The corridor stretched ahead—empty, silent. Ventilation hummed somewhere overhead. Raymond's internal clock marked eighteen minutes since entry. Eight confirmed kills. Quest completion hovering just under fifty percent.
The door at the corridor's end stood out from the others. Reinforced frame. Electronic lock panel glowing amber. Someone important waited behind it.
Raymond reached into his pocket. Carlos's key card sat cool against his fingers. He pressed it to the panel.
The light flickered green. A soft chime. The lock disengaged with a mechanical thunk.
He pushed the door open, Vector-7 raised, suppressor tracking for targets.
The man behind the desk didn't flinch.
Stocky. Bald. A square jaw set beneath pale, washed-out eyes that assessed Raymond with the detachment of someone reviewing quarterly earnings. His legs rested on the desk, crossed at the ankles. A cigar smouldered between two fingers of his left hand. His right cradled a whisky glass, amber liquid catching the overhead light. The high-collared jacket he wore bore the faded insignia of some defunct security outfit—corporate muscle gone independent.
A cybernetic lens glinted in his left eye. Processing. Calculating.
"Well." The voice came out flat. Clipped. "Should I call you John? Or does the young man have another name he prefers?"
Raymond fired.
Three rounds. Center mass. The suppressed shots coughed in rapid succession.
The bullets sparked against empty air two metres from the desk. Flattened. Dropped to the floor with soft metallic plinks.
Bulletproof glass. Invisible barrier bisecting the room.
Anton Volkov swirled his whisky, watching the deformed rounds settle on the carpet.
"Impressive initiative. Poor reconnaissance." He took a slow sip. The glass clinked against the desk as he set it down. "Congratulations on getting this far. Truly. But I'm afraid you'll be leaving empty-handed today."
The cybernetic eye whirred—a faint mechanical sound as the lens adjusted focus.
"So… Which of my competitors sent you? Crimson Tide? The Jackals?" A thin smile crossed his face, devoid of warmth. "Or perhaps someone more... corporate?"
Raymond lowered the Vector-7. No point wasting ammunition on a barrier designed to stop it.
He walked forward. Calm. Unhurried. His left hand came up, palm pressing flat against the invisible surface. Solid. Cold. The faintest vibration hummed through his fingertips—molecular bonding, high-density polymer layered between tempered sheets. Military specification. The kind of material that shrugged off standard rounds like raindrops.
Armour-piercing. Tungsten core, maybe. Or plasma-tipped incendiaries if the barrier had thermal dispersion built in.
He had neither.
Raymond stepped back. His hand fell away from the glass.
He tilted his head, studying the man behind the desk. "I presume you're the famous Giant Rat."
Anton's jaw tightened. A sharp click of his tongue cut through the silence—involuntary, irritated. The reaction lasted half a second before the mask slid back into place. Cold professionalism replacing the flash of annoyance.
"You've done your homework. Partially." Anton drew on his cigar, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled against the barrier. "Though I suspect not enough, given your current predicament."
He swung his legs off the desk. Planted both feet on the floor. The motion was controlled, precise—a man accustomed to violence rising to meet it on his own terms.
"I detected your intrusion the moment you killed the first guard." The cybernetic eye whirred again, lens contracting. "Every man in this compound carries a biometric chip. Heart stops, I get a notification. Very efficient system."
Anton stood, whisky glass still in hand.
"I could have escaped at any point. Back entrance. Private tunnel. A vehicle waiting three blocks east." He took a measured sip. "But I wanted to see what you could do. How far you'd get."
The glass clinked against the desk.
"Eight men. Eighteen minutes. Clean work." A hint of something approaching respect flickered across his features. "A man of your calibre doesn't come cheap. Whatever your employers are paying you, I'll double it."
"Wouldn't do you much good." Raymond's voice came out flat. Conversational. "Even if you slipped out that back tunnel, I'd find you."
Anton's eyes narrowed. The cigar paused halfway to his lips.
"Besides." Raymond met the pale blue gaze through the barrier. "Sorry about Carlos. Hope he wasn't too important."
The cybernetic lens whirred. A muscle in Anton's jaw twitched.
Then he waved the cigar dismissively, trailing smoke through the air.
"Carlos was inconsequential." The words came out clipped. Precise. "Incompetent people have no right to live under my roof. He served his purpose. Brought in marks. Failed to vet them properly, apparently."
Anton set down the whisky glass. Both hands planted on the desk, leaning forward.
