CHAPTER 4: TIER TWO

TIME: 14:00 HOURS.

LOCATION: SECTOR 3, "THE GILDED CAGE" SHOPPING DISTRICT.

ACCOUNT BALANCE: 56,200 CREDITS.

The stroller cost three thousand credits.

It was a sleek, floating pod made of impact-resistant polycarbonate and lined with temperature-regulating silk. It hovered silently six inches off the ground, held aloft by a magnetic repulsion ring. It had a built-in air purification system that promised to filter out 99.9% of Aethelgard’s atmospheric toxins—the sulfur, the heavy metals, the despair.

"It seems... excessive," Maya said, trailing her hand over the matte-white surface. She pulled her hand back as if afraid she might break it. "Ren, this costs more than my old hostel room for a year. It costs more than Marcus made in a decade."

Ren stood beside her, wearing a tailored charcoal coat that hid the sharp angles of his malnutrition, though his eyes still held that perpetual, hunted exhaustion. He placed a hand on the stroller, feeling the hum of the engine.

"Nothing is excessive for her," Ren said firmly. "The air in Sector 4 is good, but it's not perfect. I want her breathing mountain air, even when we're walking down the street. I don't want her first breath to taste like smoke."

They were standing in Le Berceau, a boutique in the heart of Sector 3. This was the "Gilded Cage," a shopping district reserved for Corporate Mid-Management and successful contractors. The ceiling was a digital sky-dome projecting a perfect, sunny day, hiding the eternal grey smog of the real world outside. The shoppers here were different—taller, cleaner, their skin polished by expensive treatments, their limbs often replaced with high-end aesthetic cybernetics.

Maya looked out of place in her simple cotton dress, but to Ren, she looked like royalty.

The sales clerk, an android with a perfectly symmetrical face and a plastic smile, glided over. "An excellent choice, sir. The Levit-X model is the safest on the market. It features biometric locking and a localized shield generator. Shall I arrange delivery to the Helix Residences?"

Ren tapped his wrist-comp, transferring the funds without blinking. "Do it. Same day delivery."

"Ren..." Maya whispered, clutching his arm. "You're spoiling us. I’m starting to worry you’re robbing banks. Or that you're working for the Syndicates."

Ren laughed, a practiced sound that didn't quite reach his cold eyes. "Consulting pays well when you're the best, Maya. The corporations pay a premium for security analysis. Come on. Let's get lunch. Real steak. Not the soy-paste stuff."

As they walked out of the boutique and onto the pristine, heated pavement of the promenade, Ren’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A triple vibration.

Priority Alert.

He pulled it out, shielding the screen from Maya’s view. It wasn't a text from a client. It was a market alert from his trading algorithm—a custom script he had written to track news keywords.

ALERT: Independent Journalist Cassian Reed preparing report on Sector 9 Explosion. Keywords: "Sabotage," "Insulin," "Murder." Market Volatility Expected.

Ren frowned, his jaw tightening.

If the truth about the "People's Insulin" lab came out—that it was sabotaged by a mercenary squad and not an accident—Aethel-Pharma stock would tank. The panic would cause a sell-off. His portfolio, currently heavy in Pharma stock, would lose 40% of its value overnight.

The portfolio that paid for the apartment. The portfolio that paid for the floating stroller.

He needed to protect the investment. The narrative had to be contained.

"Ren?" Maya asked, squeezing his hand. "Is everything okay? You went somewhere else just now."

"Sorry, babe," Ren said, sliding the phone back into his pocket. He forced a smile, masking the predator lurking behind it. "Client issue. Some server firewall crashed. I might have to log in early tonight to fix it."

"Okay," she said, though a flicker of worry remained in her eyes. "Just don't burn yourself out. We have everything we need."

No, Ren thought, looking at the fake digital sky. We don't. Not yet.

21:00 HOURS. THE TIER 2 LOBBY.

