James continued forward, the narrow hallway pressing in on either side, its flickering tube lights buzzing overhead like dying insects. The air felt stale, tinged with ozone and rust. Then, suddenly, the walls gave way, and the path opened into a wide, cavernous space.

  It looked like it had once been an old subway station—long since abandoned, now repurposed into something far more alive.

  Beneath the ruined rail yard, hidden from satellites and scrubbed from most sane maps, the Norfolk Black Market pulsed with a strange, electric energy. Lights strung between cracked concrete pillars glowed in shifting reds and blues, painting everything in a sickly, carnival haze. The ground was uneven, a patchwork of broken tile and metal plating hastily welded over collapsed areas.

  Makeshift stalls packed the space wall to wall like a sprawling junkyard bazaar. Vendors hunched over tables stacked with memory chips, cybernetic limbs, black-market splicer injectors, retrofitted weapons, and drones with serial numbers filed off. Anything you needed—if you had the credits—was here.

  Holographic signs buzzed overhead, half-glitched and flickering. One booth bore the name “TACTICAL HARDWARE” in bold red, before glitching to a much smaller “NO RETURNS” underneath. Across the aisle, a neon-pink sign blinked “CHEMS + GENES,” its letters flickering like a dying star.

  Vendors shouted over one another, voices competing with the heavy bassline of some subterranean track blasting through scattered speakers, the music vibrating through the walls like the heartbeat of the market itself.

  Mercs, scavengers, and smugglers mingled like bacteria in a petri dish—each of them here to buy, sell, or trade something they probably weren’t supposed to have.

  James passed a woman hawking thermal mesh bodysuits off the back of a gutted APC, a toothless man selling blood-type-specific synthetic organs in ziplock bags, and a stall with flickering AI chips sealed behind reinforced glass.

  How that guy made money selling kidneys out of sandwich bags, James couldn’t begin to guess.

  He moved on, cutting down a side corridor lit only by dim floor panels and the occasional flicker of a busted emergency strip. The noise of the bazaar faded behind him, swallowed by layers of soundproofing and concrete.

  This section—tucked at the far fringe of the market—was colder. Quieter. The kind of place where people didn’t make deals out loud.

  A few rough-looking types lounged outside nearby doorways, keeping their eyes on nothing and everything at once. You didn’t go back here for hardware or chems—you came for information. And sometimes, just knowing who was asking questions was worth more than the answer.

  James stopped in front of a steel shutter, its surface scarred by years of graffiti and burn marks. Spray-painted over the center was a cracked visor and a pair of ears.

  The steel shutter groaned open, rising just high enough for James to duck under.

  He stepped through without hesitation.

  The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy clang, the sound final, like a vault sealing shut. The temperature dropped a few degrees.

  Inside, the space was narrow and low-ceilinged, lit only by soft amber strips running along the floor and ceiling edges. No overhead lights. Just shadows—clean, deliberate ones. The air smelled faintly of ozone and old machine grease.

  The walls were matte-black composite, smooth and seamless. Sound-dampening, reinforced. A single camera tracked James from the corner with a slow, deliberate whirrr, its red light blinking in rhythm with his steps.

  At the center of the room sat a long, curved desk—fashioned from salvaged alloys, melted-down gunmetal, and chipped console parts. Above it, half a dozen holo-screens hovered in midair, cycling data streams, distorted maps, and encrypted comm logs.

  Behind it sat a figure. Or maybe just a shape. Draped in a hooded jacket lined with synth-fiber, they were cloaked behind a privacy veil—a curtain of shifting metal threads that glitched and shimmered, making it impossible to tell if they were male or female. Young or old. Real or augmented.

  When the figure finally spoke, the voice came through a distortion filter. Genderless. Low. Synthetic.

  “Grayson,” it rasped, like static on old speakers. “You’re early.”

  James didn’t answer right away. He took a few slow steps forward, boots barely making a sound on the insulated floor.

  “Didn’t realize we were using names here,” he said, flat.

  The veil twitched, reacting to the sound of his voice.

  “We don’t,” the voice said. “But we make exceptions.”

  James stopped just short of the desk, crossing his arms. “Guess I’m flattered.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” the figure replied. One of the holo-screens shifted, showing a flickering satellite shot of Rochester. “You’ve got questions. Let’s hear them.”

  James stood still, the ambient glow from the holo-screens flickering across his face. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the data feeds.

  “What aren’t they telling me?” he asked, voice low and steady.

  The figure behind the mesh veil didn’t answer immediately. One of the holo-screens flickered, shifting from a city grid to a grainy, black-and-white photo. A man mid-stride in an old SDS officer’s uniform. The rank insignia had been digitally burned away. His face—intentionally blurred.