"Last offer. Name your price. I'm a reasonable man when it comes to talent acquisition."
Raymond shook his head. Slow. Deliberate.
Silence stretched between them.
Anton's composure cracked. The cold professionalism fractured, revealing something harder beneath. His knuckles whitened against the desk's edge.
"I've never been one to accept no for an answer." His voice dropped. Quieter now. More dangerous. "You're the first person to reject two offers and still be breathing."
"First time for everything."
A chuckle escaped Anton—dry, humourless.
"Yes. I suppose so." He straightened, adjusting the collar of his jacket. "But it will also be the last. Walk out that door, vanish from Cyber City entirely—I will find you. Every contact you have. Every safehouse. Every alias." The cybernetic eye pulsed faintly. "I will hunt you down and make an example of what happens when someone wastes my time."
Raymond smirked.
The Vector-7 vanished from his grip.
In its place, a metallic case materialized—brushed steel, compact, machine-tooled edges gleaming under the office lights.
Anton's threat died in his throat.
The colour drained from his face. His eyes locked onto the case, recognition flashing through the cybernetic lens. The calculated composure shattered. For the first time since Raymond had entered the room, something approaching fear flickered across those pale blue eyes.
"That's—" Anton stepped back. His hip caught the chair, sending it spinning. "Where did you—how do you have a—"
His hand shot toward something beneath the desk.
Raymond's thumb found the recessed button on the case.
A low hiss. Seams of pale blue light traced lines across the brushed steel. The case split open, panels unfolding with mechanical precision. Segmented plates rose from the housing—chest piece, gauntlets, leg armour—each component lifting on invisible guides before snapping toward Raymond's body.
The armour assembled itself around him in seconds. Metal embraced his torso, locked into place with a series of sharp clicks. Gauntlets encased his forearms, the left one heavier—housing the wrist blaster's compact barrel. The right gauntlet's outer edge gleamed with the dull sheen of a twenty-centimetre blade folded along the forearm. A faint hum vibrated through the frame as the Aethertech core powered to full capacity.
A synthetic voice crackled through the communications earpiece—flat, genderless.
[ Cascade online. Aethertech core stable. Optimal operation window: four minutes, thirty-seven seconds. ]
Raymond raised his left arm. The wrist blaster's barrel aligned with the invisible barrier.
He fired.
Superheated energy lanced across the room. The bulletproof glass held for a fraction of a second—molecular bonds straining against concentrated thermal force—then shattered. Fragments sprayed outward, glittering shards cascading across the office floor like frozen rain.
[ Wrist blaster discharged. Cooldown initiated: eighteen seconds. ]
But Anton hadn't been idle.
Where a man in a tactical jacket had stood moments before, an armoured figure now rose behind the desk. Different configuration—heavier plating across the chest and shoulders, the frame built for endurance rather than speed. No blaster on the left gauntlet. Instead, a compact shield generator hummed to life, projecting a shimmering barrier across his forearm.
Defensive variant. Built to absorb punishment.
Both men moved.
Raymond vaulted the desk's edge. Anton surged forward to meet him. The blade on Raymond's right gauntlet snapped outward, locking into position—twenty centimetres of hardened steel extending past his fist.
Metal screamed against energy.
The blade struck the shield dead centre. Sparks erupted between them, casting wild shadows across the ruined office. The impact shuddered through Raymond's arm, transferred through the armour's frame into his bones.
The lock broke.
Anton shoved forward, shield forcing Raymond's blade aside. He pivoted, driving his own blade toward Raymond's exposed throat.
Raymond ducked. The edge whistled past his ear. He countered—low slash toward the gap between Anton's chestplate and hip armour.
Anton twisted. The blade carved air where his flank had been a heartbeat before.
They circled. Boots crunched on shattered glass. The desk lay toppled between them, a barrier neither acknowledged.
Raymond feinted high. Anton's shield rose to intercept—and Raymond dropped, blade sweeping for the back of Anton's knee. Exposed tendon. Clean cut would cripple him.
Anton read it. His leg pulled back. Raymond's blade sparked against the shin guard instead.
Retaliation came fast. Anton stepped inside Raymond's reach, shield slamming toward his face. Raymond jerked his head sideways. The shield's edge grazed his cheek—close enough to feel the displaced air.
He answered with an elbow strike. The armoured joint caught Anton's jaw. The shorter man staggered but didn't fall.
[ Wrist blaster ready. ]
Raymond raised his left arm and fired.
