deliver, we’ll make sure this is your last chance ever.”

  The officer’s breath hitched. He swallowed hard, his face paling.

  The second man leaned forward slightly. His voice was calm, but it didn’t carry warmth.

  “No more delays.”

  There was a pause. Just long enough to feel the weight of it. The cop swallowed hard and gave a slow nod.

  Without another word, the two suits turned. One tapped something on his wrist, and a matte-black car slid into view from around the corner, silent, seamless. They stepped in, doors hissing shut, and the vehicle pulled away with the quiet menace of a shark beneath the surface.

  The moment the two men disappeared, the officer’s restraint snapped.

  “Fuck!”

  He kicked a metal trash can with all his might, sending it crashing to the ground with a loud clang. The can rolled across the alley, spilling old wrappers and scraps. His rage burned hot as he turned toward a pile of discarded debris: rotting cardboard, spoiled food, and started stamping it violently, his anger unchecked..

  His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The frustration and fear clawed at him from inside. He grabbed a thick metal pipe lying on the ground and swung it like a club, slamming it against a nearby dumpster with a deafening crack. He didn’t stop. Again. And again. Each strike echoed through the alley, the sound of his anger reverberating through the daytime air.

  Sweat ran down his forehead as he beat the dumpster with the pipe, relentless. With each swing, he seemed to drive himself deeper into a frenzy, as if trying to break something more than just the metal. The alley was a mess of trash now, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that twisted knot in his chest. He swung the pipe one last time, until his arms were too tired to lift it.

  Meanwhile, Cordell, hidden in the shadows of the alley, watched the cop lose himself in his rage. His mind raced. He couldn’t stay here. Not now, not with this kind of chaos. Slowly, he started to creep away, trying to move as quietly as possible, inching his way toward the edge of the alley.

  His foot brushed against something. A faint metallic sound.

  Clink.

  Cordell froze. His heart pounded. He barely dared to breathe as the officer’s head snapped up, his sharp gaze scanning the alley.

  “Who’s there?” the officer growled, his voice hoarse with frustration.

  Cordell’s pulse hammered in his ears. He knew he had to move, had to get out of there. But it was too late. The officer was already sprinting toward him. With a sudden lunge, the cop barreled into Cordell, slamming him into the ground. The air was knocked out of him as he hit the pavement, his body aching from the impact.

  The officer’s hands gripped Cordell’s arms, pinning him down.

  “Well, well…” the cop snarled, his breath heavy with anger. “What the hell do we have here?”

  POV: Officer Drey Kalten

  He hadn’t expected today to spiral so fast.

  Kalten’s nerves were already frayed, two weeks of empty hands and constant pressure. And now this. Some filthy drifter squatting in the alleys, snooping where he didn’t belong. When he pulled the guy out of the trash, he expected a junkie, or maybe one of those bottom-tier hackers with fried implants.

  But this one was… different.

  No cybernetics. No implants. Not even the faintest sign of a neural deck. Kalten scanned his neck instinctively, nothing. The skin was too clean. Too… clean for a tramp.

  And the eyes. That was the real kicker. The guy looked at him like he was the alien. Like he didn’t know where he was.

  They rode in silence for a while, until Kalten couldn’t take it anymore.

  “So,” he said, adjusting the rearview mirror to study the passenger. “What’s your name?”

  “Cordell,” the guy answered quietly.

  “Surname?”

  Cordell looked out the window.

  “Uh-huh,” Kalten muttered, fingers tightening on the wheel. “And where exactly you from, Cordell?”

  The man didn’t answer. Just stared out at Wisteria as the skyline unfolded, towering monoliths of steel and neon, holograms dancing across reflective surfaces, endless streams of vehicles on the road.

  Kalten studied him carefully. No eye mods. No dermal patches. Even his skin tone was off, not pale from city light, not orange from excessive use of zyme. Just… normal.

  He’s healthy, Kalten thought. Too healthy.

  “What gang you with?” he asked next.

  Cordell looked back at him. “None.”

  “Nomad?”

  “No.”

  Kalten exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to hide the twitch in his hand. His nerves burned. He needed a match. He needed a delivery. He needed a goddamn miracle.

  And maybe… maybe this guy was it.

  He looked like a corpse waiting to happen. Untagged. No deck. No implants. Perfect for harvesting. No one would miss him.

  But first, he had to know for sure.

  Everyone had an ID chip. Standard issue, implanted at the base of the neck before you could even spell your name. Subdermal. Untouchable. But a quick scan? That was enough. Name, birthdate, file history, every trace of their existence stored.

