Cain didn't look at the timer again. He didn't need a countdown to tell him time was leaking out. The doors pulsed in silence, and the room felt colder now, like whatever power fed this space was winding down. He stepped toward the one marked STEP FORWARD, pressed his hand flat against the panel, and held it steady.
The metal clicked. Once. Then again. The door slid open—no hydraulics, no airlock release—just a low, grinding shift as though it had been sealed for years. Beyond it, a tunnel stretched narrow and dim, lit by old fluorescent strips tucked into the ceiling. Half of them flickered. One hummed constantly like a dying wasp.
Cain walked forward, his footsteps landing with dull taps against the concrete. The air smelled like burnt ozone and rust. Not blood, not death. Not yet.
At the far end of the tunnel, the floor dropped three shallow steps into a square room. No wider than a freight lift, no taller than a crawlspace. It wasn't made for standing long. In the center, a single rusted table held an object wrapped in black cloth and a sealed envelope laid flat on top.
Cain stepped in. No doors closed behind him. No lights changed. The room didn't react. He pulled the cloth aside—beneath it, a burner. Unmarked. Smooth metal shell. No insignia. No serial number. No dust. It was warm to the touch.
He opened the envelope. Inside, a strip of thick paper—clean, white, the kind only those above ground still used. Printed in sharp gray ink, only two lines:
"Use this for an official. No second chances."
No name. No seal. No return tag. But the paper carried weight—the kind of weight only certain people could afford to write with. He folded it once, slid it into his coat, and pocketed the burner.
The lights flickered again.
Cain turned back. The tunnel hadn't vanished, but the walls now pulsed faintly like a system in purge mode. This place was shutting down. He didn't wait for the rest.
He moved fast, retracing his path without slowing. Up the winding stairs, past the dead panel doors, through the console room where the third player had vanished. Nothing moved. Nothing watched. The entire zone felt like a machine exhaling its final task.
Cain emerged into Sector Twelve. The sky above had dimmed to a steel-gray wash, clouds bleeding rust between power lines. The burner still in his coat—his original—showed no new message. The silver one, still synced, gave one final vibration.
[Session Complete. Exit Approved.]
He tossed it into a drain hatch without stopping.
The city had already begun to erase the evidence. Pathways Cain used were re-locked. Barriers he bypassed had reset. Sector Twelve was folding back into what it had always pretended to be—abandoned.
But Cain didn't return to hiding. He didn't swing back toward neutral ground.
He went home.
Back to Guttercrew.
Not through the front. That was never his door.
He took the freight chute behind the south incinerator, slid through the pipe vents above the abandoned ration hall, and dropped down into the lower corridor just behind the main pit.
No one greeted him. That was expected. They hadn't seen him leave.
The pit hadn't changed—rusted steel catwalks coiled like veins across a square shaft four floors deep. Steam hissed from wall cracks. Orange light spilled from old weld lamps, casting long shadows across wet concrete. The smell of sweat, oil, and cheap burner fuel hung thick in the air.
Cain took the side path. Passed the sparring pit. Ignored the kids pushing each other into the dust.
He walked until he found Marrow.
The man was leaning against a railing, arms folded, cigarette lit and burning fast. Scarred chin. Old red jacket with one sleeve torn off. He looked up as Cain approached, and didn't smile.
"Didn't think you'd crawl back," Marrow muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose.
Cain said nothing. He pulled the envelope from his coat and let the symbol press face-up against the steel railing. The seal wasn't printed. It was embossed.
Marrow froze.
"Where the hell did you get that?"
Cain didn't answer. He placed the burner on the edge of the rail.
"I want an official."
Marrow stared. The pit kept roaring behind them—shouts, movement, steel grinding—but it all faded around that one burner sitting cold on the rail.
"That's a chamber burner," Marrow muttered. "We're not supposed to even look at those."
"You just did," Cain said.
Marrow rubbed his jaw, then reached for his own device. Scrolled once. Hesitated.
"One job. Low-tier. But it logs," he said. "Broker named Feld. Skimmed off two hits. Didn't pay taxes to the crew."
"Give it to me."
Marrow tapped the burner. The job packet loaded. Cain's original burner buzzed.
[OFFICIAL HIT LOGGED – TIMER UPDATED – SYSTEM SYNCING...]
[SUCCESSFUL KILL REWARDS: + TIME CREDIT / + NOTORIETY / + PATH TO PROMOTION FLAGGED]
Cain didn't speak. He picked up the new burner, turned away from the pit, and walked toward the stairwell that led to the lower city.
The lower city was loud, but not in the way Cain remembered. It wasn't the kind of noise that came from celebration or survival—it was the chaos of things falling apart slowly, systems stuttering mid-cycle, people grinding against each other for space, power, or the last piece of working tech. The alleys were packed with carts selling things that didn't work, food that barely passed for edible, and knockoff parts that could fry a whole network hub in minutes. Cain kept his head low, his coat tight, and moved fast.
The burner pulsed once in his pocket. He pulled it out. The target package had opened without prompt.
Target: Jerrin Feld – Broker/Runner
Last Seen: Sector C-9 transit outpost.
Behavioral Note: Suspicious, erratic, armed. Reported to avoid contact. Prior crew ties revoked.
Sector C-9 was four corridors deep beneath the main grid. It used to be part of the outbound freight lanes before Ashgate rerouted to the newer upper ring. That made it perfect for someone like Feld to vanish—forgotten infrastructure, forgotten debt, no one looking twice.
Cain passed a row of junkers who didn't bother lifting their eyes. The deeper he moved, the more the lights thinned, replaced by biofuel lanterns rigged to melted pipe walls. One flickered over a dead screen playing an endless ad loop for shoes no one wore anymore. He kept walking.
Near the edge of C-9, the last checkpoint had been stripped down to rust and steel. The gate stood open, not from welcome but abandonment. Inside, the platform was mostly empty—rows of locked bins, a deactivated freight lift, and a burned-out vending shell stacked with stolen stimpacks. Cain ignored it all.
A glint caught his eye near the tracks—movement. Fast. Someone ducked behind the old maintenance carriage.
Cain kept walking, but changed angles. He moved down the broken staircase and toward the side wall, where the shadows ran deeper. His footsteps echoed wrong—delayed by a fraction, like someone else was moving too, trying to match pace and failing.
He reached the base of the platform, pressed against the cold concrete, and drew the short blade.
The burner buzzed again.
[Kill Window Active – Target Within Range]
Cain leaned out.
Feld stepped into view—jittery, eyes wild, coat too big, left sleeve torn at the shoulder. He was armed, but not smart. Holding the gun wrong. Shaking.
Cain stepped forward.
Feld turned too late.
"Wait—" he stammered, voice sharp, desperate, "I didn't take your job, I didn't skip—"
Cain didn't speak. He closed the gap fast, blade forward, pressure on every step. Feld fired once, the round cracking into the pillar behind him.
The second shot never came.
Cain dropped him fast and clean.
No crowd. No witnesses. No hesitation.
The System chimed in his ear:
[KILL CONFIRMED – CREDIT ALLOCATED – RANK ADVANCE LOGGED]
Cain stood over the body. Checked for burn tags. None.
But Feld's burner was still warm.
Cain crouched, picked it up, and watched as the screen blinked once before it self-erased.
Not a random burner.
A relay.