"Ugh. Did this crap expire or what?"
Sypher sat on the edge of a high-rise rooftop, nursing a half-cold cup of cocoa. Dark. Cheap. Pathetic.
His hands trembled slightly. A drop slipped from the rim of the plastic cup and vanished into the abyss below.
It wasn't just nerves. That flutter was back—deep in his muscles. No pain yet. Just the warning.His body's internal timer, quiet... but brutal.
He looked out across the city. Towers stretching into the haze, cars gliding through the air, the thick smell of old oil hanging in the air like a curse. Always the same. That scent had been part of his life longer than memories.
He stretched. His spine popped—sounding more like sixty-two than twenty-two.He crushed the empty cup by instinct. The last dregs spilled over his head.
"Tsk."
"Must be the nerves," he muttered, wiping his scalp with an old rag.
[ALERT]
[ALERT]
"Hm?"
Sypher dropped down on his ass and looked up. Floating in front of him—several glowing red windows stacked atop each other. Each new one blinked in with an obnoxious chirp.
Peep
Peep
[ALERT]
[SOCIAL CREDIT SCORE: 21]
He waved a hand through the air, dismissing it. "Yeah yeah, I get the message."
The Pop-up was familiar. Too familiar. It had been showing up more often lately.And no matter how chill he tried to act, the same thought kept biting at the back of his mind:
Time's running out.
He stood up and tilted the cup toward his mouth.A lone drop clung to the rim—refused to fall.
Sypher clenched the cup tighter.The plastic cracked.Then he tossed it off the roof without looking.
[SOCIAL LEAGUE MATCH COUNTDOWN: 00:01:23… 00:01:22…]
He flexed his fingers. They were still shaking.
A bead of sweat rolled from his hairline down his face.He tasted salt—then realized he'd bitten his lip again.
Don't die.The thought pounded inside his skull. Over and over.Not a prayer. Not a mantra. Just raw instinct.
Just this once.Give me a team that doesn't drag me under.Let me land with people who don't suck.
No wins in weeks. No EXP. No level-ups. I've been stuck in the same rut since I got kicked out of the Powerwalker Division.
"Fuck."
Silence.
Then—
"[Status]."
A green window flashed in front of him—same as always.Didn't even flinch anymore.
Sypher Syllipher — Level 8 Class: [Bruiser]
Title: Son of the Streets (Common)
STR: 17 (‑2)
AGL: 9
DEX: 10
INT: 8
CON: 15
[Skill 1: Strider — Lv. 4]
Quick fists. Harder hits.
[Skill 2: Haywire — Lv. 2]
Go ahead—think you've won. Hit me again.
[Skill 3: Soak — Lv. 2]
You're not leaving while I've got this on.
[Skill 4 (ULT): ???]
Yeah. Would've been nice… if I'd reached Level 10.
[Status Effect: Myofade – Stage II]
Muscle efficiency: ‑10%Degeneration. Treatable.
[Warning: CRITICAL CONDITION]
"Good thing no one else can read these skill descriptions," he muttered.
He remembered how cocky he'd been when he first joined the League.So full of energy. So sure of himself.
The signup. The blinding UI. The thrill of finally getting a rank.A place in the Social League. A name on the board.
Then the moment you had to write your skill descriptions.
He smiled faintly.
"God, that was cringe…"
He exhaled quietly.His eyes drifted back to the red window.
[SOCIAL LEAGUE MATCH COUNTDOWN: 00:00:02… 00:00:01…]
His fingers curled into his palms.I can't lose. Not again.
"I have to win."
Black.
…
…
…
[WELCOME TO THE SOCIAL LEAGUE]
A loud, cheerful chime. Artificially friendly—like a commercial for your own execution.
[MATCHMAKING STARTING… 7/10… 9/10… 10/10]
The numbers clicked upward. Too fast. No time to breathe.
[TEAMS READY]
[GAME STARTING SOON]
A buzz ran through his body.
…
…
I made it, he thought.Eyes still shut.Around him—voices.A woman. A man. Two more. No—three.
