Sapphire-blue neon lights spilled through the blinds, painting fractured stripes of color across the underground hacker's den. The air smelled faintly of overheated circuits and synthetic oil. Screens hummed, the walls lined with blinking servers that filled the silence with an electric heartbeat.
William sat in the corner, stroking the sleek body of his oversized sniper rifle. His fingers ran along the matte finish of the barrel as if caressing something alive. The weapon wasn't just metal and tech to him—it had weight, presence, a soul.
From the other side of the room, Hamster's distorted voice snapped him out of his quiet reverie.
"Why the hell are you always staring at that oversized piece of junk?"
William froze for a moment, then tilted his head toward him, looking guilty. "Wait—how did you even notice that?"
Hamster gave him a deadpan look, one mechanical eye glowing faintly red.
"…Really?"
"Oh—right, right." William rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I keep forgetting that all the cameras in this place are patched directly into your brain."
He tried to laugh it off, but the gesture seemed hollow. For him, the rifle was more than just a tool. The heavy, grounding weight of a real weapon couldn't be replaced by a training model or a cheap replica. Holding it made him feel… capable. Solid. Like he belonged.
Even though, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn't fired a single live shot since he woke up in this world.
Still, it felt good to pretend.
Then again—
Zhao! He cursed inwardly.
Was his intelligence really that easy to read? Did he wear his inexperience like a flashing sign above his head?
"Seriously, buddy," Hamster muttered, his voice dripping with suspicion. "Tell me the truth—have you ever actually risked your life? Or, let's put it simpler… have you ever been in a real firefight?"
William met his gaze. Hamster's eyes carried doubt, the kind that stripped away facades.
The truth stung. His body's memories weren't truly his own. His soul, transplanted through reincarnation, carried fragments of knowledge but not enough to mask his inexperience. He knew the theory of battle but lacked the scars of it.
Trying to defend himself, William sat up straighter. "We were escorting cargo once. The transport exploded, and I was thrown clear. After that, I raced with the squad, fired missiles, took a few volleys, and pinned down the enemy mercs until they couldn't lift their heads. Does that count?"
Hamster just stared.
William's jaw tightened. "Besides," he added sharply, "I'm from the Netherhounds. That should say enough."
The silence lingered before Hamster finally raised both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. You're amazing. I'll… keep monitoring the hackers across the street."
William leaned back, letting the moment pass.
Still, doubts gnawed at him. The team Mann had assembled—were they operating with just one hacker? Or was it Qi Wei, the sharp-eyed queen of cyberspace? Or maybe that strange little girl with white hair tipped in shifting colors? His memory was fuzzy.
Damn it. He hadn't studied up properly on the team's history before reincarnation. A rookie mistake.
But based on what he remembered of 2075, the white-haired girl wouldn't be here yet. Which left Qi Wei as the most likely candidate. A queen of the Net. Dangerous.
William shook his head.
The truth was, he didn't know how to fit into this cyberpunk squad. He and Hamster were like mismatched gears in a machine that already ran on blood, code, and trust. The uncertainty made his chest tight.
His gaze drifted back to the sniper rifle in his lap. The weapon glimmered faintly under the neon, its chamber fitted with an energy-core system. A technical sniper rifle—sleek, powerful, deadly.
But there was something he didn't understand.
If the rifle used a charge mechanic, then… did it charge while pulling the trigger? Or only when holding it down? That subtle difference could mean the difference between a clean headshot and a misfire.
The question burned at him.
Yet he'd never tested it. The gun shop owner had refused to let him try, terrified that the rifle would blast through the target wall and half the shop behind it.
And shooting it out in the open? Madness. The Netherhound mecha units patrolling outside would shred him into pieces before he could blink.
The body he now inhabited—the original William—had only ever trained with pistols and standard rifles. He was no sniper.
But William's mind sparked with a sudden idea.
"Wait… maybe there is a way I can test this," he whispered, eyes lighting up.
He turned to Hamster. "Hey, I've got a question."
Hamster didn't look up from the glowing interface dancing before his eyes. "Mm?"
William asked plainly, "This technical sniper rifle—does it charge when I pull the trigger, or when I hold it down?"
Silence.
The hum of the servers filled the air like an accusation.
Hamster's chair creaked as he slowly sat upright. With deliberate slowness, he reached behind his neck and yanked out the network cable connected to his spine. His cybernetic eye glowed dangerously.
