The overhead lights had stabilized, but the equipment room still smelled of burnt electronics and copper.
Two orderlies maneuvered the stretcher through the shattered doorway, their movements careful despite the urgency that had brought them running minutes ago. The body bag lay sealed on the gurney—black synthetic material that caught the fluorescent glare as they tilted it past the twisted metal frame. One of the orderlies muttered something under his breath. His partner didn't respond, just kept his grip steady on the rail.
Bileg stood against the corridor wall, his sidearm holstered now but his hand still resting near it. Old habit. The kind that kept you alive when situations went sideways.
He watched the stretcher roll past, wheels squeaking against the polished floor. The sound cut through the quiet that had settled over this wing of the hospital. The alarms had stopped. The running footsteps had ceased. What remained was aftermath—clinical and efficient.
A nurse hurried past, her eyes fixed forward, refusing to look at the stretcher or the blown-out doorway behind him.
The stretcher disappeared around the corner.
Bileg exhaled slowly through his nose. His shoulders ached from the tension that had locked them in place since the moment he'd seen the fake nurse pull that garrote. The adrenaline was fading now, leaving behind the familiar hollow feeling that always came after pulling a trigger.
He glanced back into the equipment room. The mess told its own story—overturned shelves, scattered medical supplies, the bolt cutter lying abandoned near the counter. Dark smears marked the floor where the body had fallen. A forensics team would photograph it all, document every detail, file it away in some database.
Another orderly appeared with a cleaning cart, already prepped with disinfectant and industrial-grade cleaner. Fast response. Someone wanted this cleaned before word spread beyond the necessary channels.
Ji-Hoon's voice crackled through Bileg's earpiece.
"Perimeter secure. No other hostiles detected."
Bileg pressed his finger to the comm.
"Copy. Medical team with the target?"
"Affirmative. They're working on him now."
The target. The kid. Ray.
Bileg's jaw tightened. The garrote had cut deep—he'd seen the blood on the boy's throat when he'd gone down gasping. Close. Too damn close.
A doctor emerged from one of the nearby pods, white coat pristine despite the chaos that had erupted three doors down. He glanced at Bileg, nodded once, and continued past without speaking.
Bileg remained against the wall, watching the cleaning crew begin their work. The burnt smell would linger for hours despite their efforts. Blood had a way of soaking into things—floors, walls, memory.
He'd done his job. Put down the threat. Saved the asset.
But the question that nagged at him now, standing in this sterile corridor while orderlies mopped up the consequences, was simple and uncomfortable:
Who had sent her?
Footsteps echoed from around the corner. Ji-Hoon appeared, his expression tight, the tension from the last half hour still carved into the lines around his mouth.
He stopped beside Bileg.
"Informed the team leader?"
Bileg nodded.
"He said he'll ask the director to raise security to Code: Gamma. We won't be needing to watch over here anymore."
Ji-Hoon's head dipped in understanding. His gaze dropped to the floor, staying there. After what had gone down—the explosion, the fight, the garrote biting into the kid's throat—that kind of reaction made sense. Sometimes you needed a moment to process. To let the adrenaline finish draining.
His head lifted. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Too bad the target's not a beautiful maiden, you know. I read in ancient stories a maiden would give herself to someone who saved her in a time of crisis."
Bileg's face twisted.
"If I wanted someone, I'd just go to Cloud Nine. Why would I need an inexperienced girl?"
The retort landed flat and final, cutting off whatever follow-up Ji-Hoon had been preparing.
Ji-Hoon shook his head. His hand came up, waving the comment away.
"Anyway..."
He drew the word out, stretching it into something that signaled a topic change.
"Let's work on the action report. Fat Liu will demand it the moment we step into headquarters."
Bileg's face contorted like he'd bitten into something rotten.
The office felt smaller than it was. Tension compressed the space between the desk and the chairs, thickened the air until every breath seemed deliberate.
Liu Shitian sat behind his desk, fingers pressed flat against the polished surface. His secretary stood to his right, tablet in hand, her posture rigid. Across from him, Kim Min-Jun occupied the chair that had been positioned with precise formality—centered, equidistant from the desk's corners. Bileg and Ji-Hoon flanked him on either side, standing at attention.
Liu's face had gone crimson. The color spread from his collar upward, mottling his cheeks and forehead. His jaw worked, teeth grinding audibly in the silence that preceded speech.
He jabbed his finger at the tablet lying on his desk.
"Min-Jun, is this how you take care of our future asset?"
