Raymond slipped through the side exit into the narrow alley behind Warehouse 47B. The humid night air carried the tang of salt and machine oil from the nearby docks. He moved three blocks east, checking corners and reflections in darkened windows until he found what he needed—a maintenance alcove between two cargo containers, invisible from the street.
He pressed his back against corrugated steel and opened the System interface.
[ Combat Finished. Calculating rewards... ]
The familiar blue text floated in his vision, crisp against the darkness.
[ Total Kills: 2 (Tier 1) ]
[ Reward: 20 Reputation Points ]
Raymond processed the numbers. Two operatives, both trained intelligence officers with military-grade cybernetics. Tier 1.
A second notification pulsed into existence.
[ ACHIEVEMENT: Noticed ]
[ Achievement Reward: 20 Reputation Points ]
Raymond's jaw tightened*.* The Sultanate's intelligence apparatus had just recorded his face through dying eyes, transmitted directly to their headquarters. The System acknowledged that exposure as an achievement.
He pulled up the store interface.
[ Reputation Store | Authorization Level: 1 | Current Points: 160 REP ]
Raymond dismissed the interface and he leaned his head back against the container. The theory held because combat provided baseline rewards, which remained predictable and measurable yet limited. Achievements operated on a different scale entirely because they involved impact and they involved consequence; actions rippled beyond the immediate moment.
The System rewarded significance, not just violence.
What qualifies as significant?
He considered the pattern: escaping captivity, deducing the simulation's nature, acquiring his first title, and being recorded by hostile surveillance. Each achievement marked a threshold because these moments caused his actions to intersect with larger systems, which created ripples he could not fully predict.
Raymond approached Chen Heavy Industries Tower from a different angle than before, circling through the commercial district where late-night crowds provided natural cover. He activated [ Basic Sneak ] two blocks out, the familiar awareness settling over his movements as he slipped through the building's service entrance.
The same drowsy guard. The same emergency stairwell. Twenty-one floors.
Raymond paused outside Marcus's office door, listening. Keyboard clicks. The soft hum of climate control. No additional voices, no shuffled footsteps suggesting hidden security. He tested the handle—unlocked, same as his first visit.
Either Marcus trusts I wouldn't harm him, or he's still fishing.
Raymond entered silently, scanning the corners, the shadows behind furniture, the ceiling vents. No traps. No ambush team. Just Marcus Chen hunched over his terminal, fingers moving across holographic displays.
"It's done."
Marcus didn't startle. His typing paused for exactly one second before resuming.
"Both targets?"
"Both targets."
Marcus swivelled his chair, studying Raymond with the same calculating assessment as before. His eyes lingered on Raymond's unmarked clothing, and he seemed to notice the absence of blood splatter and the casual posture.
"I gave you specific parameters," Marcus said—"you were supposed to perform a silent elimination and ensure no data transmission occurred."
Raymond settled into the chair across the desk without invitation.
"The Sultanate's intelligence network received a full visual feed of their operatives' final moments. Facial recognition will identify me as John Reese within the hour, if it hasn't already."
Marcus's expression remained neutral, but his fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping.
"Why?"
"I deliberately let them record John Reese." Raymond leaned back, allowing a trace of sarcasm into his voice. "A ghost identity with no verifiable history, no family connections, no trail leading anywhere useful. When the Sultanate comes knocking—and they will—the Table can express genuine surprise and righteous indignation. You had no knowledge of this rogue operator. You certainly didn't sanction the hit."
Marcus's eyes narrowed.
"Perfect plausible deniability." Raymond met his gaze steadily. "Which is exactly what you wanted to see. A silent kill proves competence. A loud kill that somehow protects your interests? That proves judgment."
The silence stretched between them. Marcus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, then relaxed. His posture shifted—the rigid assessment of a spymaster giving way to something closer to professional acknowledgement.
"You passed."
"I know."
Marcus rose from his chair, moving to a cabinet along the wall. He poured two glasses of amber liquid, sliding one across the desk toward Raymond.
"Don't mistake this for trust, Mr. Reese. You've demonstrated capability and strategic thinking. That makes you useful." He lifted his glass, pointing towards Raymond. "It also makes you dangerous."
Raymond accepted the drink but didn't raise it.
"The bounty?"
"Will be lifted by morning. You and your associate." Marcus returned to his seat. "But you won't be receiving any significant assignments. Not yet. The Table operates on relationships built over years, not weeks."
"I'm not asking for significant assignments."
"Good." Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Because you won't get them, at least not yet."
"But, I will not work for free either. I am a freelancer, not your agent." Raymond countered.
"Don't worry. You'll be compensated appropriately." Marcus leaned back. "Perform well on the smaller contracts, and I'll personally vouch for something bigger. What do you say?"
