The neural interface cables disconnected with wet sounds that made Takeshi's stomach turn. He sat up slowly, his enhanced Network Authority still processing the Shinjuku hub's complete architecture with a clarity that felt invasive. Every tunnel. Every platform. Every monitoring station existed in his consciousness like extensions of his own nervous system.
And buried beneath that expanded awareness, he could feel the backdoor.
Clause 47-B wasn't theoretical anymore. It existed as a permanent connection point embedded in his consciousness—dormant but ready, waiting for executive activation like a loaded gun with someone else's finger on the trigger.
"Integration successful," the lead System Integration Department technician confirmed, studying displays that showed Takeshi's vital signs stabilizing. "Surveillance nanite purge complete. Network Authority stable at 67% synchronization. Subject is cleared for active duty."
Matsumoto entered the integration suite, her professional assessment calculating something in his enhanced state that made him uncomfortable. "How do you feel?"
"Powerful," Takeshi said honestly. "And compromised."
"Welcome to upper management." She pulled up tactical displays showing the purged infrastructure, thousands of dormant nanite markers replaced by clean network architecture. "The surveillance nanites are gone. The Seikatsu Consortium's intelligence leak is closed. But you're right about the compromise."
Through the observation window, Hideo's expression had shifted from professional concern to outright alarm. He was reading something on his status window, his Bureaucrat class apparently detecting problems in the integration contract that the rest of them had missed.
Takeshi stood, testing his balance while his enhanced Network Authority made the room feel simultaneously larger and more confined. He could sense his team through the infrastructure now—their positions rendered in perfect detail, their stress levels visible through micro-variations in their movement patterns, even their MP reserves accessible through some sixth sense his expanded consciousness had developed.
The power was intoxicating. And terrifying.
"Takeshi." Hideo's voice carried through the observation window's intercom with unusual urgency. "We need to talk about Clause 47-B. Now."
Matsumoto's expression didn't change, but something in her posture suggested she'd been expecting this. "Let him recover first. The integration process—"
"Can wait." Hideo cut her off with uncharacteristic bluntness. "Because the CEO just scheduled an 'emergency strategic assessment' in six hours. Priority notification. Mandatory attendance for all personnel involved in the Shinjuku hub defense."
The words settled like lead in Takeshi's enhanced consciousness. Six hours. The CEO was giving him exactly enough time to recover from the integration before testing whether the executive override clause actually worked as intended.
"Let me guess," Yuna said, her analytical mind already working the implications. "The assessment will require Takeshi to demonstrate his enhanced Network Authority capabilities. Full territorial scan, threat assessment, strategic vulnerability analysis—"
"All of which the CEO can access directly through the override clause," Kenji finished grimly. "He's not evaluating the hub's defenses. He's testing his new surveillance tool."
Takeshi walked to the observation window, his team's faces rendered in perfect detail through both physical sight and the strange territorial awareness his Network Authority now provided. They looked exhausted. Concerned. And increasingly angry as they processed what his enhanced capabilities had actually cost.
"Show me the clause," he said to Hideo.
The Bureaucrat pulled up the integration contract, highlighting specific sections with the precision of someone who'd spent the last ten minutes identifying every possible trap. The legal text appeared on Takeshi's status window, and his enhanced consciousness processed it with uncomfortable clarity:
CLAUSE 47-B: EXECUTIVE OVERRIDE AUTHORITY
During declared strategic emergencies, authorized Black Company executives may access integrated user's Network Authority for purposes of tactical assessment, threat evaluation, and strategic planning. Access duration limited to emergency period as determined by declaring executive. User consent not required for emergency activation. Override authority non-transferable and subject to corporate confidentiality protocols.
"Notice what's missing?" Hideo asked. "Definition of 'strategic emergency.' Duration limits beyond executive discretion. Appeal process. Compensation for forced access. It's a blank check written against your consciousness."
"And the CEO is cashing it in six hours," Yuna added. "The 'emergency strategic assessment' gives him legal cover to declare a strategic emergency and activate the override. All perfectly within contract terms."
Matsumoto had been silent during this analysis, her expression carefully neutral. Now she spoke with the tone of someone delivering news she'd rather avoid. "The assessment is mandatory. Refusing to attend would constitute breach of contract and grounds for immediate termination. And given your permanent System integration, termination would likely be... problematic."
Translation: they couldn't fire him without losing his Network Authority, but they could make his life hell for refusing to cooperate.
Takeshi's enhanced consciousness processed multiple scenarios simultaneously, his Monopoly skill's strategic awareness combining with his expanded Network Authority to calculate options. None of them were good.
