The two thousand dollars sat in the secure digital ledger the system had created for him.
It looked sterile.
Impersonal.
Just a number on a screen.
But to Miles, it felt heavy.
It was the weight of a hundred-meter dash fueled by impossible power.
It was the price of a public humiliation delivered to the school's golden boy.
It was his war chest.
He sat in the dark of his small apartment, the only light coming from his laptop screen.
His ribs had stopped aching, the deep bruises from the bathroom ambush having faded to a pale yellow thanks to the system's subtle, constant work.
The Bio-Regeneration was slow, but it was effective.
A new message blinked silently in the corner of his vision, a persistent, internal pop-up ad from hell.
[SUB-QUEST: ELIMINATE THE SERPENT'S HEAD]
[OBJECTIVE: LOCATE AND ELIMINATE THE INDIVIDUAL KNOWN AS 'SPIKE']
[STATUS: PENDING]
Miles sighed, running his good hand through his hair.
"I haven't forgotten," he muttered to the empty room.
The system, of course, did not reply.
It didn't need to.
The objective remained, cold and patient.
He knew he couldn't just walk up to a warehouse and knock on the door.
The beating in the alley had taught him one thing.
Weakness was a death sentence.
He needed gear.
He needed information.
He needed to be the predator this time, not the prey.
"Alright," he said to the quiet, humming presence in his mind. "You want me to be a superspy. Let's go shopping."
He opened a new browser tab.
He had no idea where to even begin.
[QUERY: SECURE BLACK MARKET VENDORS FOR SURVEILLANCE EQUIPMENT?] the system prompted, its text scrolling across his vision like a helpful search suggestion.
"Uh, yeah," Miles whispered. "That."
[ACCESSING DEEP WEB PORTAL: 'THE RUSTED KEY']
[ROUTING IP ADDRESS THROUGH 17 PROXY SERVERS.]
[ENCRYPTION LAYER: MILITARY GRADE.]
Miles watched as lines of code flew across his screen, his cheap laptop groaning under the strain.
He felt like a kid who had just hotwired a spaceship.
The screen flickered and then settled on a webpage that looked like it was designed in the nineties.
It was a simple, text-based forum with a rust-colored font.
No pictures. No flashy ads.
Just listings.
He navigated through the menus, the system highlighting the most reliable vendors based on user reviews and transaction histories it was somehow ableto scan in milliseconds.
First, a burner phone.
He found a listing for a "ghost phone," guaranteed to be untraceable, its serial numbers already scrubbed from every database.
He clicked 'buy.'
[150 ASSETS TRANSFERRED.] the system noted.
Next, encrypted drives.
He needed a place to store the data he planned to acquire without it ever touching his own laptop.
He bought three keychain-sized solid-state drives with multi-layer password protection.
[250 ASSETS TRANSFERRED.]
Finally, he needed eyes.
He couldn't afford a high-tech drone, but he found something that might be even better.
A set of four micro-cameras, each the size of a ladybug.
They were wireless, magnetic, and had a battery life of twelve hours.
They fed directly to a receiver that could be plugged into his new burner phone.
[600 ASSETS TRANSFERRED.]
One thousand dollars. Gone in less than ten minutes.
His war chest was now cut in half.
The price of entry was steep.
He leaned back, the pit of his stomach churning.
This was real.
He had just bought spy gear from an illegal website to plan an attack on a gang hideout.
His biggest worry last month was a physics quiz.
[EQUIPMENT PURCHASE COMPLETE,] the system stated, its calm voice a stark contrast to his own frantic heartbeat. [BEGINNING MISSION PREPARATION.]
[INITIATE PHASE 1: INTELLIGENCE GATHERING.]
Over the next two days, the packages arrived in plain brown boxes, delivered to a vacant apartment down the hall whose mailbox lock Miles had discreetly broken.
He spent his evenings turning his tiny apartment into a makeshift command center.
He followed the system's instructions, using his new gear to scout the target.
He took the bus down to the industrial district, the part of the city that smelled like rust and seawater.
From a block away, he tossed the micro-cameras onto the roofs of the buildings surrounding his target.
Warehouse 7.
It was a big, ugly, corrugated steel box, bleeding rust from every seam.
The windows were boarded up.
There was only one main entrance, a massive roll-up door big enough for a truck.
Back in his apartment, the four video feeds came to life on his burner phone.
It was like having his own security station.
[ANALYZING PATROL ROUTES,] the system chimed in.
For hours, Miles watched.
The Crimson Serpents were lazy.
They were overconfident.
Two guards stood at the front door at all times, smoking and talking, barely paying attention.
Another guard did a slow, predictable loop around the building every thirty minutes.
Like clockwork.
"They're sloppy," Miles said.
[CONFIRMED,] the system replied. [SECURITY PROTOCOLS ARE MINIMAL. THEIR GREATEST DEFENSE IS THEIR LOW-LEVEL STATUS. NO ONE CONSIDERS THEM A TARGET WORTHY OF A SOPHISTICATED ATTACK.]
"We can use that," Miles thought, a cold confidence beginning to settle over him.
[RECOMMENDATION: UTILIZE THEIR OWN PREDICTABILITY AGAINST THEM.]
The system brought up a new overlay on his screen.
It was a satellite map of the warehouse, sourced from public records.
Then, the system began to add its own data.
It highlighted the guards' patrol routes in red.
It marked the locations of the few security cameras it could detect in yellow.
It pinpointed blind spots in green.
[ANALYZING PUBLIC UTILITY GRIDS,] the system announced.
A new blue line appeared on the map, showing the main power line feeding into the warehouse.
It connected to a junction box on the building's north wall.
The north wall was a blind spot.
A plan began to form, a cold, logical sequence of steps.
He would use the darkness.
He would use their arrogance.
[ANALYSIS OF SHIFT CHANGES COMPLETE,] the system reported. [A SEVEN-MINUTE WINDOW EXISTS AT 2:00 AM. THE NIGHT SHIFT IS CONSISTENTLY LATE, AND THE DAY SHIFT IS EAGER TO LEAVE.]
[DURING THIS PERIOD, GUARD PRESENCE IS AT ITS WEAKEST.]
Seven minutes.
That was his opening.
He would cut the power, creating chaos.
He would use that chaos to slip inside.
[ACCESSING WAREHOUSE BLUEPRINTS FROM CITY ARCHIVES…]
A detailed layout of the building's interior appeared on his screen.
Offices. Storage bays. A break room.
And a network of ventilation shafts.
His highway.
Miles stared at the screen, at the map of his hunt.
He felt a strange calm wash over him, a chilling sense of purpose.
The fear was still there, a low hum beneath the surface.
But the cold, clear logic of the mission was louder.
He was no longer just a scared kid who had survived an attack.
He was becoming the weapon his parents had designed.
He checked the time on his phone.
It was just past ten o'clock.
He had four hours to prepare.
Four hours until his life changed forever.
He stood up and walked to his closet, pulling out a dark hoodie and black cargo pants.
He began to load his new gear into the pockets, each movement precise and deliberate.
The burner phone.
The encrypted drives.
A roll of electrical tape.
A multi-tool he'd owned for years.
The system remained silent, its work done.
The plan was made.
The objective was clear.
The clock on his wall ticked with agonizing slowness.
Tick.
Tock.
Midnight arrived.
It was time to go hunting.