Raymond raised his glass.
They clinked, sealing the arrangement.
Five days later, Raymond walked through Cyber City's neon-drenched commercial district, cataloguing the faces around him with the detached efficiency of a man accustomed to surveillance.
Over the last week, Raymond had built a reputation.
Two Sultanate intelligence officers eliminated in district warehouses. Three minor gang operations dissolved—unaffiliated crews who'd refused to bend knee to the Table's authority. Their mistake had been stubbornness. Their reward had been systematic elimination.
Two intelligence gathering operations against Eurasian Empire ambassadors visiting the neutral trade zones. Those had required subtlety rather than violence—photographing documents, copying encrypted data chips, planting surveillance devices in embassy vehicles.
Marcus had paid handsomely for each assignment. Raymond's credit balance now sat at 237,000. More than most Cyber City residents would see in five years of legitimate work.
But credits weren't the only currency Raymond had accumulated.
Notoriety grows faster than reputation points.
The lower rungs of Cyber City's criminal ecosystem now whispered about the young operative who materialized from shadows, completed impossible contracts, and vanished without trace. Some called him a ghost. Those in the know called him the Table's new enforcer.
The Sultanate had responded differently. Their intelligence network had gone dark in the affected districts, pulling back assets and establishing new protocols. Covert search operations had begun—surveillance teams monitoring likely transit points, informants offering bounties for information about a dark-haired youth matching Raymond's description.
They're hunting me without admitting they're hunting me.
Raymond turned down a side street, activating [ Basic Sneak ] as he moved past a cluster of data-vendors hawking stolen information. The skill's veil settled over him, not true invisibility but a perceptual dulling that made observers' eyes slide past without registering his presence.
He checked the System interface with a thought.
[ Reputation Points: 242 ]
Eight points away from [ Basic Analyze ].
The skill sat in the Reputation Store with a price tag of 250 REP—expensive compared to his earlier purchases but potentially transformative. The description promised enhanced pattern recognition, threat assessment capability, and the ability to identify weak points in targets and systems.
A skill that compounds other skills.
Raymond dismissed the interface as he approached a narrow alley leading toward the industrial sector. His last assignment had concluded three hours ago—another intelligence gathering operation, this one targeting a Sultanate logistics coordinator who'd been careless with encrypted tablets in public restaurants.
The job had been simple. The payment had been standard. But Raymond had reached a decision during the surveillance hours spent watching his target.
Credits are useful. Information is invaluable.
He'd ask Marcus for intelligence instead of payment next time. Specifically, intelligence regarding the faction that had first captured him in the shipping container—the organization that had been transporting him to Cyber City via that train before the Free Legion attacked and freed him.
Raymond turned the corner and stopped.
Who were they? What did they want with me? And why has the System never mentioned them in any quest parameters?
The questions had festered since his tutorial. He'd been too focused on immediate survival to pursue answers then. Now, with breathing room and leverage, he could afford curiosity.
And Marcus Chen, as the Table's intelligence leader, would have access to information networks that spanned the entire region.
Raymond activated his wrist terminal and composed a brief message:
"Contract completed. Change of compensation: information only. Meet at usual location."
He transmitted the message and continued walking, heading toward the safehouse Nana Asra maintained for high-value transients.
Eight days to find answers. Then I'm pulled back whether I'm ready or not.
A notification chimed almost immediately—Marcus agreeing to his proposition.
Looks like my value in his eyes has certainly risen up.
Raymond smiled without humor and adjusted his route toward Chen Heavy Industries Tower, already formulating the questions he'd demand answered.
Marcus Chen stood at his office window, watching the southern districts of Cyber City sprawl beneath the morning haze.
Information instead of credits.
Most operatives chased money. Credits bought security, upgrades, influence. Information, on the other hand, was currency for those playing longer games—people who understood leverage, who mapped consequences beyond immediate survival.
John Reese is either smarter than I gave him credit for, or he's desperate.
Marcus had watched Reese work over the past five days with clinical fascination. The young operative possessed uncanny efficiency—targets eliminated with surgical precision, intelligence gathered without leaving forensic traces, contracts completed ahead of schedule. Every assignment had been textbook clean.
Then Reese displayed advanced technology. The combat footage from the Sultanate operatives continued playing in Marcus's mind. Reese moved through that warehouse like water flowing around obstacles and exploited blind spots with his cloaking technology. He executed the kills ruthlessly, economically, and professionally using weapons materialized through quantum compression technology.
Who is behind him? What's their goal?
Marcus turned from the window and settled behind his desk, pulling up Reese's limited profile on his terminal. The information remained frustratingly sparse—no verified background, no training records, no identity beyond the John Reese alias he'd presented at the Golden Fleece. Even the facial recognition scans came back empty, suggesting either excellent countermeasures or a past scrubbed from public databases.