Spittle flew with each syllable, catching the light from the overhead fixtures.
"You called this foolproof? Huh?"
His hand shot forward. The tablet slid across the polished surface, momentum carrying it toward the desk's edge.
Min-Jun lurched forward, hands darting out. His fingers closed around the device just before it tipped over the side.
"I'm sorry, Director."
Min-Jun stood, the tablet clutched in both hands. His spine straightened, then bent forward in a deep bow. His head dropped, gaze fixed on the floor.
"It's my fault. I will take full responsibility for this dereliction of duty."
Liu exhaled through his nose—a sharp huff that filled the silence. The crimson in his face hadn't faded, but something in his posture shifted. His shoulders dropped half an inch. His fingers uncurled from their pressed position against the desk.
His voice stayed sharp.
"We will see!"
The words came out clipped, maintaining the tone even as the fury behind them ebbed.
"With the National Guards taking charge of guarding Mr. Ray, I can be reassured of his safety."
He paused. His eyes narrowed, fixing on Min-Jun's bowed form.
"Now then. Did you create the new proposal I asked you to draw regarding Mr. Ray?"
Min-Jun's thumb moved across the tablet screen. The interface shifted, applications sliding past until he found the document. A tap brought it to full display.
He extended the tablet toward Liu.
"Here you go, Director."
Liu took it, his thick fingers adjusting the angle to catch the light properly. His eyes scanned the text, moving down the page in quick jumps. When something caught his attention, he read it aloud.
"Guaranteed special admission to First Sol Military University, skipping all other entrance tests and requirements."
His head bobbed once.
"Good one."
His eyes continued down the document.
"One hundred and fifty thousand Els stipend per semester for the duration of study."
A pause. His tongue clicked against his teeth.
"Affordable. Not bad."
The tablet tilted slightly as he reached the next section.
"Providing a training regimen till the subject reaches nineteen years old and joins the University."
His brow furrowed. The sound he made came from somewhere deep in his throat—consideration mixed with approval.
"Hmm. That works."
His gaze lifted from the screen, fixing on Min-Jun. The look carried weight—expectation layered over warning.
"But make sure you select a good trainer. I don't want our future star gathering dust in his first year under our support before he goes to First Sol. Got it?"
Min-Jun's head dipped forward.
"Understood, Director."
Director Liu's attention dropped back to the tablet, his eyes resuming their scan of the remaining text.
Liu's eyes moved further down the document, his lips moving silently as he processed the text. Clauses about housing allowances, medical coverage, access to training facilities. Standard benefits, elevated to match the importance of a Level 3 Player.
He set the tablet down on the desk.
"Let's add a mansion from our district. It will be ceded to Mr. Ray as well."
The secretary's posture shifted. Her tablet lowered slightly.
"Director, wouldn't that be inappropriate?"
Liu's head snapped toward her. His hand came up, palm outward, cutting off anything else she might say.
"It's to appease any misunderstandings we may have with Mr. Ray regarding his security."
His gaze swung across the desk, landing on Min-Jun like a physical weight. The glare held for three full seconds.
Min-Jun's head dropped, chin nearly touching his chest.
Liu's attention returned to the document on his desk.
"That settles it. Make the changes and we can visit Mr. Ray to convey our sincerity."
His hand waved toward the door—dismissal, clear and absolute.
Min-Jun stood first, the tablet still clutched in his hands. He bowed once more, then turned toward the exit. Bileg and Ji-Hoon followed, their footsteps synchronized as they crossed to the door. The secretary moved last, her tablet held against her chest, her expression carefully neutral.
The door closed with a soft click.
Liu sat alone.
His shoulders sagged. The rigidity that had held his spine straight throughout the meeting dissolved. He slumped backward into his chair, the leather creaking under the shift in weight. His head tilted back, eyes fixing on the ceiling tiles.
The anger had faded from his face, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
A week passed.
The lacerations on Raymond's throat healed without complication. Advanced medical technology—synthesized tissue regeneration, cellular acceleration treatments—worked faster than anything he'd known in his previous life. The wounds closed. The bruising faded. By the fourth day, even the tenderness had disappeared. By the seventh, his skin showed no trace of the garrote's bite. No scars. Nothing to mark how close he'd come.
The recovery period gave him time. Time to think. Time to search. Time to finally learn who had owned this body before his consciousness had taken residence.
Kim Min-Jun had kept his promise. A new wrist terminal arrived on the second day—sleek, standard-issue, the kind every adult seemed to carry. The data from Ray's previous device had been transferred over. Personal files. Educational records. Medical history. And journals.
