Vincent stood in front of the building's door, its paint cracked and peeling, wood warped from years of neglect.
He's been here before—deals with Fernando, the guy who sold new lives to those who needed them. Immigrants, criminals, people like Vincent.
The alley reeked of stale beer and damp concrete, the cold biting at his exposed skin. His breath misted in the faint sunlight filtering through the gaps between buildings. He knocked once. Paused.
Knocked again. No response.
Then, after a few seconds, the door creaked open just enough for a single bloodshot eye to peer out. It studied him.
Vincent lifted his cap slightly, making sure the person recognized his face. The lock clicked, heavy and deliberate, and the door swung open.
Vincent stepped inside, his sneakers pressing against the dirty, dust-covered floor. The building's worn-down exterior didn't match what was inside.
Computer screens glowed with streams of code, laser printers spat out documents in rapid succession, and high-end security hardware lined the cluttered workspace. The air reeked of burnt circuits, cheap alcohol, and sweat.
Fernando slumped into his chair, running a hand through his greasy hair. Vincent smirked slightly, though his expression stayed flat. "I need an identity."
Fernando scoffed, tapping away at a cracked keyboard. "And you think I'll just hand over a clean slate like it's fuckin' candy?"
Vincent exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp. "I think you will. Because you owe me."
Fernando's fingers froze mid-keystroke. The screen beside him lit up, encrypted files flashing across the display—files Vincent could access if he wanted. "You need more than a fake passport, don't you? What's it this time?"
Vincent reached for a file from the cabinet behind Fernando, flipping through it without reading. "I need something completely untraceable."
Fernando smirked, revealing teeth stained dark from cigarettes and bad decisions. "You're either runnin', or stirrin' up some serious shit."
Vincent didn't respond—there was no need to.
Fernando sighed, rubbing his temples, then resumed typing. The monitors around him then filled with Vincent's fabricated identities, family records, credentials—documents that didn't exist but could be created for the right price.
"You know how this works. Don't waste my time," Fernando muttered as he worked, his mouse gliding across the screen.
Vincent pulled a stack of cash from his hoodie and tossed it onto the desk. "Get it done."
Fernando barely glanced at the money before shifting his gaze back to Vincent. "No refunds, man."
Vincent kept his gaze steady. "Won't be needing one."
Fernando exhaled, stretched his fingers, and got to work.
***
Vincent took the brown envelope Fernando handed him and tucked it into his hoodie. No need to check—he trusted him to deliver flawless work.
Inside, he knew, were the keys to a new existence. His name now was Vincent Mercer. The bundle contained a new ID card, a driver's license, and credit cards with a plausible history.
There were even fabricated family records, a childhood in a small town upstate, a simple life without the shadows of Rothvale Enterprises or the cutthroat tech world. It was a blank slate, meticulously crafted to withstand casual scrutiny.
He felt the weight of it, a strange mix of freedom and loss. The old Vincent Rothvale, the failed New Market King, was gone.
Without another words, Vincent turned and left. The metal door groaned as he pushed it open, the cold air hitting him again.
He pulled his hoodie lower, making sure no one paid him any attention as he stepped back onto the street. The alley was quiet now. The only sound was his footsteps against the snow-dusted concrete.
Ahead of him, a translucent blue screen shimmered into existence, visible only to him.
[Task Complete: New Identity Acquired.]
Vincent frowned slightly and muttered, "This damn system—always breathing down my neck."
Ignoring the screen that fading away, he kept walking toward the motel with its flickering lights ahead.
***
Vincent sat in his motel room, eating a shitty soup that tasted like rust, while watching the system scree. It blinked again.
[Next Objective: Secure Local Operations – Target: Stardust Motel.]
He muttered in confusion, "What the hell's this crap?" His fingers tapped lightly against the table as he reread the directive, but before he could process it further, the screen updated.
[Objective Breakdown:]
[Take control of Stardust Motel's financial and operational functions. Influence key individuals to ensure long-term stability.]
[Eliminate external threats that may compromise the motel's security.]
[Failure to complete this objective will result in System Penalties: Intensive VR Simulation Protocol Activated.]
Vincent exhaled slowly. "Take over this place? For what? This place is a damn money pit."
He scanned his motel room, taking in the faded wallpaper and flickering ceiling light. Leaning back in his chair, he ran a hand through his hair.
The system flickered again with the owner of this motel's information. He supposed that it was the woman he saw back there at the receptionist desk, when he returned from Fernando's place.
[Name: Stephanie Moore.]
[Status: Motel Owner.]
[Weakness Detected: Financial Struggles, Poor Business Performance.]
Vincent had stared at that information for a long time, uncertain why the system wanted him here. The motel didn't even seem profitable.
But then he remembered what the system had done to him before—seizing control of his body, making decisions for him while he remained fully conscious. The thought alone sent a chill down his spine.
"This damn thing will push me even harder if I don't play along."
Therefore, by afternoon, he left his room. At the front desk, Stephanie Moore was still at work. She ran the motel during the day while her husband took over at night, the old man was her husband.
Her brown hair was tied back loosely, and her tired eyes focused on sorting through paperwork.
Vincent approached the desk with a calm demeanor. She barely glanced up before speaking in a bored tone. "Do you need something?"
Vincent leaned against the counter, offering a casual smile. "I have an offer for you."
Stephanie raised an eyebrow. "Listen, if this is about an extra room or a discount, the answer is no."
Vincent chuckled but kept his tone measured. "No. This is about saving your business before it shuts down next month."
Stephanie froze mid-action, her fingers tightening around a document. Her eyes narrowed slightly, cautious. "How do you know about that?"
Vincent met her gaze evenly. "Because I know more than you think. And I can help you—under certain conditions."
She leaned back, crossing her arms. "And what conditions are those?"
Vincent's smile faded. His voice was cold and serious now. "I take over the motel's operations. You stay on as the owner, but final decisions are mine."
Stephanie scoffed, shaking her head. "You're joking."
"I never joke about business," Vincent responded, his expression unwavering. "I can make this place profitable and safer. If you refuse… well, I doubt you want to watch it go bankrupt in a matter of weeks."
Stephanie stared at him for a long moment, suspicion and hesitation visible in her tense posture. Vincent let the silence stretch, knowing she was weighing her options.
She glanced toward the financial reports scattered across the desk—the ones she had been struggling with all morning.
Vincent leaned in slightly, voice steady. "You don't have time to think about this for too long."
Stephanie exhaled, rubbing her temples, the weight of reality settling in.
Vincent waited. He had already calculated the outcome.
She would say yes.
Eventually.