"Please," he whispered.
"Huh? Hey, weird guy—what are you muttering about?"
A blond guy stood in front of him—early twenties, maybe.Hair tied into a lazy half‑bun. Green leather jacket. Green jeans. And the kind of grin that belongs to people who slap your shoulder too hard five seconds after meeting you.
"You speak? What's your role? We gotta plan."
Sypher shook his head slightly, like trying to shake the confusion loose.
"Sorry… yeah. I'm the Apex."
The blond blinked. First confused. Then amused.A crooked grin twitched across his face as his eyebrows lifted.
"You? An Apex? With that build—"
He stopped mid‑sentence, lifted both hands.
"Sorry. That was rude. My bad."
He extended a hand. The smile stayed.
"I'm the Core. Roy Buster."
What a smug bastard, Sypher thought.Still, he nodded and forced a neutral smile.
"All good. Nice to meet you."
Before the silence could stretch, a woman chimed in. Confident. Sharp.
"Hey, you two. What's your match history look like?"
Brown hair, green eyes, a body like a sculpted weapon. Her skin had a warm bronze tone, and she stood like someone who was used to commanding attention.
Before either of them could answer, a huge man stepped beside her.Massive shoulders. Radiating presence.
"Don't ask that, Selene," he said in a deep, even voice.
"I don't care. I just want to win. And if I know who messed up, I know who to blame later."
Roy laughed out loud.
"Hah! You're a Burst, right? That's so on brand for you."
Her eyes narrowed.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Then silence.
Not just quiet.The kind of silence right before something explodes.
[Dominator's Howl]
It wasn't a sound. It was pressure.A deep, weighty force—like the world holding its breath.
Sypher flinched.His gut twisted.It felt like a lead blanket slammed down on his shoulders—and got heavier with every breath.
One step.
Two.
The floor beneath him trembled.Not like an earthquake.More like a warning.
Then a voice.Deep. Weathered.Dead calm. And pissed.
"That's enough, you little brats."
A man stepped out from the shadows. Older. Wearing a long black coat, heavy boots. His face was etched with a brutal scar running from chin to eye.
The pressure faded.But the echo of dominance stayed.
[Swift March]
A flash of motion—a sharp metallic hiss.Selene drew her pistol and fired forward like a bullet.Five meters—less than a second.
Then she froze.A hand caught the gun.
Bork.
The mountain beside her.He gripped the barrel like it was a toy.
"Let go, Bork! Come on!"
"Not now," he rumbled. Calm. Heavy."The match starts soon. Save the drama."
She pushed against him, snarling.
"He's the one! Who the hell uses a skill before the match even starts? You want us going in rattled?!"
Bork didn't answer.His eyes weren't on her. Or the gun.
They were locked on the Dominator.
The tension didn't break.No apology. No resolution. Just… ticking.
Suddenly, Sypher felt a nudge.
Roy elbowed him, leaned over, whispered behind his hand.
"You see Bork? That's what I thought an Apex looked like."
A crooked smirk twitched on his face.
Sypher barely rolled his eyes and met his gaze.
"Sure. Whatever. Just try to be useful—since you talk like a damn pro."
He turned away.
Above him, a glowing display hovered.The timer ticked down.
[00:00:09]
They were still arguing.But for once, this team actually seemed halfway competent.
A dangerous thought crept in.
Hope.
If he lost this match, his Social Credit would drop from 21 to ‑4.Game over.
The clinic would drop him. No score, no meds. No score, no treatment.
He had two matches left.Two shots to earn enough for his next dose.
After that, it didn't matter if his stats were 17 or 170—he wouldn't even be able to walk up a flight of stairs.
Maybe this is what my aunt felt before it ended for her.
Sypher clenched his fists.
Whoever the enemy Apex is—I'm putting them down first.Then the rest.
I'm going to beat this thing.Not because I'm lucky. Because I'm stronger.Because I earn respect—no handouts, no pity. Earned.And when I'm done, I'm living on my terms.
…
[MATCH START]