Raymond had read through them all.
Ray was a test-tube baby. Lab-grown from anonymous genetic donors who'd never met him, never knew his name, never watched him take his first steps or speak his first words. The Human Federation had funded his creation as part of a broader initiative—Prosperity Home, the facility called itself. A project designed to raise children like him. Parentless. State-sponsored. Functional.
The journals painted a picture of mundane existence. Ray had documented the significant moments—graduation from primary education, his first part-time job, the results of his secondary school finals. Average grades. Competent but unremarkable. He'd planned to become a corporate worker, same as most kids who came out of Prosperity Home. Find a company. Work the entry position. Climb slowly if fortune smiled. Survive if it didn't.
Eighteen years of predictable trajectory.
Then his eighteenth birthday arrived, and fate inserted itself.
Ray had collapsed. No warning. No preceding symptoms. One moment walking through Prosperity Home's corridors, the next moment unconscious on the floor. The staff had rushed him to medical facilities. Doctors ran diagnostics, scanned his brain activity, checked for toxins or neural damage.
The diagnosis came back clean. Physically, nothing was wrong.
But he wouldn't wake up.
Player Candidate, they'd labeled him. The medical reports used clinical terminology, but the meaning was clear—on their eighteenth birthday, certain individuals entered comas without external stimulus. No drugs. No trauma. Just the body shutting down consciousness while something else happened behind closed eyes.
If they woke up, they'd passed the tutorial.
Ray had woken up.
Ray had woken up.
Or rather, Raymond had woken up in Ray's body, with no memory of what happened to Ray within the tutorial before he took over, no recollection of Ray's final thoughts, no connection to the life that had come before.
Just fragments in a journal and medical records that explained how he had become the so called Player.
Today marked his discharge.
Raymond had accepted the Ministry's proposal. The terms were generous—more than he'd expected, actually.
He'd spent time researching the university on his new wrist terminal. First Sol Military University held top position within the Sol Sector. The sector itself ranked near the bottom when compared to all the space sectors under Human Federation control, but within Sol's boundaries, the institution's prestige stood second to none.
The mansion was the cherry on top.
Raymond had dreaded the thought of returning to Prosperity Home. The branch facility where Ray had lived for eighteen years. Small dormitory rooms. Communal spaces. The institutional smell that never quite left the hallways. Going back there, pretending to be someone he wasn't to people who'd known Ray his entire life, would've been a nightmare.
The mansion solved that problem cleanly.
He had a hunch the Ministry wouldn't have let him return to Prosperity Home anyway. Not after the assassination attempt. Security concerns. Liability. Too many variables they couldn't control in a facility that housed dozens of other residents.
The bodyguard situation had changed. Kim Min-Jun had informed him about it during one of his visits—the current detail had been selected from the National Guards. Professional soldiers, not Ministry bureaucrats playing at protection. They'd handle his daily safety until he turned nineteen and became eligible for university enrollment.
Raymond folded the last of his clothes and tucked them into the backpack. Shirt. Pants. The spare set the hospital had provided. His fingers worked through the routine while his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
I have to go into the Player lobby again. Investigate properly this time.
He'd read extensively over the past week. Articles about Players, their role in society, why governments treated them as strategic assets. The information was comprehensive, covering everything from tutorial survival rates to career trajectories after university graduation.
But nowhere—not in a single article, forum post, or official document—had he come across any mention of a Store. Nothing about purchasing stat boosts or skills with some kind of currency.
Every source agreed: the only way to gain such benefits was through task completion rewards granted directly by the World System.
But...
His hands slowed. The backpack strap dangled from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes went distant, staring at nothing.
I clearly saw the system offer me that benefit.
The Reputation Store had existed. He'd used it. Bought Endurance increases that had kept him alive in the desert. The interface had been as tangible as anything else the system had shown him.
His head shook, breaking the thought spiral. His hands resumed their work, zipping the backpack closed.
Well. Regardless.
He pulled the backpack onto his shoulders, adjusting the straps.
I have two chances to enter the simulated worlds this year. Should make the best use of it. Get stronger.
His hand came up, fingers brushing against his neck. The skin was smooth now, healed completely. But he could still feel it—the phantom sensation of wire biting into flesh, cutting off air, the edge of death pressing close.
His jaw tightened.
He turned toward the door and walked out.
The bodyguards fell into step behind him, their boots striking the floor in measured cadence.