As we stepped into the Deposit Center, the Asian Courier abruptly halted.

  "Hold on," she said.

  From her pocket, she retrieved a Fiber Patch and pressed it against the open wound on my chest. The AI-driven medical device immediately spread its ultra-thin, spider-silk fibers across my skin, sealing the breach. I felt a faint tingling as the microscopic threads infiltrated my flesh, stemming the blood flow and administering pain-killing compounds. Within seconds, the searing pain dulled to a manageable ache.

  "999," she announced, stepping back to let me stand unassisted.

  "999?" I questioned.

  "Credits for the Fiber Patch," she clarified, her expression neutral. "Not charity."

  I managed a weak smile. "Sure thing."

  She nodded, and together we approached the desk at the corridor's end.

  A man in his thirties sat behind the counter, barely acknowledging our presence before gesturing toward the familiar deposit machine. While my rescuer lingered behind, I scanned my identification chip at the terminal. The LED shifted from red to green. I reached behind my neck and connected my Receptacle to the machine's solitary port.

  The LED pulsed briefly—then reverted to its dormant red state.

  The clerk glanced up with irritation. "You need a Soul to make a deposit," he said, returning to his keyboard.

  "I have a Soul," I insisted. "I just secured the Gold Tier."

  He laughed without looking up, fingers still clacking against keys. "A Gold Tier. Right."

  I leaned toward him, desperation creeping into my voice. "I just received the Gold Tier that was dispatched to me. I've downloaded it."

  He finally looked up, his expression a mixture of disgust and condescension. "There hasn't been a Gold Tier call, Courier."

  I turned to the Asian woman, whose confusion mirrored my own. When I faced the clerk again, my voice rose despite my efforts to remain calm.

  "Listen, there was a Gold Tier call, and I downloaded the Soul. Please, check again!"

  "Please refrain from shouting," he responded without shifting his gaze from the screen. "I assure you, there has been no Gold Tier call. I would certainly know."

  "But there was! Check again!"

  The man stopped typing and fixed me with a cold stare. "There was NOT. Now, if you plan on causing a scene, I'll be compelled to summon security. Trust me, Courier, that's a scenario you'd prefer to avoid."

  He gestured toward the imposing row of guards stationed in formation along the length of the hallway—the same security detail I'd encountered on every visit, whose presence alone was enough to deter any trouble. Their helmeted heads swiveled in our direction with mechanical precision, hands shifting to rest on their weapons. These weren't ordinary security—they were MainFrame's elite enforcers, trained and augmented specifically to eliminate threats without hesitation or mercy.

  I backed away toward the Asian Courier, keeping the guards in my peripheral vision.

  "What the hell is happening?" she whispered.

  "My Receptacle is empty, and he insists there was no Gold Tier call," I said, still watching the guards.

  "Wait—you didn't get the Soul? But—"

  "I did," I interrupted. "But according to them, there was no call."

  I noticed a subtle flicker in her eyes—the telltale sign of someone accessing their neural overlay. After a moment, she frowned.

  "I have no record of that call."

  I rapidly reviewed my own Courier call history, scanning the log twice to be certain. Nothing.

  "Neither do I," I admitted, my confusion mounting. "But you remember receiving it, right?"

  "Yes, I got the call. I was too far to make it in time, but I'm certain I received it. I even had to fight off two other Couriers who were trying to reach the same target. A Gold Tier? No way any of us would forget that."

  Before I could respond, she approached the desk clerk.

  "We both received the call," she said, her tone measured but firm. "Something's wrong. I know you're busy, but please check again."

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  The man stared at her with that same condescending smile, then spoke with exaggerated patience:

  "Do you genuinely believe I would overlook a GOLD TIER in this wretched place? Who around here could afford a Gold Tier subscription? I'll say it once more: there was NO Gold Tier call. Now, either deposit a Soul or leave."

  He signaled to the security guards, who began to close in around us.

  "We're leaving," I said, grabbing the Asian Courier's arm and pulling her firmly away before she could escalate the situation further.

  Outside, MainFrame Cleaners were already removing evidence of the junkie massacre, pushing blood and flesh unceremoniously into the street. Their duty extended only to maintaining MainFrame property; the city beyond held no importance to them.

  I turned to the woman beside me. "What the hell is happening?"

  "I know I received the call," she stated firmly.

  "I secured the Soul," I began, "I'm certain—"

  "Waste of time," she cut me off, frustration evident in her voice. "An utter waste of time."

  She pivoted to face me, her gaze unyielding. "I want my Credits," she repeated, each word emphasized like a hammer striking metal.

  "Half of nothing is nothing," I said. "Aren't you curious about what's happening?"

  "I couldn't care less about what's happening. I was promised Credits. You owe me for saving your life." Her voice hardened further. "Perhaps the subscriber didn't pay the full amount, or maybe MainFrame isn't honoring a Gold Tier. What I do know is that I am owed 125,999 Credits."