Infiltration skills that rival my best contractors. Combat reflexes that shouldn't exist in someone so young.
The door to Marcus's office opened without announcement.
John Reese stepped inside, moving with that same unsettling quietness Marcus had noted before. The young man wore nondescript street clothing—dark synthetic weave, practical boots, nothing that would draw attention in Cyber City's commercial districts.
"Punctual as always."
"Mr. Chen."
Marcus gestured to the chair opposite his desk. Reese sat, posture relaxed but alert, hands visible—the body language of someone comfortable with violence but not advertising it.
"The Sultanate logistics coordinator's tablet utilized military-grade encryption protocols, yet I secured the data prior to deleting the device's memory," Reese said. He produced a narrow data chip, setting it carefully upon Marcus's desk. "Shipping manifests, communication logs, operational codes. Everything you required."
Marcus picked up the chip, examining it briefly before inserting it into his terminal's isolated port. Data flooded his screen—dozens of files, all properly formatted. He scanned the manifests, noting weapons shipments routed through Serenity Desert that were marked lost in transit, communications with Sultanate intelligence cells embedded in the outer districts.
Exactly what I needed.
"Impressive work." Marcus closed the files and removed the chip, placing it in his desk's secure drawer. "The encryption alone would have taken my specialists three days to crack."
Marcus leaned back in his chair, studying Reese's expression. "Which brings us to your proposal. Information instead of credits. What exactly are you looking for?"
Reese's posture didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes—a calculating quality Marcus recognized from his own reflection.
"Which faction operates the train rails in Serenity Desert?"
The question landed like a blade between ribs.
Interesting.
Marcus maintained a bland facade, deploying his decades in espionage to stifle any outward signal.
"That's a dangerous question to ask in Cyber City."
"I'm aware." Reese's tone remained flat, professional. "Which is why I'm asking you instead of less reliable sources."
Marcus considered his options. The train operations in Serenity Desert were controlled by a consortium that most people in Cyber City knew better than to openly discuss.
The fact Reese asked that question suggested either ignorance—which seemed unlikely given his demonstrated competence—or that personal involvement drove the query.
Train rails in Serenity Desert.
Marcus ran through mental databases compiled over fifteen years of intelligence work. Only two factions operated rail transport through those particular routes—the Table's legitimate freight operations, which moved containerized goods under negotiated tariffs with the Sultanate, and the Reformers' clandestine network, which trafficked everything the regime prohibited.
Marcus studied Reese's expression, searching for tells that might reveal how much the young operative actually knew.
"Why do you need this information?"
Silence stretched between them.
Marcus waited, knowing most people couldn't resist filling conversational voids. Interrogation basics—let the subject's discomfort work against them.
Reese remained perfectly still.
Interesting.
Marcus tried a different angle. "The train networks involve complex jurisdictional arrangements. Multiple stakeholders, competing interests. I need context to provide accurate intelligence."
Still nothing.
Reese's eyes showed no interest in answering, as though Marcus had asked about weather patterns instead of potentially lethal factional operations.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, reassessing. Reese displayed neither desperation nor obvious manipulation—just straightforward transactional clarity.
Fine.
"Two factions control those routes," Marcus said carefully. "The Table operates legitimate freight lines under Sultanate licensing agreements. The Reformers run parallel networks—unauthorized, heavily armed, focused on contraband and... other cargo."
Reese's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture—microscopic adjustment forward, barely perceptible increase in attention.
Reese remained silent for several seconds, then spoke with measured precision.
"Which one uses mechanical soldiers? Combat cyborgs. Which one traffics humans?"
There it is.
"That's the Reformers' signature," Marcus confirmed. "They augment operatives with military-grade cybernetics—full combat chassis, neural interfaces, weapon integration. Their rank-and-file resemble humans with machine implants, but their elite units are closer to walking weapons platforms."
Marcus paused, weighing how much to reveal.
"They also control the largest human trafficking network between Cyber City and the Sultanate interior. Forced labor, augmentation test subjects, leverage against political targets. The rail operations serve dual purposes—moving contraband and moving people who can't resist."
Reese absorbed this information with the same flat affect he'd maintained throughout the conversation, showing no visible anger, righteous indignation, or trauma response.
Either excellent emotional control or complete detachment.
"The Reformers operate outside The Table's jurisdiction," Marcus continued. "We don't interfere with their networks because direct conflict would destabilize regional power balance. They leave our operations alone. We leave theirs alone."
Marcus met Reese's eyes directly, deciding whether to let him know.
"In fact, they are a thorn in our side."