"You…" his voice trembled with rage, "…you bastard!"
William blinked, genuinely confused. "What? I only trained with rifles and pistols in the Netherhound barracks. I'm not a sniper. I just need to know the mechanics. Don't worry, I've got good aim."
"Good aim?!" Hamster's voice cracked. He stood, pacing like a caged animal. "Do you even know why Hands gave you a sniper rifle? Huh?"
William nodded firmly. "Of course I know. A sniper's job is to fight against many, to hold the line and buy time."
Hamster threw up his hands, his voice breaking into a furious roar. "Then you knew you couldn't even use the damn thing properly? And yet Hands still trusted you enough to hand it over? Why, William? Why?"
Watching the older man unravel, William sighed. Hamster's emotions were too volatile, too fragile. If anyone here was going to get shot first in a firefight, it would probably be him.
"Calm down, buddy," William said softly.
But Hamster wasn't calm. His voice shook. "You don't get it, idiot. The point isn't the rifle. The point is that you stay alive. Do you understand?"
William raised an eyebrow. "But you're the one handling the hackers on the other side."
The words were delivered so simply, so matter-of-factly, that Hamster froze.
He let out a strangled laugh and threw a small chip toward William. "Fine! You're the big hero then. Take this!"
William caught it out of the air. The chip glimmered faintly under the light.
Hamster's face twisted in fury. "That's military tech. I modified it with Arasaka's software. It contains combat simulations—sniper patterns, vital signs, everything. Learn from it."
"Damn it, I knew that old bastard Hands had ulterior motives!"
Hamster collapsed back into his chair, muttering bitterly, refusing to look at William again.
At that moment, William's neural implant buzzed.
[Caller: Mr. Hands]
The familiar voice rasped through. "Young man, you should've arrived at my associate's place by now?"
William nodded, glancing at Hamster. "I'm here. And… I've got the chip."
Hamster's knuckles whitened, fists clenching silently.
"Interesting," Hands mused. "That miser told me he only needed it for a few days. He paid me a pittance, took the chip, and then vanished for months. I never thought I'd see it again. But you, William—you've actually retrieved it. Good work. Just return it to me when the time comes."
His tone darkened. "Hansen's Hellhound patrols are nearby. You'll need to put on a convincing show. Keep things friendly, mislead them with false data—they'll back off."
William nodded.
"Oh, and one more thing." Hands hesitated. "There will be… a surprise tonight. I hope you can protect yourself."
A surprise? William frowned. "What kind of surprise?"
But Hands had already hung up.
The line went dead.
William stared at the chip in his palm. Whatever Hands was planning, he'd figure it out later. For now, there was only one thing to do: plug it in.
He slotted the chip into the neural socket at the base of his skull. A surge of data flooded his senses, painting the dim hacker's basement with streams of glowing code.
Hamster's voice cut through, still bitter but practical. "Memorize the Phantom Hound's manual. Learn how to choose targets. If you die out there, it's on you."
William smirked faintly. Even in anger, the man still gave sound advice.
[Please adjust your weapon. Testing sequence initiated.]
[Technical sniper rifle: confirmed.]
[Please clear the chamber and confirm no live rounds remain. The system will monitor continuously.]
William ejected the magazine, following the automated prompts.
The world dimmed. Lines of pure geometry formed around him, creating a training field. The weight of the rifle in his hands felt sharper, heavier, as if molded to perfection.
A phantom voice guided him: Select your sniper position. Always choose terrain that favors your survival.
He obeyed, his instincts sharpening with each instruction. His body adapted quickly, soldier training from the Netherhounds blending with the simulation's guidance.
Still, he knew there was a gap between being a trained sniper and becoming a veteran one. Experience was earned in streets choked with smoke and blood, not in sterile virtual spaces.
But for now, this was enough.
He leveled the rifle.
[Please fire.]
William pressed the trigger.
The rifle hummed, charging with a resonant buzz. Then, with a thunderous bang, energy exploded from the muzzle, shaking his bones.
And for the first time, William understood the true power of the weapon he held.
The basement fell silent once more. Two men—one immersed in a chip-fed sniper simulation, the other slumped in a hacker's chair with a cable still dangling from his neck.
An odd, quiet partnership in a city where death was never far away.
(End of Chapter 8)