When Ren sat in his office chair and slid the obsidian visor over his eyes, the world didn't dissolve into the familiar purple nebula of the Starter Lobby.

Instead, he materialized in a room that looked like a sleek, corporate boardroom carved out of obsidian and chrome. It floated in a void of pure, silent blackness. There were no stars here. No comforting music. Just the cold hum of high-performance servers.

There were no flashy holograms. No dancing avatars showing off emotes. Just a long, polished table and three high-backed chairs.

Jinx and Tank were already seated. They had changed.

Tank’s bright yellow "Industrial Hazard" armor was gone. He had upgraded to a terrifyingly bulky suit of matte-grey Heavy Enforcement plating, the kind used by the Republic’s riot police to crush uprisings. He looked like a walking fortress.

"It's quiet," Tank grumbled, his voice echoing in the void. He tapped his metal finger against the table. Clink. "I liked the music in the old lobby. This feels like a funeral."

Jinx sat opposite him. Her playful neon accents were gone. She was now a void of light-bending "Vantablack" fabric, a stealth suit that seemed to absorb the room around her. Her face was concealed by a mask that showed no emotion, just a flat, reflective glass surface.

"Welcome to the big leagues," Jinx said, her voice filtered to sound like a whisper in a dark room. "Tier 2. No more tutorials. No more hand-holding."

Ren sat at the head of the table. Wraith wore a new suit—an Executive Grade tactical stealth rig. It was slim, armored with carbon-nanotubes, and cost 12,000 credits. It looked less like soldier gear and more like assassin couture.

"It's professional," Ren said, checking his virtual inventory. "Tier 2 means higher payouts. Higher risks. What's the job?"

The air above the table shimmered. The Admin didn't appear as scrolling text this time.

A voice—synthesized, genderless, and impossibly cold—echoed around them, vibrating in their simulated skulls.

"WELCOME, SQUAD ZERO. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION."

Ren stiffened. "Voice interface? Fancy."

"EFFICIENCY IS PARAMOUNT," the Admin continued. "THE SYNDICATE THREATENS THE STABILITY OF THE REPUBLIC. YOUR ACTIONS IN SECTOR 9 SECURED THE MARKET. NOW, WE MUST SECURE THE NARRATIVE."

A high-resolution hologram of a man appeared in the center of the table. He was young, disheveled, holding a datapad, looking over his shoulder in paranoia.

CONTRACT: OPERATION SILENCE

TARGET: Cassian Reed (Investigative Journalist).

LOCATION: Sector 3 - The Neon Lotus Club.

OBJECTIVE: Retrieve the Data Drive. Eliminate the Target.

PAYOUT: 15,000 Credits (Split 3 ways).

RESTRICTION: Stealth Only. Public panic lowers the payout.

"A journalist?" Tank asked, crossing his massive metal arms. "I thought we were fighting terrorists and corrupt judges. This guy just looks like a blogger. Since when are reporters targets?"

"Since he started working for the terrorists," Ren said quickly, cutting off the doubt before it could take root. He recognized the face from his market alert. Cassian Reed. The man threatening to expose the lie. "He's a propagandist. He sells lies to incite riots. If he publishes his manifesto, the markets crash, and Sector 7 burns in the chaos."

Jinx tilted her head, the reflection on her mask shifting. "You know a lot about him, Wraith. Did you read the lore entry?"

"I do my research," Ren said coldly. "He's at the Neon Lotus. That's a high-end club in the Gilded Cage district. Lots of civilians. Lots of surveillance. We can't go in loud."

"Stealth isn't my strong suit," Tank muttered, looking at his minigun arm.

"You're the bouncer," Ren directed, pointing to the 3D map. "Secure the rear exit/loading dock. If he runs, you catch him. No shooting unless breached. Jinx, you infiltrate the VIP lounge. You have the highest stealth stat. Lift the drive from him. I'll take the shot from the balcony. Clean. Like a heart attack."

