"It's over."
Sasha's voice was low, steady, and faintly chilling as she stepped out of the bathtub filled with ice. Her pale skin steamed in the dim light of the safehouse, cold water dripping from her cybernetic joints. The harsh fluorescent glow above flickered twice before stabilizing, casting long shadows across the room.
Mann, the rough, broad-shouldered mercenary leaning against the cracked window frame, tilted his head back at a sharp angle—about forty-five degrees—staring at the ceiling as if he had seen this scene too many times to be moved anymore. His expression was a mask of indifference, but his clenched jaw betrayed unease.
Pyrrha was nowhere in sight. No doubt she had buried herself again in her cluttered workshop, tinkering endlessly with her scrap-built drones and jury-rigged weapons.
Dolio, quiet as always, stepped forward and draped a heavy coat over Sasha's shoulders. Her body shivered, not entirely from the ice bath but from the intensity of cyberspace. Everyone in the room was waiting—waiting for Sasha to deliver her findings, waiting for good news.
Sinking into cyberspace had its risks, but it remained one of the most effective ways to uncover trails and digital echoes left by targets. Hackers could map out networks, sniff out identities, even anticipate moves. But the danger was always the same: if you weren't careful, you could just as easily fall into a trap. The company's own netrunners would not hesitate to fry your neural implants, cooking your brain from the inside out.
Rebecca, who had been singled out by William—the man Sasha had been chasing in the digital dark—was in no mood for optimism. She sprawled across the smooth sill of the bay window, arms folded behind her head, her eyes closed as if sleeping. But the sharp twitch of her brow and the occasional clench of her jaw betrayed that she was very much awake, simmering with frustration.
Her voice broke the tense silence:
"Dogtown's net is as broken-down as the streets outside. But at least I have a name—William. I have to hand it to him, though. He's got someone watching his back. Some hacker shielding his information, cleaning his trails. Makes him look like some folk hero."
Sasha's lips curled into a half-smile, her eyes narrowing in satisfaction. The thin, whisker-like prosthetic sensors on her cheeks twitched faintly, making her look like a lazy, self-satisfied cat.
"I don't know any William," Rebecca snapped, pushing off the sill. She leaned dangerously close to Sasha's face, her eyes blazing. "Could it be the Hellhounds are tailing us?"
Before she could spit another word, Mann reached out with one hand and, as if she were nothing more than a doll, lifted Rebecca bodily off the ground and placed her gently onto the bed.
Rebecca crossed her arms tightly, burying half her face into the oversized collar of her coat. She sulked, cheeks puffing like a pouting child.
Sasha shrugged. "Not likely. The Hellhounds leave no logs. No records. That's their style. But it is strange this William got kicked out."
Dolio adjusted his glasses, his voice calm. "Hansen should've handled the whole team, cleaned them out completely. That was his way. Gamblers, drinkers, partners—gone. No loose ends."
"As for the rest of the transport security," Sasha added with a lazy stretch of her arms, "we cleaned them up ourselves."
Mann frowned deeply, his scarred face wrinkling. Hansen's efficiency was brutal, meticulous. Leaving behind someone like William made no sense. Unless… unless Hansen had his reasons.
This was business, plain and simple. Their cyberpunk crew had taken the job, followed the contract. Loose ends meant risk. And Colonel Hansen was never the kind of man to leave risks behind.
But then why was William still alive?
Mann's eyes hardened. Could it be that William knew something Hansen couldn't erase? Was his survival intentional, a cruel trick left dangling like bait?
The thought soured the room. Everyone had the same grim expression, silent but unanimous in their suspicion.
Mann finally broke the silence. His gravelly voice weighed down the air:
"Is Dogtown easy to get into?"
The question sealed it. They would pursue. Hansen's motives didn't matter anymore. What mattered was that William—the so-called "former Nether Hound"—was alive, and that made him a problem.
Dolio nodded. "Find a middleman. There are ways in through the outer wall. It'll take time, but it can be done."
Rebecca clenched her fist, eyes blazing with resolve. "No. Forget middlemen. We handle this ourselves. We end him."
Sasha's lips curved upward. "Fine by me. I'll cooperate. After all…" her eyes glimmered, "cat and mouse is always fun."
---
Five hundred euros. A full five hundred.
William's heart sank. For that obscene price, he had only managed to secure fifty technical sniper rounds. Fifty bullets—for a fortune.
The black-market dealer at the Stadium had gouged him shamelessly. William had haggled, sweated, argued until his throat was raw, and in the end, still paid fifty euros per bullet.