  Finally, the distorted voice came through. Calm. Cold.

  “The man you’ve been contracted to kill wasn’t always CVC. He was one of theirs—SDS. High command.”

  James didn’t flinch.

  “You already know his name,” the voice continued. “Elric Vance. Decorated commander. Sharp. Brutal when it counted. He’s the reason SDS secured Fayetteville and expanded into North Carolina during their peak. Though their control has since waned over the city.”

  Another screen came to life—tactical logs, half-redacted reports, medal commendations buried under black tape. Pieces of a man erased from history.

  “Vance disappeared six years ago,” the voice said. “No funeral. No body. Just a closed case and a file marked ‘deep operations’ in the north.”

  James scoffed quietly. “Let me guess—the deep op just happened to be in cartel territory.”

  “No official confirmation,” the voice replied evenly. “But that’s where the trail leads. And four years ago… he resurfaced. Not just alive—but in control of the CVC military. He reorganized it from the ground up making them a formidable force.”

  Another screen shifted—side-by-side footage. Old Viper raids: erratic gunfire, disorganized ambushes. Then newer footage—surgical strikes, synchronized movements, professional execution.

  The voice continued. “He’s the reason they’re still standing. He likely brought them into the war and is the one who brokered the alliance with EHD.”

  James watched the screen zoom in on Vance’s face. Older. Gaunter. Eyes like glass, cold and sharp. The kind of man who made every decision count—even the cruel ones.

  “So I’m walking into a city fortified by cartel gunmen,” James said, “run by a man who knows SDS doctrine better than most of the generals in charge of this war… and I’m supposed to cut his head off while he’s sitting on a throne made of concrete and munitions?”

  “That,” the voice said smoothly, “is a question you’ll have to take up with your employers.”

  The screens flicked again—highlighting building layouts, patrol timings, communication grids.

  “Now finish asking your questions,” the voice added.

  James looked down, silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then he raised his eyes back to the figure behind the veil.

  “Are there any more MGI bases out there?”

  The response didn’t come immediately. The whir of the camera in the corner hummed louder in the pause that followed.

  Then the voice returned—flat, mechanical, edged with something colder than usual.

  “For a question like that… your usual payment won’t be enough.”

  James’s jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, a familiar scowl forming as he stared through the flickering mesh veil.

  “The things I’d have to give up,” he said, voice low, “the secrets I will spill for the info you’ve already given are enough to get people killed.”

  The veiled figure leaned forward slightly, the sound of a chair creaking behind the veil. James could almost make out the shape.

  “You already knew the cost. And yet you still asked. But even so, those secrets won’t be enough.”

  James didn’t blink. “So what do you want?”

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  Silence again. Then—

  “Your true origins.”

  The words hung in the air like a blade mid-swing.

  James didn’t react. Didn’t move. His stare was a void.

  The camera’s whir grew louder, waiting.

  He said nothing.

  Eventually, his voice broke the tension—calm, flat.

  “What’s the likelihood SDS wins this war?”

  The figure tilted their head slightly behind the shifting metal threads, then returned to their earlier posture.

  “Without Prometheus? Less than twenty percent. With it?” A pause. “Fifty-seven percent. However, if they can’t take out the CVC within the month, that number drops to forty-three.”

  Another screen lit up behind the veil, showing red-splashed maps of SDS territory under pressure. City names flickered—Norfolk, Charleston, Jacksonville. Too many fronts. Not enough soldiers.

  James stared at the numbers. Then looked back at the veil.

  “Keep your deal,” he muttered. “I’ll find the bases myself.”

  “We’re not the only ones looking,” the voice warned. “And not all of them ask so politely.”

  James turned away.

  “Don’t forget your payment,” came the voice behind him as James reached for the door.

  He stopped. Turned. Another door to the side slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a small, dimly lit room.

  He stepped inside.

  There was nothing in it but a desk, a blank sheet of paper, and a small, razor-edged blade resting dead center.

  No cameras. No observers. Just silence.

  They only took their secrets in blood.

  James stared at the blade for a moment, then slowly rolled up his sleeve.

  James left the market some time later, the sun already beginning its slow descent behind the ruins of the skyline. The streets were no quieter, just darker—shadows stretching longer, people moving faster.

  As he approached his car, he came to a stop.

  Three men lay sprawled around it, bodies twisted in unnatural angles. Smoke still curled from one of them.

  James gave a low whistle. “Huh. Normally one’s enough to warn the others.”

  He tapped a code on his wrist, deactivating the anti-theft system, then stepped over the corpses and slid into the driver’s seat.