The energy bolt streaked across the gap. Anton snapped his shield up—centre mass, a perfect interception. Light flared against the metal. The impact staggered him for a few inches, but he held his ground. The shield's alloy glowed briefly, dispersing heat across the surface, then dulled.
Anton lowered the shield. The cybernetic eye whirred behind the faint shimmer of dissipating heat.
"I can do this all day."
They clashed again.
Raymond pressed forward—two quick slashes aimed at Anton's left side—forcing Anton to swing the shield wide. Anton deflected both. Impacts rang through the ruined office.
Raymond swept the blade toward the left again. Anton moved the shield to intercept—and Raymond redirected the edge mid-swing, curving it toward Anton's exposed right bicep.
Anton stepped back. The edge missed by centimetres.
Counter. Anton drove his blade toward Raymond's midsection—the gap between chest plate and hip guard. Raymond twisted, catching the strike on his gauntlet. Metal shrieked against metal.
They broke apart. Circled.
Raymond tracked the shield's position. Left arm. Always left arm. Every exchange, Anton led with that barrier. Protected his centre mass. His head.
But not everything.
[ Wrist blaster ready. ]
Raymond didn't aim centre mass.
He dropped low—knee hitting the glass-strewn floor—and fired upward. The bolt streaked toward Anton's inner thigh. The gap between hip plate and leg armour. No shield coverage at that angle.
Anton's eyes widened. His body wrenched sideways. The energy bolt seared past his leg—close enough to scorch fabric beneath the plating.
He recovered. Straightened. The cybernetic lens refocused on Raymond.
"Clever." Anton's voice came out even. Controlled. But something had shifted in his posture. "How much time do you have left, I wonder? Two minutes? Less?"
[ Optimal operation time remaining: two minutes, twenty-seven seconds. ]
The Vector-7 materialized in Raymond's right hand.
Anton's eyes flickered—confusion breaking through the cold mask for a fraction of a second. No time to process. Raymond was already firing.
Thwip. Thwip.
Anton dove behind the toppled desk. Suppressed rounds punched through the wood—but the metal frame beneath held. He rolled, came up in a crouch, shield raised.
Raymond advanced. Fired again.
Anton scrambled sideways. A filing cabinet caught the next two rounds, sparks erupting from dented steel. He kept moving—using the office furniture as cover, circling toward the shattered window frame.
No ranged weapon. No way to counter. The defensive build that had been his advantage now trapped him in a reactive loop.
Raymond pressed. Step. Fire. Step. Fire.
Anton ducked behind a support column. Concrete dust exploded where his head had been a heartbeat before. He broke from cover, closing the distance—shield up, blade ready.
Ten metres. Seven. Five.
Raymond raised the Vector-7 for the kill shot.
His arm stopped.
[ Warning: Aethertech core depleted. Entering hibernation mode. ]
The armour went limp. Dead weight dragged at his limbs. The Vector-7 slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor. His legs buckled—knees hitting glass and debris.
Raymond couldn't move.
Anton slowed. His advance shifted from desperate charge to measured approach. The shield lowered. The blade stayed raised.
"Well." He stopped two metres away, breathing hard. The cybernetic eye scanned Raymond's frozen form. "That was unexpected."
He circled. Slow. Predatory. Glass crunched beneath his armoured boots.
"I offered you a place. Twice. Good pay. Protection. Purpose." He shook his head. "You could have been an asset. Instead..."
Tsk… Tsk…
"Quantum compression technology. Weapons from thin air." Anton tilted his head. "Your employer must have serious pull."
"Naturally, you wouldn't join me." Anton brushed concrete dust from his reinforced lapel. The movement was distinct. Precise. "With this level of R&D backing you? Even I feel tempted to switch sides."
The cybernetic lens rotated with a soft, mechanical click, focusing on Raymond's paralyzed face.
"Tell me who they are."
Raymond's eyes tracked him. The only part of his body still responding.
"Sigh, you are quite stubborn." Anton's breath carried the metallic tang of recycled air and exertion, sharp against the dust-choked atmosphere. "Even in the face of death you wouldn't tell me your employer's identity."
He stopped directly in front of Raymond. Close enough that the faint hum of his cybernetic eye was audible—a soft, persistent whine beneath the settling debris.
"Doesn't matter now, I suppose."
The blade rose. Steel caught the fractured light filtering through shattered windows, casting a thin bar of brightness across Raymond's frozen features. Edge aligned with his neck.
"Remember." Anton's voice dropped. Flat. Final. "You chose this."