  I shrugged, gesturing helplessly. "I didn't receive any payment—"

  "Damn you," she muttered.

  In a movement faster than I could react to, she seized the Fiber Patch and ripped it from my chest with brutal efficiency—no warning, no hesitation, not the slightest concern for the damage she might cause. The nano fibers tore from my flesh with a sickening wet sound, reopening the wound completely. Blood gushed down my torso as white-hot pain exploded through my nervous system. I collapsed to my knees with a strangled gasp, suddenly light-headed as crimson pooled beneath me.

  "999," she said, crouching down to bring her face inches from mine, her breath warm against my skin as she stared directly into my eyes. There wasn't a hint of compassion in her expression—just cold, calculated business as I struggled to remain conscious.

  In no condition to argue, I hastily transferred the Credits via my neural interface.

  Only then did she release her grip. The Fiber Patch, sensing the damage, immediately activated its emergency protocols. The AI-driven nano filaments frantically rewove themselves through the wound with desperate efficiency, racing to stem the bleeding and repair the damage as the device reattached itself to my skin.

  Without another word, she bounded down the steps and disappeared into the streets.

  "Wait!" I called after her, but she never broke stride.

  I was left alone with a web of mysteries that seemed to be tightening around me. The target had been alive when I arrived. I'd experienced painful headaches and visions of memories that weren't mine—when I should have been losing my own memories. And now, the Gold Tier call itself had apparently never existed.

  My watch read 3:47 AM. Returning to Red Fusion in my condition would be suicidal. I summoned a Homing Driver through my neural interface.

  Homing Drivers represented a unique class of urban survivors—heavily armed independent operators who transported clients through ToxCity's most dangerous districts. They used darknet connections to arrange pickups, their vehicles as intimidating as their reputations. Even the most desperate criminals knew the unwritten rule: attack a Homing Driver, and you'd never live to regret it. Their services commanded astronomical prices, but in my condition, traversing the streets alone wasn't an option.

  I placed the call, and a driver with the ID "HD 09981" responded immediately.

  HD 09981: "Avant Street to Red Fusion, 7,800 Credits."

  Highway robbery, but I had no alternative. I accepted the offer, and a countdown timer appeared in my vision. Four minutes until arrival.

  I positioned myself near the MainFrame entrance, knowing no one would harass me there. At least my headache had subsided. Looking down at my chest, I watched the Fiber Patch adhering firmly to my skin—a reminder that the Asian Courier had saved my life, despite her subsequent blackmail. This was ToxCity, after all. Grudges were a luxury. She had taken a risk expecting payment and, like me, had come away empty-handed. All things considered, she could have done far worse.

  I reviewed my call history once more, searching for any trace of the Gold Tier assignment. Nothing. How was this possible? I'd never heard of such a thing.

  The implications were unsettling. Was MainFrame deliberately erasing records to avoid payment? That made little sense—their reputation for honoring contracts was the foundation of their business model. Had someone tampered with my Receptacle while I was unconscious? And what about Noah's body—how could it simply vanish from the apartment? The scenarios spinning through my mind were becoming increasingly paranoid, yet none seemed to adequately explain what I'd experienced.

  My spiraling thoughts were interrupted by a familiar violet glow that suddenly illuminated the street. The Homing Driver had arrived. The vehicle was a heavily modified pickup truck plated with steel reinforcement, imposing even by ToxCity standards. Two AI-controlled laser turrets mounted on the roof swiveled with nervous, predatory movements—not random scans but the calculated pattern of defense systems anticipating threats. The weapons tracked every shadow and movement, ready to unleash devastating firepower at the slightest provocation. The few remaining junkies wisely retreated into alleys, knowing from bitter experience what happened to those who approached too closely.

  No one dared provoke the Homing Drivers.

  My neural interface pinged with a notification:

  HD 09981: "At pickup location, payment required."

  I confirmed the transfer, and the passenger door swung open. I climbed in, the driver safely enclosed in a separate compartment behind bulletproof glass—standard design for all Homing vehicles, separating client from operator without exception.

  The door sealed with a reassuring click.

  I settled into the reasonably comfortable seat as the truck pulled away from the curb. Through the tinted windows, I watched the nocturnal city pass by, grateful for this momentary bubble of safety as the vehicle carried me home through streets that had nearly claimed my life.

  Everything had gone perfectly wrong. I'd secured a Gold Tier Soul—or thought I had—only to find my Receptacle nearly empty and my target's body vanished. I'd experienced memories that weren't mine, hallucinations that felt more real than reality itself, and now faced the fact that the call itself had apparently never existed.

  And Noah Cole's final words echoed in my mind: "And so it begins."

  What exactly had begun?