Russ didn't waste time.
After dragging a few broken crates and snapped chair legs across the shack's entrance, he stacked them in a weak but passable barricade. It wouldn't stop anyone determined, but it might give him a few extra seconds. That was all he ever needed. Seconds. Enough time to think, to react. To kill, if it came to that.
He sat down with his back pressed against the rough, cold wall. The floor beneath him felt like damp stone mixed with dirt and rot. His knife stayed in his hand, the blade angled downward, resting against his leg. His entire body throbbed with a deep, grinding ache, but it was far away somehow, like the pain was happening in someone else's skin.
Right now, only one thing mattered.
"System," he said flatly, barely moving his lips. "What are your functions?"
[Accessing System Manual.]
[Core Modules Available:]
[1. Contract – Accept, track, and fulfill kill assignments.]
[2. Trophy Room – Stores physical, mental, and symbolic trophies gained from targets. Used for upgrades and insight.]
[3. Profile – Displays your stats, traits, skills, and behavioral profile. Updated in real time.]
[4. Echoes – Replay target memories, behaviors, speech, and skills post-termination.]
Russ narrowed his eyes slightly. That was enough to start with. Four systems. Four functions. All pointing toward the same conclusion. This thing wasn't just giving him another shot at life. It was shaping it.
He took them one by one.
[Contract]. That one was obvious. It wasn't leaving anything to chance. This wasn't some random drop into chaos, hoping he'd claw his way through. The system had intent. Structure. Missions. There was a source behind the contracts, someone or something deciding who deserved to die.
That was fine. He didn't care who was pulling the strings. What mattered was the direction. Purpose. Every kill was not just about survival anymore. It was about growth.
[Trophy Room]. That one made something in his chest stir. Not excitement, exactly. Just curiosity with teeth. The trophies could be anything—memories, habits, weapons, maybe even pieces of identity. They could be made useful. He could become something better after each kill. Something smarter. Stronger.
Kill. Take. Learn. Evolve.
Simple.
[Profile]. A record of himself. A mirror that didn't lie. He needed to know what he was working with.
"Show profile."
[Profile – Russ]
Age: 14
Body: Fragile
Stamina: Low
Strength: Low
Speed: Medium-Low
Mental Clarity: High
Traits:
, Cold Focus (Lv. 1): +50% mental clarity under pressure
, Learned Predator (Locked)
Skills:
, Improvised Weaponry (Lv. 1)
, Pain Resistance (Lv. 0)
, Environmental Awareness (Lv. 0)
[Note: Traits evolve with behavioral consistency. Skills level with use.]
Russ tilted his head slightly.
So the system liked patterns. Repetition. If he kept being himself—if he kept acting like the cold, calculating survivor he had always been—it would reward him.
It made sense. He didn't have to become someone else. He just had to do what he already knew how to do.
Be precise.
Be unfeeling.
Be effective.
He liked that.
[Echoes]. That one was the most interesting. Memories, behaviors, even speech. That meant every target wasn't just a stepping stone. They were a library. A collection of knowledge he could rip open and study. He couldn't become them physically, but he could learn what they knew. Use it. Bend it. Make it his.
The dead didn't stop being useful after they stopped breathing.
They became more useful.
Russ stood slowly. His joints cracked, his muscles sore and twitchy. But his mind, his thoughts—they were cleaner now. Focused like a blade pressed against glass. This world, whatever it was, made things clearer. Made everything feel... sharper.
Then the System spoke again.
[New Contract Available.]
[Target: Brogg Harlan. Slumlord. Child trafficker. Proprietor of The Pit.]
[Estimated Threat Level: Moderate.]
[Kill Conditions: Death by any means. Must confirm identity via facial match.]
[Contract Reward: 1 Trait Upgrade Token. +2 Skill Points. Unlock new Contract Tier.]
[Accept Contract? Y/N]
Russ didn't even blink.
"Yes."
[Contract Accepted. Target: Brogg Harlan.]
The information settled like bricks in his mind. Slumlord. Child trafficker. That told him enough. He didn't need a tragic backstory or detailed files. That one line was enough to justify everything. Brogg ran something called The Pit. Probably a location. Maybe a business front. More likely a hole full of bodies and screaming.
Moderate threat. That meant the man wasn't alone. He'd have protection. Probably thugs, maybe worse. That was fine.
Russ wasn't in a hurry. He had never survived by rushing.
He'd need tools. Supplies. He'd need to plan, learn, observe. And when the moment came, he'd strike hard, fast, without mercy.
He walked toward the crack in the shack wall, careful not to make too much noise. The wood groaned under his weight, but didn't break. He leaned into the gap and looked out.
The Maw District stretched beyond him, layer upon layer of crumbling filth. Buildings leaned against each other like drunks about to fall. Rooftops were rusted metal and rotted wood, all patched with blankets, plastic, or nothing at all. People moved like insects, bundled in rags, faces shadowed by hunger and desperation. Trash fires burned in the corners of alleyways, and overhead, the sky was choked by fog and ash.
A city on the edge of death, still pretending it could survive.
Perfect.
No law. No order. No eyes watching. No safety net waiting to catch anyone.
This wasn't just some slum. It was a jungle made of concrete and rust, where only the meanest, fastest, and smartest could live for long.
And Brogg Harlan had carved out a kingdom here.
Good.
Russ would carve something out of him.
He slid back from the wall and crouched down, inspecting the knife in his hand again. It was still dull, still old, but it had killed before. That made it trustworthy. It was a start. And starts were all he ever needed.
He tore a strip from one of the moldy bedsheets and wrapped it around the knife's handle. It gave him a better grip. Less slip. Less noise.
Every little improvement mattered.
Every step was toward control.
His body was weak. Small. Fragile. But that wasn't new. He'd grown up with a body that hurt. That took beatings and never healed quite right. It hadn't stopped him then, and it wouldn't stop him now.
The only difference was that this time, the pain had a purpose.
This time, there was a system watching.
Tracking.
Rewarding.
This time, every kill brought him closer to something.
He didn't know what the next tier would bring. Stronger targets? Bigger rewards? A map of this city? More tools?
Didn't matter.
Whatever it was, he'd earn it.
He pressed his fingers against the scarred skin of his forearm, the one that had been sliced during the fight with the man from earlier. It still hurt, but not much. Just enough to remind him it happened.
Just enough to remind him that he'd won.
Russ looked at the shack around him. It wouldn't last. He'd need to move soon. This place was a footprint, and footprints got noticed. But for now, it was shelter.
He sat back again, eyes half-closed, going over everything the system had told him. Replaying the words. Memorizing the functions. Planning the next step.
Somewhere in the Maw District, Brogg Harlan was alive.
And that was a problem.
Because Russ had already accepted the contract.
And when he said yes, he meant it.
No one would miss Brogg.
And if they did, they'd be next.