  The war, it seemed, was making everyone just a little more desperate.

  James pulled away from the slums. The dying sun bathed Norfolk in muted amber, shadows lengthening into black veins that stretched across crumbling buildings and abandoned streets. Beneath him, the engine purred, steady and strong.

  Traffic thickened as he approached the market district—merchants hastily packing up stalls, refugees huddled around barrel fires, guards watching warily with rifles slung loose yet ready. James ignored the tense bustle, heading deeper into the outskirts, toward quieter, better-kept suburbs that clung stubbornly to civilization.

  He wasn’t here for sentiment. A promise had brought him back, the kind of promise made quietly, almost forgotten until it came due. Liam’s death had been a messy punctuation at the end of a contract gone wrong he’d respected him. Steady under fire, loyal, dependable. Shame he’d never seen the bullet coming.

  James rolled smoothly onto the quiet residential street. Liam’s home stood midway down the block, porch dimly lit by a flickering lamp. Parking near the curb, James stepped out into the cold evening air, breathing frost as he approached the house. He climbed the steps and knocked three times, sharply.

  The door opened slowly, revealing Rebecca framed by soft interior lighting. Her arms were tightly folded against the evening chill, posture rigid with tension. She looked older than James remembered, thinner, more worn, dark circles under her eyes telling of sleepless nights and haunted days. Only twenty days had passed since her father’s death, but grief had etched itself deeply into her features.

  “You came,” she said softly, relief and surprise mingling in her voice. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “I’m a man of my word,” James replied flatly, his voice like gravel underfoot. “But make it quick, Rebecca. My time’s in increasingly high demand.”

  She swallowed, shoulders tense, visibly forcing herself to speak. “It’s Sam—my brother. He’s… he’s set on joining up. Thinks he owes it to Dad. Thinks the EHD needs to pay.” Her voice faltered at the edges, cracking like thin ice, but she pushed forward. “But he’s not like you. He’s not like Dad. He won’t survive out there. He’s not built for war.”

  James stared at her, unreadable. “A lot of people aren’t,” he said simply. “But that doesn’t stop them. War makes heroes of corpses. Why are you asking me for help?”

  Rebecca hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the floor, then slowly rose to meet his. There was something behind her eyes now—fear, resolve, desperation all twisted together. “Because he won’t listen to me,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “Or anyone else. But he looks up to you. To what Dad stood for. He knows you were with our father at the end. You’re the only person he still respects.”

  James’s jaw tightened slightly, though his expression remained otherwise still. A simple favor, on paper. But he’d seen it before. Young men chasing revenge were stubborn, reckless, and damn near impossible to turn. And when they broke, they didn’t do it clean.

  “Why not let him make his own choices?” James asked at last, his tone low and devoid of judgment. “Not my place to tell him to stay home. I’m the last person who can.”

  “Because he’ll die,” Rebecca snapped—then caught herself, her voice softening. “He’ll throw himself into this war, and it’ll eat him alive. Just like it did Dad. And when it’s done, there won’t be anything left.” She blinked hard, refusing to cry. “He’s all I have, James. The last piece of my family. I can't lose him too.”

  The words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, clinging. James said nothing, gaze steady. He didn’t comfort. Didn’t offer platitudes. But after a long, heavy silence, he gave a small nod.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Relief rippled across her face—tentative, raw. “He stormed off after we fought. North eastern sector. Old garage near the docks—he’s holed up there with some of his friends. He’s meeting a recruiter tomorrow. If you hurry—”

  “I’ll take care of it,” James cut in, already turning back toward the steps. His boots thudded softly against the wood as he moved. At the bottom, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “But understand this, Rebecca—choices have consequences. I can talk to him, sure. Maybe even shake him up a little. But in the end? It’s his call. Not yours. Not mine.”

  Rebecca stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself like armor. Her lips parted, as if to argue—but then closed again. She nodded once, slowly.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  James pulled back onto the asphalt, the quiet hum of the engine blending with the silence of the late hour. He glanced at the dashboard.

  10:49 PM.

  The old docks weren’t far—maybe thirty minutes, give or take.

  James exhaled through his nose. Another sleepless night.

  He wasn't sure if the kid could be talked down. Probably not. Young men with something to prove rarely listened—but he’d try. He always tried, even when it didn’t matter. That’s what favors were.

  Eventually, the city gave way to the industrial sprawl of the dockyards. This wasn’t the main port—the SDS had long since claimed those, turning the old UCOA naval bases into something resembling a fleet command. This place was smaller. Forgotten. A cluster of weather-worn warehouses and half-sunken cargo lots hugging the shoreline, repurposed over the years into shelters, smuggler dens, or black-market nests. James couldn’t even tell what it had been originally. Fishing? Civilian freight? Didn’t matter now.

