The world narrowed to the hum of the blade and the three red dots on his chest.
Instinct screamed at Kenji to run, but his body was locked in place, tethered by the impossible weight of the shimmering weapon in his hand. It felt neither hot nor cold, but alive, a crackling extension of his own panic. The two remaining Kusanagi guards recovered from their shock with machinelike efficiency. Their weapons—now compact, snub-nosed EM rifles designed to fry neural implants—whined as they charged.
A thought, raw and unfiltered, flashed through Kenji's mind: *Shield!*
The cerulean blade dissolved from a sword into a shimmering, semi-transparent disc of energy just as the first guard fired. A pulse of electromagnetic force slammed into it. The impact didn't make a sound, but it sent a violent shudder through Kenji's entire body, a psychic feedback that felt like getting his teeth kicked in. He grunted, stumbling back, the energy disc flickering precariously. He couldn't hold it.
The second guard fired. Kenji dropped the shield, the effort too immense to sustain. He rolled sideways, the EM pulse scorching the wall where his head had been. The smell of ozone and melted plastic filled the air.
He was going to die. The certainty of it cleared the static in his head, leaving only a cold, sharp focus. The pain in his temple was gone, replaced by a terrifying clarity. The blade reappeared in his hand, responding not to his fear, but to his will to survive.
The guard with the severed wrist was on its knees, trying to staunch the flow of hydraulic fluid. The other two advanced, their movements synchronized, predictable. Corporate training. They were used to overwhelming force, not a wildcard.
As one raised its rifle again, Kenji didn't try to block. He lunged. It was an awkward, desperate move, but the psychic blade moved faster than flesh and metal. It sheared through the rifle's barrel. The weapon exploded in the guard's hands, throwing it back against the wall in a shower of sparks and shrapnel.
One left.
The final guard assessed the situation. Its priority shifted from capture to total neutralization. A compartment on its forearm slid open, revealing the barrel of a micro-missile pod. A city-killer weapon in a back-alley brawl. Overkill. The ultimate corporate response to an anomaly.
Time seemed to slow. The rain fell in individual, glistening droplets. Kenji saw the missile pod's targeting laser find his center mass. He had one shot.
He didn't throw the blade. He *pushed* it.
With a mental scream that tore from the depths of his soul, he launched the energy forward. It wasn't a blade anymore, but a furious, concentrated spear of pure force. It crossed the distance between them in a nanosecond and struck the missile pod just as it ignited.
The explosion was deafening.
The concussion wave threw Kenji off his feet, slamming him into the rusted metal door of a sealed warehouse. His head cracked against the reinforced frame, and his vision swam with black spots. The world returned in a dizzying rush of sound: the crackle of fire, the hiss of raining coolant from a severed pipe, and the blaring of distant alarms.
Through the smoke and steam, he saw the aftermath. The guard was a ruined, smoldering heap of armor and synthetic flesh. The other two were down, either dead or critically disabled.
He had to move. Now.
Pushing himself up, his body screaming in protest, he stumbled toward the alley's mouth. The humming in his head was back, a dull throb of exhaustion. He tried to summon the blade again, just a spark, but nothing happened. He was drained, empty.
As he reached the main street, the chaotic neon lights felt blinding. He melted into the crowd, his heart still trying to beat its way out of his chest. No one gave him a second glance; a disheveled, terrified man was just part of the scenery in the Sprawl.
He needed to get off the grid. His flophouse was compromised. Everything was compromised.
Ducking into a covered service corridor, he slumped against the wall, gulping in the foul air. His hands were shaking. He looked at them. They were just hands. No sign of the impossible energy that had just saved—and ended—lives.
A soft chime echoed in the corridor. It wasn't his. He followed the sound to a discarded comms-unit, its screen flashing. An anonymous, encrypted message was pinging the local network, broadcasting on a public emergency channel.
He picked it up. The message was simple.
I saw the light show. Kusanagi is scrambling every asset they have. You're a dead man walking.`**
A pause. Then another message flashed.
If you want to live past tonight, come to the following coordinates. Ask for Akari. Don't be followed.
Beneath the text was a set of map coordinates pointing deep into the most derelict, uncharted section of the industrial district. A perfect place to hide a body. Or to find salvation.
It was a trap. It had to be.
But as the wail of corporate security sirens grew louder, converging on his location, Kenji knew he had no other choice. He pushed himself off the wall and vanished back into the rain, a spark heading for the unknown darkness.