"ACCEPTABLE PARAMETERS," the Admin intoned. "DEPLOYING IN 3... 2... 1..."

THE MISSION

The simulation loaded with breathtaking fidelity.

They were standing in the alleyway behind The Neon Lotus. The bass from the club vibrated through the wet pavement, shaking Ren’s boots. Rain slicked the neon signs above, turning the alley into a kaleidoscope of reflected pink and blue.

"Comms check," Ren whispered.

"Green," Tank grumbled, merging into the heavy shadows of the loading dock, his grey armor blending with the concrete.

"Ghosting," Jinx said. She tapped a button on her wrist. Her suit rippled, shimmering like a heat haze, and she vanished into active camouflage.

"Moving," Ren said.

He activated his mag-gloves. He leaped onto the brick wall of the club, the magnetic pads gripping the wet surface. He scaled the building like a spider, moving past steam vents and rattling HVAC units.

He reached the rooftop terrace.

Below him, the wealthy citizens of Sector 3 were partying. He saw women with chrome skin and men in velvet suits, smoking synth-vapor that smelled of strawberries. They laughed, clinking glasses, oblivious to the black-clad figure crawling along the lighting rig above their heads.

Ren slipped through an open skylight, balancing on a narrow maintenance beam.

The club interior was a sensory assault.

Lasers cut through clouds of artificial fog. The music was a physical force, a rhythmic thumping that synced with Ren's heartbeat. Below, hundreds of avatars—or NPCs—danced in a writhing mass.

Ren scanned the VIP booths on the mezzanine level.

There.

Cassian Reed.

The target wasn't partying. He was huddled in a corner booth, bathed in red light. He was sweating, his eyes darting around the room. He clutched a drink with both hands to stop them from shaking.

Opposite him sat a woman in a shimmering red dress—an NPC contact. Reed slid a small silver chip across the table to her.

"Target has passed the data," Ren hissed over comms. "Jinx, intercept the woman in red. I have Reed."

"On it," Jinx’s voice whispered in his ear.

Ren watched from above. He saw the woman in red stand up to leave. As she moved toward the exit, a shimmer in the air appeared next to her.

Suddenly, the woman stumbled, as if she had tripped on her heels. It was a subtle collision. In that split second of contact, the silver chip vanished from her hand.

"Drive secured," Jinx said. "She didn't even feel it. Heading to extraction."

"Good," Ren said. "Now for the loose end."

He unholstered a suppressed pistol from his chest rig. A sniper rifle was too big, too loud for this range.

He lay flat on the beam, aiming down through the fog and laser lights.

Reed was alone now. He was staring into his drink, looking defeated. He pulled a photo out of his pocket—a picture of a family.

Ren hesitated.

In the strobe lights, the "NPC" didn't look like code. He looked terrified. He looked like Ren did three months ago—desperate, cornered, trying to do the right thing in a wrong world.

Reed wasn't a terrorist. He was just a guy with a story.

If he lives, he talks, Ren thought. If he talks, the stock crashes. If the stock crashes, Maya loses the apartment. The baby loses the future.

Ren hardened his heart. He wasn't Ren Walker, the kid from the slums. He was Wraith, the Asset.

"Sorry, Cassian," Ren whispered. "Market forces."

He waited for the bass to drop. He waited for the strobe lights to flash white.

Boom.

He fired. Pfft.

The single round struck Reed in the neck.

It wasn't messy. The journalist slumped forward onto the table, his head resting on his arms as if he had passed out from the alcohol.

In the chaos of the club, amidst the drugs and the dancing, no one noticed a man dying in the corner.

"Target down," Ren said, holstering the weapon. "Exfiltrating."

THE GLITCH

Jinx was waiting in the alleyway, the rain sizzling against her suit. She held the silver chip between two black-gloved fingers.

"Got it," she said. "Encrypted. Heavy stuff."

"Give it here," Ren said, holding out his hand. "Mission parameter is to turn it in. Admin is waiting."