  He killed the engine and stepped out, and the Atlantic hit him immediately—sharp, wet wind slicing through the air like broken glass. The scent of salt, rust, and oil stung his nose.

  Out across the water, the massive sea wall rose from the ocean like a monolith. Cold floodlights ran along its length, illuminating the reinforced steel and concrete, all bristling with static turrets and SAM placements. He could see one of the bigger guns, a triple-barrel naval-grade rail turret, slowly tracking left to right—automated, scanning the sea for movement.

  James tucked his coat tighter around him and moved forward.

  The warehouses were in varying states of collapse and repurposing. Some had been converted into makeshift tenements, packed to bursting with refugees and squatters. Others were boarded up, held by local gangs or left empty to rot. The sound of voices echoed from alleyways—muffled arguments and coughing, the occasional laugh around a burn barrel.

  He stopped near the corner of a crumbling loading bay and scanned the block. Five warehouses. Three lit from inside. Two dead.

  James spotted an older man sitting on an overturned crate near a barrel fire, smoking a rusted vapor pipe, one arm wrapped in dirty gauze. The man’s eyes followed James cautiously—not hostile, but alert.

  James walked over, nodding once. “I’m looking for a kid. Late teens. Black, tall, walks like he thinks he's already a soldier. Goes by the name Sam.”

  The man took a drag, exhaled slowly. “Plenty of Sams in this sector.”

  “This one stormed out of his old man’s house tonight. Said something about meeting a recruiter tomorrow.”

  The man eyed him for a long moment. James didn’t move.

  Finally, the man jerked his head toward the furthest warehouse—one of the few with power flickering behind the shattered upper windows.

  “Far end. They’ve been talkin’ war all night. Idiots. If they had half a brain, they’d be trying to get out of the city and head south—not into a warzone.”

  James gave a nod. “If you’re looking for an escape, down south in the T.N.C.G., there’s a quiet spot. Nothing but silence and trees.”

  The man gave a slow nod of acknowledgment as James turned and walked away.

  He made his way down the street, boots thudding against broken concrete. The closer he got, the more noise he heard—shouting, laughter, the occasional clang of metal and movement. The warehouse door was open slightly, light spilling out across the wet pavement. A small group of young men lingered near the entrance, passing around a bottle and pretending not to be nervous. Their gear was mismatched—camo jackets, work boots, patched vests. One of them had a bolt-action rifle slung awkwardly over his shoulder, the kind that looked more antique than functional.

  James stopped just outside the light, watching them. None of them noticed him yet.

  Then he stepped forward, letting his boots fall heavy.

  One of the boys turned—and froze.

  “Who the hell—?”

  James cut him off with a look. Cold. Unblinking.

  “I’m here for Sam.”

  The group outside stiffened. One of them stepped back, hand drifting toward the old rifle slung across his chest.

  James didn’t flinch. “Relax. I’m not here for you.”

  The door creaked open wider from the inside, and a voice called out. “What’s going on?”

  A tall figure stepped into the light. Sam. Lean, broad-shouldered, face still half-boy, half-man. His jacket was too big, sleeves rolled up, and there was a knife clipped to his belt that looked like it had never been used.

  He saw James and stopped cold.

  “…You’re him,” he said quietly. “You were with my dad.”

  James nodded once. “Yeah.”

  Sam stepped closer, guarded but curious. “Why are you here?”

  “Your sister sent me.”

  That made Sam scoff. “Of course she did. Let me guess—she thinks I’m too soft. That I’ll die out there.”

  James didn’t answer right away. He looked Sam up and down, reading him like a file. Young. Determined. Angry.

  “She thinks you’re not ready,” James said simply. “And she’s probably right.”

  Sam bristled. “You don’t know me.”

  “I don’t need to,” James replied. “You’re charging into a meat grinder thinking your will and might will pull you through. It won’t.”

  “I’m not doing this for that.”

  “Then why?”

  Sam’s jaw clenched. “Because my dad died for this. Because the EHD killed him. Someone has to fight.”

  James stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Your dad didn’t die for revenge, Sam. He died finishing a job he was paid to do. There’s a difference.”

  Sam looked away, suddenly unsure. The weight of it all settled behind his eyes.

  James let the silence stretch.

  “You want to fight?” he said finally. “Fine. But fight because you’re ready to lose everything, not because you’re angry you already lost something.”

  Sam didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

  James turned and walked off into the dark. He didn’t know if that would be enough but at least he repaid the favor.