"If I attend and activate my Network Authority, the CEO gets full access to everything I can see," he said, working through the logic aloud. "Every territorial insight. Every enemy position. Every strategic vulnerability in our defenses. He'll know exactly what I know, which means he'll know exactly what I can hide from him in the future."
"And if you refuse to activate your abilities?" Kenji asked.
"Then I've just demonstrated that my enhanced Network Authority is useless because I won't use it when ordered. Which makes the entire integration pointless and confirms I'm a loyalty risk." Takeshi's MP sat at 100/100, fully restored by the integration process. "Either way, I lose."
"Not necessarily." All eyes turned to Matsumoto. She'd pulled up probability assessments on her tactical screens, complex calculations that suggested she'd been running scenarios while they talked. "There's a third option. But it requires everyone in this room to commit to something that could destroy all our careers."
The tactical planning room was more secure than the integration suite, its walls lined with signal dampening equipment that kept their conversation isolated from the monitoring stations' surveillance feeds. Takeshi's team gathered around the central holographic display while Matsumoto sealed the door and activated additional privacy protocols.
"Before I explain the option," Matsumoto said carefully, "I need everyone to understand what we're actually facing. The CEO's assessment isn't just about testing the override clause. It's about establishing precedent. If Takeshi cooperates fully, it confirms that executive override is a viable tool for accessing Network Authority capabilities. Which means it becomes standard procedure for all future integrations."
"Creating a surveillance infrastructure where every enhanced user becomes a potential corporate spy," Yuna said. "Whether they want to or not."
"Exactly. And if Takeshi refuses to cooperate, he becomes an example of what happens when employees resist executive authority. Either way, the Black Company wins and operational autonomy dies."
Hideo's expression was grim. "So what's the third option?"
"Controlled deception," Matsumoto said. "We give the CEO exactly what he wants—full access to Takeshi's Network Authority during the assessment. But we make sure the intelligence he receives is carefully curated to give him false confidence in the surveillance tool's effectiveness."
Takeshi's enhanced consciousness immediately grasped the implications. "You want me to feed him fake intelligence through the override?"
"Not fake. Incomplete." Matsumoto pulled up diagrams of the Shinjuku hub's infrastructure. "Your Network Authority operates through the System's digital architecture. But this hub also has physical infrastructure—maintenance tunnels, observation posts, analog communication systems that existed before the apocalypse. Intelligence gathering that happens entirely outside the System's monitoring."
"A shadow network," Yuna breathed. "Manual surveillance using physical assets instead of digital ones."
"Precisely. We construct a parallel intelligence system using old-world techniques. Physical observation posts. Analog communications. Human intelligence gathering. Everything the System can't monitor because it exists outside digital architecture." Matsumoto highlighted specific locations on the hub map. "When the CEO activates the override, Takeshi's Network Authority shows him the official picture—clean infrastructure, standard defensive positions, routine threat assessments. Meanwhile, the real intelligence comes through the shadow network that the override can't access."
Kenji studied the proposed observation post locations with professional interest. "My Vanguard abilities could establish physical positions in restricted infrastructure areas. Places the monitoring stations can't see because they're outside normal patrol routes."
"And I could coordinate the analog intelligence gathering," Yuna added, her analytical mind already working the logistics. "Create a parallel reporting structure that feeds Takeshi information without leaving digital traces."
"Documentation would be the hard part." Hideo was reading through Black Company operational protocols, identifying gaps they could exploit. "We'd need to justify the shadow network as 'redundant security protocols' while actually using it to hide information from our own employer. That's not just contract violation—it's corporate espionage turned inward."
"Which is why everyone needs to agree before we proceed," Matsumoto said. "This isn't a command decision. If we do this, we're all complicit in constructing a surveillance system designed to deceive executive oversight. If discovered, it's grounds for immediate termination. Possibly worse."
The room fell silent. Takeshi's enhanced Network Authority showed him his team's stress levels rising, their MP reserves steady but their body language betraying the weight of the choice. They'd survived the Seikatsu assault. Cleared the dungeon. Earned their Management Track positions. And now they were being asked to risk everything on a plan that might not even work.
"I have a question," Kenji said finally. "Why are you proposing this, Matsumoto? You're Regional Operations Manager. Your entire career depends on executive approval. Helping us deceive the CEO is the exact opposite of your professional interests."
