The VR simulation shattered.
Not with a clean exit, but with the screech of a dying graphics card.
Michael's vision exploded in a blizzard of white static, and he was violently ejected back into his own body.
He slumped forward in the diagnostic chair, a ragged gasp tearing from his lungs.
His head felt like it was full of angry, buzzing hornets.
"Failure," Chloe's voice stated, a cold, sharp icicle in the sudden silence. "Cognitive overload. You lost control."
Michael didn't have the energy to form a sarcastic reply.
His entire body trembled, a thin sheen of cold sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.
The training was hell.
Chloe's method wasn't about making him stronger; it was about trying to build a cage inside a cage.
Every day, she forced him into the sensory deprivation tank or the VR chair, pitting his will against the rising tide of whispers in his soul.
And every day, he was losing.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched.
It was Jinx.
"Easy there, Spooky," she said, her voice unusually low. "Don't have a system crash on us now."
Michael looked up and saw Chloe standing over him, her arms crossed, her face a mask of profound, analytical disappointment.
But for a single, fleeting second, before the mask had fully settled, he'd seen it.
A flicker of genuine, non-analytical alarm in her cold gray eyes.
Jinx saw it too.
A tiny, cynical smirk touched the corner of her lips.
"Analysis complete, Captain," Chloe announced, her professional voice snapping back into place like a shield. "The asset's mental fortitude is insufficient."
"His lack of control makes him a liability."
"I'm right here, you know," Michael grumbled, pushing himself up. "The asset can hear you. The asset also thinks you talk like a malfunctioning customer service bot."
Chloe ignored him completely.
"The problem is the Seal," she continued, turning to the main holographic display. "It's a governor on your power. It restricts the flow, making it volatile and hard to manage. To gain control, you need a wider conduit."
"We need to weaken the Seal further."
Michael's stomach clenched. He knew what that meant.
"So, it's back to the Alchemist," he said, his voice flat. "Back for another dose of his soul-crushing, agony-inducing, definitely-not-FDA-approved magic juice."
"Precisely," Chloe confirmed. "However, his refined serums are not cheap. And our operational funds are currently… depleted."
"You mean we're broke," Jinx translated, polishing a fresh clip for her rifle.
"Yes," Chloe conceded, the word tasting like an admission of failure. "We are broke."
"Fortunately," she added, a new schematic flashing onto the holographic table, "a lucrative opportunity has presented itself."
She pulled up a file.
It was a job posting from a high-level Undercroft message board.
The client was an info-broker known only as Nyx.
The job title was simple: Ghost-Stamper.
"Nyx is a major player in the Undercroft," Chloe explained. "Deals in secrets, artifacts, and gossip. She's paying a premium for a Hunter with experience in… unconventional energy signatures."
"She has acquired a cursed artifact," Chloe said. "Its chaotic energy is disrupting her surveillance network. She needs someone to cleanse it."
"She needs a Void Reaper," Michael finished, the pieces clicking into place.
"This is our only viable path to acquiring the necessary funds," Chloe stated, her gaze unwavering. "You will meet with her. You will assess the artifact. You will cleanse it."
"And you," she added, turning her gaze to Jinx, "will provide tactical overwatch. Your familiarity with the Undercroft's layout is a strategic advantage."
Jinx just grunted, sliding the freshly cleaned clip into her rifle with a satisfying click.
"So I'm the babysitter," she said. "Got it."
The meeting point was a dingy, neon-lit noodle bar tucked away in the Undercroft's most crowded sector.
The air smelled of synth-soy, recycled steam.
Jinx was perched on a nearby rooftop, a ghost with a sniper rifle.
Michael was the one walking into the lion's den.
He found Nyx in a private booth at the back, shrouded in shadows and a cloud of fragrant, purple smoke.
She was stunning, in a way that was both beautiful and incredibly dangerous, like a rare, poisonous flower.
Her hair was a cascade of silver, braided with glowing fiber-optic threads. Her eyes were a mesmerizing, cat-like amber, and her smile was a sharp, predatory thing.
"Well, well," she purred, her voice a low, smoky melody. "Chloe finally sends me someone with a pretty face."
She gestured to the seat opposite her. "I was expecting another one of her scowling, tactical scarecrows."
Michael slid into the booth, his senses on high alert.
He could feel the low hum of power radiating from her, a sign of high-grade cybernetics hidden beneath her stylish, dark clothes.
"What's your name, handsome?" she asked, leaning forward, her amber eyes scanning him with an almost unnerving intensity.
Michael met her gaze, a faint, confident smile playing on his lips.
He wasn't going to be the flustered kid here. He'd learned a thing or two from watching his dad navigate a parent-teacher conference.
"That's premium information," he replied smoothly, "And you, of all people, know that nothing premium is free."
Nyx's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in surprise.
Then she laughed, a rich, throaty sound that turned heads across the noodle bar.
"Oh, I like you," she said, her smile widening. "A pretty face and a sharp tongue. A rare combination in this sewer."
"I'm full of rare combos," Michael shot back, leaning back comfortably. "But right now, the only thing I'm interested in is the job."
"Always business first," Nyx sighed dramatically, waving a hand through the purple smoke. "Such a shame."
"The item," she said, her tone shifting, becoming sharper, more serious. "It's an old Gate Key. F-Rank. Should be harmless. But it's… tainted. Haunted. It screams."
Her eyes narrowed. "Not with sound. In here." She tapped a perfectly manicured finger to her temple.
"It's giving me a migraine and scrambling my best listening devices. I need someone to shut it up. Permanently."
"And my sources tell me you're the only Ghost-Stamper in town who can handle this kind of psychic noise."
Chloe's voice cut into his ear, her tone clipped and colder than usual.
"Confirm the nature of the artifact, Michael. Do not deviate from the mission parameters."
Nyx's sharp eyes flickered towards his ear, a knowing glint in their depths.
"Is your handler on the line?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell her to relax. We're just talking business."
She leaned closer, her scent a heady mix of expensive perfume and ozone.
"Unless, of course," she purred, her amber eyes locking onto his, "you'd rather discuss something a little more… personal."
Michael just smiled, his confidence unshakeable.
"Tempting," he said, his voice dropping to match hers. "But I find that mixing business with pleasure often leads to messy quarterly reports."
He kept his eyes on hers for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch between them.
"Show me the key," he said, his tone shifting back to business, gently but firmly taking back control of the conversation.
Nyx studied him for a moment, then leaned back, a hint of reluctant respect in her expression.
"Fine," she said with a sigh. "Have it your way, pretty boy."
She reached under the table and placed a small, lead-lined box on the surface.
She slid it across to him.
"Handle with care," she warned. "It bites."
Michael reached for the box.
The moment his fingers touched the cold metal, a wave of pure, undiluted agony slammed into his mind.
It was a psychic shriek of pain, rage, and terror so profound it almost made him black out.
The whispers in his own head, the ghosts of the monsters he'd consumed, went silent, cowering in the face of this new, overwhelming presence.
He ripped his hand back as if he'd been burned.
"What in the hell," he gasped, "is inside that box?"