By the middle of the twenty-second century the planet had burned through three more wars.
Cities vanished from the maps; borders crumbled into rubble.
What passed for government barely kept the lights on. Money lived on encrypted ledgers and black-market rails. Out here, survival wasn't about laws anymore—it was about leverage.
People found their leverage in a piece of contraband called Quantum.
The chip rewired the brain, stitching code into nerve endings and painting the world with an invisible interface: stats, icons, timers.
Plug one in and life turned into a game. Underground arenas ran on it. So did bounty hunts where users stalked each other for credits. Win, and your rank climbed from D toward S. Lose, and your blood hit the floor while your winnings bled into someone else's account.
Quantum always took its price.
Cheap versions glitched and cooked their owners. Some caught viral code that warped minds until the user became a feral—half human, half data ghost. Governments outlawed the tech, then quietly hired hunters to clean up the mess.
Chips came in three grades. The luxury models cost more than a house and rarely failed. Mid-tiers tempted the reckless. The low-end line sat in boxes under flickering lamps, waiting for people with nothing left to lose.
Kane Bernard belonged to that aisle.
Neon seeped through the blinds of the back-alley clinic, washing the room in a sickly violet.
Raina, the chip dealer, twirled a thin piece of hardware between gloved fingers. "You sure about this, kid? Bottom-shelf gear. Malfunction and—boom." She tapped her temple and grinned. "Or you catch a virus and end up another techno-zombie. Last chance to back out."
Kane sat in the cracked leather chair, head resting against the cold metal table. His jaw tightened. "I know the odds. Still doing it. I need the payout."
Raina studied him, then shrugged. "Brave or stupid. Doesn't matter which."
The edge of her glove brushed his neck. "Hold still."
A hiss. A flash of heat. Then everything went white.
A flood of symbols and boot-codes lit the inside of his skull.
QUANTUM v3.2 — INSTALLING
Neural mesh sync: LOCKED
Latency: 9 ms
Safety profile: Low-Tier
Viral shields: Basic
Tournament / Hunt modules: Active
Stake module: Enabled
The light dimmed. The clinic swam back into focus—the buzz of fluorescents, the sting of antiseptic, Raina's half-smile.
"Congratulations," she said. "You're officially illegal."
A faint overlay hovered at the edge of his sight: health, stamina, an empty slot marked Special, and a rank tag—D-Class (Unrated).
"How soon can I fight?" he asked.
"Depends. Tournament or hunt?"
"Tournament. Faster money."
"Then start small," she warned. "Don't stake heavy, don't trust mid-match messages, and if your display ever flickers green and black—run. That's how the virus says hello."
Kane stood, rolling his shoulders against the strange new weight in his head. "Appreciate the warning."
"It's not a warning," Raina said, wiping down the chair. "It's the line between promotion and a body bag."
At the door his HUD pulsed:
New Access: Tournament Lobby
Entry Fee: Waived
Optional Stake: Set
Free-Trial Stats
Strength 10
Vitality 10 (HP 100)
Intelligence 10 (EP 100)
Agility 10
Sense 10
He keyed in the only thing worth gambling—his silver-glider boots, the last nice thing he owned.
Outside, rain whispered on broken concrete. Sirens moaned somewhere far away. Kane pulled up his hood, followed the arrow glowing faintly in his vision.
"Welcome to the grind," Raina called after him.
He didn't look back. "No promises."
The arrow guided him through collapsed blocks and neon haze.
Billboards flickered overhead—polished models advertising high-end chips, their perfect eyes glowing with artificial serenity. One glitched mid-loop, muttering corrupted code before cutting out. Kane kept walking.
The node waited in the shell of a two-story house between ruined tenements. Windows smashed, weeds splitting the pavement, yet a hum in the air made his skin prickle.
A man built like a wall guarded the gate. "What's your business?"
"I'm here for the tournament."
"There's nothing here."
"My chip says otherwise." Kane tapped his temple; the faint blue light of Quantum bled through his skin.
That earned a change of tone. The man scanned him with a handheld reader. Green bars climbed the display. "You're a user." He pushed the gate open. "Follow me."
Inside, the house was a facade. Dust, splintered boards, nothing more—until they reached the stairs.
Below, the air turned electric.
Then came the noise.
A roar of voices. Floodlights. The stink of sweat and metal. The underground hall opened wide, dominated by a cage streaked with rust and old blood. Screens floated above, showing fighter stats as bets changed hands faster than breaths.
Two men brawled inside, chips sparking with every blow. One's health bar dropped to red; the crowd screamed for the finish.
"Here," the guard said, steering Kane toward a red-haired man with a gold tooth and a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Sean Morgan," the man said, shaking his hand. "I help run this circus."
"Kane Bernard. Rookie. Looking to make rent."
Sean laughed. "You and half the room. Don't worry—we'll find you a match."
He led Kane into a smaller chamber where a dozen other users waited. Some joked, others sat silent, eyes glowing faintly with chip-light.
"All rookies," Sean said. "Hungry, dumb, dangerous—it's all the same. Only thing that matters is who walks back up those stairs."
Kane leaned against the wall, heartbeat steady but sharp. The chip hummed quietly behind his eyes, waiting.
Thirty minutes later, Sean burst back through the door. "Got our openers!" he barked. "Enoch Lander…and Kane Bernard."
Every head turned. Across the room a tall, lean fighter with a scar along his jaw rolled his shoulders, grinning like a man who already saw the outcome.
Above them, the crowd howled as the last match ended in a spray of red. Sean jerked a thumb toward the arena.
"Showtime, boys. Let's see what your Quantum's really worth."