Jinx didn't move. She was looking at the chip, her head tilted.

"Wraith... this isn't binary code."

"What?" Ren stepped closer, water dripping from his hood.

"I have the 'Data-Whisperer' perk," Jinx said, her voice sounding strange, strained. "I scanned the header while I was waiting for you. It’s not game data. It’s... text files. Video logs. It looks like... real police reports."

Ren’s heart hammered against his ribs. "It's a simulation, Jinx. It creates realistic props to enhance immersion. Stop overthinking it."

"It has dates," Jinx insisted, looking up at him. The reflection on her mask showed Ren’s own distorted face. "Dates from tomorrow. It’s predicting stock movements for the next week. It has a list of names. Our targets."

"Jinx," Ren snapped, his voice sharp, authoritative. "Drop it. We are not paid to read the lore. We are paid to deliver the package. Do you want to fail the contract?"

Tank rumbled from the shadows, his heavy footsteps splashing in the puddles. "Boss is right, Jinx. Don't glitch out on us. I need that fifteen grand. My dad's rehab starts next week."

Jinx hesitated. The neon light of the "Lotus" sign above reflected off her faceless mask. For a second, Ren thought she was going to pocket it.

If she kept it, she would decrypt it. She would know about the Sector 9 fire. She would know about the sabotage. She would know they were murderers.

Ren put his hand on his pistol grip. A subtle warning.

"Jinx," Ren said, softer this time. "Tuition is due, right? Don't throw away your degree for a prop."

The manipulation worked.

Jinx sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Fine. Whatever. Just game lore."

She tossed the chip to Ren.

He caught it.

OBJECTIVE UPDATED: UPLOAD DATA.

He slotted the chip into his wrist-comp. A progress bar filled.

UPLOAD COMPLETE.

MISSION COMPLETE.

PAYOUT: 15,000 CREDITS.

THE AFTERMATH

Ren logged out.

He sat in the dark office, sweat cooling on his skin. The silence of the apartment felt oppressive now.

15,000 Credits.

Plus the market stability.

He opened his browser. He went to the Aethelgard News Feed.

He waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

BREAKING NEWS

BODY FOUND IN NEON LOTUS CLUB

Cassian Reed, a freelance conspiracy theorist, was found dead of an apparent drug overdose in the VIP section of the Neon Lotus. Police suspect suicide or accidental toxicity.

Ren closed the laptop.

"Overdose," he muttered. "Clean."

He walked to the window.

He had secured the narrative. He had secured the money.

But Jinx’s words echoed in his head. Dates from tomorrow.

The game wasn't just reacting to the world. It was shaping it.

And the Admin... the Admin was giving them inside information before it happened. The "Game" was the script for the real world.

Ren realized then that he wasn't just a hitman. He was part of the greatest insider trading scheme in history. And Jinx—smart, curious Jinx—was becoming a liability.

He went back to his desk. He didn't go to sleep.

He pulled up a new coding window. His fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard, the click-clack sound filling the room.

If Jinx was getting suspicious, it was only a matter of time before she looked closer. And if she looked closer, she might try to expose it. If she exposed it, the Squad would be deleted.

Ren needed insurance. Not just against the Admin, but against his own friends.

He began to type.

PROJECT: SILENT_PARTNER.exe

Function: Encrypted communication channel. Hidden from Admin. Hidden from Squad.

Sub-Routine: KEYLOGGER_JINX.dat

"I need to know what you know, Jinx," Ren whispered to the screen. "Before you get us all killed."

He deployed a subtle spyware patch into the squad's shared server. It would alert him if Jinx or Tank accessed any "restricted" files or tried to decrypt the game data.

He felt a pang of sickness in his gut. He was spying on his friends. He was betraying their trust to protect his secret.

He looked at the door to the bedroom where Maya slept.

He wasn't just protecting his family anymore.

He was protecting the lie.