Rain was a constant in Orika City.
Not the cleansing kind. No, this rain reeked of steel, motor oil, and rot. It smeared neon signs into bleeding colors and dripped off rusted fire escapes like tears from a dying machine.
Toma Kisaragi sat on the edge of a broken rooftop vent, smoking a cheap menthol he'd stolen from a kiosk downtown.
The cherry glowed like a dying eye in the dark. Below him, the alley buzzed with half-dead vending machines and flickering holo-ads promising lottery wins, new limbs, and synthetic love.
"Balance: -¥18,000,000." The number haunted him. Lit up on the cracked screen of his secondhand phone like a glowing curse.
He tucked it away as the rain intensified, hoodie drawn tighter around his face.
"Nineteen years old and already more broke than most corpses," he muttered.
A door slammed behind him. "Yo, Toma!"
He looked up as Junpei, his landlord, or more accurately, the guy who extorted everyone in the block's third-floor shanties, stood at the rooftop entrance. Bald, greasy, with a gold incisor that gleamed every time he got mad.
"You're three days late again. I'm not running a damn charity here."
Toma stubbed the cigarette out with his heel. "I told you, I've got a job lined up tonight. Big one."
Junpei raised an eyebrow. "Bigger than last week's 'big one'? That barely covered your water."
Toma stood, brushing water off his sleeves. "This one's different. Corporate client. High-security package."
Junpei stepped closer, the smell of cheap whiskey trailing with him. "Listen, brat. If you don't drop at least five thousand yen into my box by tomorrow morning, your closet gets rented to someone with a functioning spine."
Toma didn't flinch. "I'll have the money."
Junpei grinned. "Good. If not, maybe I'll sell your bones for biotech testing."
He left.
Toma exhaled slowly. Then he pulled out his phone again, tapping into the courier app: The message blinked. Coordinates followed.
Client: Anonymous
Delivery: Secure black package
Pickup: 22:00, Shinjuku Sector B - Gridpoint 44
Dropoff: Confidential - encrypted GPS required.
Pay: ¥35,000.
A dangerous price for a delivery. High enough to mean risk. Low enough to mean the client didn't care what happened to the courier.
He stared at it a long moment, then tapped "Accept."
22:04 PM – Shinjuku Sector B
Gridpoint 44 was a condemned subway access buried under scaffolding and graffiti. A rusted metal door sat beneath an LED sign flickering with half-lit kanji.
Toma adjusted his delivery jacket and knocked twice, the way the instructions said.
A steel slot slid open.
"Password?" asked a voice, filtered, synthetic.
Toma cleared his throat. "Delta Echo Nine."
The slot closed. The door groaned open.
Inside was pitch-black but warm. The air smelled like ozone and old circuit boards. A soft green glow led him down a concrete corridor toward a narrow steel table.
On it was a black briefcase, sleek, fingerprint-scanner locked, bearing no branding.
A silhouette emerged from the shadows. Man? Woman? Hard to tell. Their voice was distorted, modulated.
"Do not open the case," they said. "Do not scan it. Do not question it. Deliver it to the exact coordinates we'll send during transit. If you're even one block off, the case self-destructs."
Toma frowned. "What is it?"
"None of your concern. You want the money?"
He hesitated… then nodded.
"Good." The figure tossed him a compact GPS module. "Your drop-point will appear once you hit the freeway. Now move."
Toma grabbed the case, tucked it under his arm, and turned toward the exit.
"Wait," the voice said. "This job, it's a point of no return, Kisaragi."
That made him stop. "How do you know my name?"
"Because people like you," the voice replied, "are always one job away from becoming someone else."
The door hissed closed behind him.
22:26 PM – Orika Freeway, Southline
Toma's electric bike cut through the misty night like a shark. Engine whining. Neon signs blurring past. Rain in his eyes.
He tried not to think about the weight of the case in the compartment below him.
Or the voice.
Or the fact that the GPS had just blinked to life with a destination inside Tennin District.
One of the most exclusive zones in Orika City. Corporate towers. Private security. Drone sweeps. The kind of place a debt-crippled slum courier had no business being near.
"Stupid," he muttered. "I should've turned it down."
But ¥35,000 was ¥35,000.
And maybe he was tired of hiding.
He turned onto the sky-bridge leading into Tennin, just as two black sedans peeled off behind him.