Matsumoto's expression was complicated. "Because I've watched the Black Company destroy too many promising employees by treating them as corporate assets instead of strategic partners. Takeshi's Network Authority is valuable precisely because it comes from someone with independent judgment and tactical creativity. Turn him into a surveillance tool, and you lose everything that made him worth integrating in the first place."
"So this is about preserving my autonomy?" Takeshi asked.
"This is about preserving the Black Company's actual strategic interests," Matsumoto corrected. "Which sometimes means protecting assets from the executives who think they own them."
Takeshi's enhanced consciousness processed her words, his Monopoly skill's awareness of corporate dynamics detecting genuine conviction beneath the professional rationale. Matsumoto believed what she was saying. But she was also calculating something else, running probability assessments that suggested this went beyond simple asset protection.
"What aren't you telling us?" he asked.
Matsumoto pulled up additional data streams, her tactical screens showing information that made Takeshi's enhanced Network Authority trigger immediate alerts. "The CEO's assessment isn't just about testing the override clause. He's planning to use your Network Authority to identify strategic vulnerabilities across Tokyo's entire dungeon network. Then he's going to share that intelligence with the Seikatsu Consortium."
"What?" Yuna's analytical composure cracked. "He's going to give our enemies complete access to—"
"To Takeshi's territorial awareness, yes. In exchange for the Seikatsu Consortium's cooperation in a joint corporate venture to monopolize Tokyo's dungeon infrastructure." Matsumoto's expression was bleak. "The CEO views the override clause as a negotiating asset. Proof that the Black Company can provide real-time intelligence on dungeon networks. He's literally planning to sell access to Takeshi's consciousness as part of a corporate merger."
The implications crashed over Takeshi like system feedback. "I'm not a strategic asset. I'm a product."
"You're both," Matsumoto said. "Which is why the shadow network isn't just about preserving your autonomy. It's about preventing the CEO from turning your enhanced capabilities into a corporate commodity that gets traded between rival entities."
Hideo was reading through additional contract clauses, his Bureaucrat class identifying legal frameworks that supported Matsumoto's assessment. "The joint venture protocols are already drafted. Pending executive approval. If the CEO confirms the override clause works as intended, he can authorize intelligence sharing with partner corporations within forty-eight hours."
"So we have six hours to construct a shadow network that can deceive both the CEO and potentially the Seikatsu Consortium," Kenji summarized. "Using physical infrastructure we barely understand, with analog systems we've never tested, while maintaining the appearance of full cooperation with executive oversight."
"Yes," Matsumoto confirmed.
"That's insane."
"Yes."
Takeshi looked at his team—exhausted, concerned, and increasingly committed to a plan that violated everything their Black Company contracts demanded. His enhanced Network Authority showed him their stress levels, their determination, their growing anger at a corporate system that treated people as tradeable assets.
"If we do this," he said carefully, "we're not just risking our careers. We're declaring that our loyalty to each other matters more than our loyalty to the company. That's not a tactical decision. That's a fundamental choice about who we are."
"I know," Yuna said. "And I'm in."
"Same," Kenji added. "The Black Company can have my professional skills. But they don't get to own my consciousness or yours."
Hideo studied the integration contract one final time, then dismissed his status window with deliberate finality. "I've spent my entire career reading corporate fine print and finding ways to survive it. This is the first time I'm choosing to violate it deliberately. Let's build your shadow network."
Matsumoto pulled up detailed infrastructure maps, highlighting observation post locations and analog communication routes. "We have five hours and forty-three minutes before the assessment. Kenji, you'll establish physical positions in these maintenance sectors. Yuna, coordinate intelligence gathering protocols using these pre-apocalypse communication systems. Hideo, forge documentation justifying everything as enhanced security measures. Takeshi—"
"I'll learn to lie to my own consciousness," Takeshi finished. "Make the Network Authority show the CEO what he wants to see while the real intelligence flows through channels he can't access."
"Exactly." Matsumoto's tactical screens showed probability assessments climbing from impossible to merely improbable. "This might actually work. But only if we execute perfectly and the CEO doesn't suspect we're running counter-surveillance against our own employer."
"No pressure," Kenji muttered.
Takeshi's enhanced Network Authority mapped the shadow network's architecture in his consciousness—physical observation posts existing outside digital monitoring, analog communications bypassing System surveillance, human intelligence gathering that left no electronic traces. It was corporate espionage designed to protect him from the very corporation he worked for.
And it was the only way to preserve the autonomy that made his power valuable in the first place.
"Five hours and forty-one minutes," he said, watching the countdown timer appear on his status window. "Let's get to work."