At least the sniper rifle wrapped in a dirty cloth bag slung across his back offered a degree of comfort. It wasn't much, but it was something.
He thought again of his strange "panel." If he could view his abilities, did that mean he could use the ones tied to his skill tree?
He tested the theory, focusing, willing the points to move. But nothing worked. The system remained stubbornly rigid. Points only raised certain attributes. They didn't unlock new tricks on demand.
Game rules. Always the damn game rules.
According to the settings he remembered from before he woke up in this nightmare, there were caps. He couldn't spread points everywhere—he had to choose. Swords, hacking, rifles, pistols. Each style demanded commitment.
Back when this was just a game, William had dabbled in everything for the sake of a "full review." But this wasn't a game anymore. His choices had weight.
He glanced at his current stats:
Physique: 9
Reaction: 6
Technical Skill: 2
Intelligence: 4
Calmness: 5
One point higher in physique than he remembered. Why? Favorability with Hansen? Or… something else?
The thought made his chest hollow. His eyes drifted to the memory of bloodstained military gloves tumbling inside a washing machine—Seno's gloves, given to him before… everything.
No time for grief. No time for nostalgia.
William adjusted his coat, pushed forward. From the Dogtown checkpoint, he hiked uphill toward the mountaintop.
Hands—the fixer—had promised him a hacker contact. A "Hamster." Yet every attempt to reach him had gone unanswered. What the hell was the guy busy with?
Dogtown was alive with its usual chaos. Slouching gangers from the Animals, drunks slumped against neon-lit walls, shouts spilling from a makeshift boxing ring where two men beat each other bloody for the amusement of jeering crowds.
William ignored them. He had an appointment.
The destination looked pathetic: a sagging old motel, its neon sign long since cracked, its windows boarded.
He rang the doorbell.
"Beep!"
A distorted chime echoed, followed by the crackle of static. A lens above the door whirred to life, scanning him with a cold beam.
A raspy voice drifted from the intercom:
"Hello?"
"Mr. Hands sent me."
There was a pause, then the heavy door groaned open. Inside, the once-bustling dining hall was reduced to a fortress of stacked tables and mounted turrets. The muzzles of several auto-guns swiveled instantly, locking onto William the moment he stepped inside.
One twitch of the trigger, and he would be reduced to paste.
The Hamster's voice, distorted and omnipresent, filled the space:
"Third door on the left. Turn right. Manhole cover ahead. Lift, crawl, close. Don't forget to close."
Reluctance dripped from his tone, as if even giving directions was beneath him.
The underground tunnel was narrow, claustrophobic. Emergency lights cast everything in a sickly green glow, guiding William deeper like a path into hell. Sweat beaded his forehead. The air grew hotter the further he crawled.
When he finally emerged, his boots landed on a maze of pipes. Before him stretched a cathedral of servers, humming, glowing. Amidst the tangle of cables lay a man slumped in a recliner, jacked into cyberspace.
William muttered under his breath, envy tingeing his words. "If only I had an operating system implant. Maybe then I could see cyberspace too…"
A voice snapped him out of it:
"Hands tell you what you're here for?"
William's grip tightened on his gun. "Stop the cyberpunk team coming for us."
Hamster chuckled bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sounds so easy when you say it. Like you're just running to Genting to play arcade games."
William winced. With his intelligence barely scraping a four, he knew he must have sounded like a fool.
What would he really do when the team came for him?
Hamster didn't wait for an answer. "Their hacker's sharp. She already knows where to find you. I saw it. But don't worry—they're only interested in you. Hansen's hideout? Locked down tight, guarded by ex-military netrunners. No one's touching him.
"But you? You're the unlucky one. Hansen's scapegoat. His decoy. His abandoned child. You're the one tossed to the wolves."
William's stomach sank.
He asked anyway, his tone sardonic: "Then maybe you should train me. What do I say when a cyberpunk hit squad comes knocking? 'Hey guys, let's put our guns down and go grab synthetic meat at Westbrook's food trucks?'"
Hamster burst out laughing. "Hahaha! Idiot."
Still chuckling, he added, "Fine. Hands cares about this job, so I'll play my part. I'll talk with their hacker, throw fake data into the stream. If they come to kill you, just hold out a little. The Nether Hound will come once there's noise."
William blinked. "Hold out? Me? Alone?"
Hamster's voice turned sharp. "Of course. Who else? My friend, welcome to the game. You're the mouse. Don't let the cat catch you. Survive long enough, and maybe you'll get a new face from a ripperdoc at the Stadium. That's the deal.
"I take my money. You take your surgery. After that, we don't owe each other a damn thing."
---
End of Chapter 7