  Kalten’s fingers drifted to the reader at his belt, thumb brushing the worn plastic. If this guy came up blank, no ping, no trace?

  Then he wasn’t just off the grid.

  He was sellable. Erasable.

  And if that was true, maybe, just maybe, the suits wouldn’t come knocking again.

  Kalten’s stomach churned, bile creeping up his throat. Guilt tried to surface.

  But fear pressed it back down.

  Because if he didn’t deliver someone soon… they wouldn’t just break his legs.

  They’d break everything.

  POV: Cordell

  The city outside the window was a fever dream.

  Cordell’s eyes scanned everything, the massive buildings stacked like tombstones, the multi-layered traffic systems, blinking signs that advertised synthetic dreams, instant augmentations, and neuro-surgeries with lifetime guarantees.

  People passed in every direction. Faces lit with subdermal circuits. Kids with chrome limbs. Robotic animals, mechanical creatures with sleek, artificial bodies, walking alongside their owners. And sound, everywhere. Buzzing. Beeping. Roaring engines. Fragmented languages and automated ads stitched together like white noise.

  It was overwhelming. Beautiful. Terrifying. Alluring.

  And none of it belonged to him.

  The car stopped. Cordell looked up to see a squat, bunker-like building of dull gray stone. Wisteria Police Department – Canopy Overlook.

  The officer pulled him out roughly. Cordell didn’t resist.

  Inside, the station was buzzing. Other officers greeted Kalten with nods and grunts, barely giving Cordell a glance. Just another stray. Another soon-to-be-forgotten statistic.

  They passed rows of flickering monitors and humming terminals. Kalten led him to a steel door. Interrogation 3B. It slid open with a hiss.

  Inside: one table, two chairs, a wall-mounted camera.

  Kalten waved a hand, and the camera’s red light blinked off.

  Cordell tensed.

  “Sit,” the officer barked.

  Cordell obeyed.

  The questioning started immediately. Kalten paced like a caged animal. His steps were heavy, deliberate. Every move felt like it was calculated to make Cordell uncomfortable.

  “Where are your implants?” Kalten demanded, his voice sharp.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Bullshit,” Kalten shot back, his eyes narrowing. “Everyone's been chipped. At least once. You think you're some kind of monk?”

  Cordell didn’t respond. Kalten stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on him with intensity.

  “Tell me this,” Kalten said, leaning in slightly. “Why were you peeking into my business? What were you looking for?”

  “I didn’t peek,” Cordell replied, his voice steady. “I just woke up in an alley.”

  Kalten slammed his palm on the table, the sound sharp in the small room. He leaned in close, his breath warm on Cordell’s face.

  “That’s not enough. You’re either playing me for a fool or you're as dumb as they come. People don’t end up in my sights for nothing. Which gang do you belong to? Who’s pulling your strings?”

  Cordell’s eyes met his.

  “I’m not with anyone. I’m just here, trying to figure it out like you.”

  “Lying.” Kalten growled, his eyes flicking to the terminal in his hand. “What clan are you tied to, huh? The Rats? The Cutthroats? You’ve got that look. Like a lost dog looking for a pack.”

  Cordell shrugged.

  “I’m not a dog. I don’t belong anywhere.”

  Kalten’s fist hit the table again, shaking it violently.

  “Stop. Playing. Games.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “I’ve put down men for less. If you know what's good for you, you’ll start talking. Now.”

  Cordell didn’t flinch. His voice was cool, like ice.

  “Then kill me.”

  Silence.

  Kalten’s face twisted. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handheld terminal, an old one, portable, dirty around the edges. He grabbed Cordell’s hair, yanked his head forward, and pressed the device to his neck.

  It buzzed. Then it beeped.

  [NO DATA DETECTED]

  [UNREGISTERED SUBJECT – NO SIGNAL FOUND]

  The officer froze.

  He stared at the screen. Then at Cordell. Then back.

  His lips parted slightly. Whatever he expected, this wasn’t it.

  Kalten slowly stood, eyes still fixed on the terminal.

  He didn’t say a word as he unlocked the door, pulled Cordell up by the arm, and led him silently through the station, past the desk, past the holding wing, until they reached a row of cells.

  He shoved Cordell inside. The bars slammed shut behind him.

  Cordell sat on the thin cot, eyes never leaving the officer’s face.

  Kalten stood there a moment longer, staring at him as if trying to figure out what the hell had just walked into his life.

  Then he turned and walked away.

  Cordell leaned back, pulse racing, hands clammy.

  Whatever just happened with that terminal…

  …it changed everything.

  Would you like Cordell to change the system theme color? If so, please share your preferred color in the comments.