The wet work contract stares at me for six hours.
Richard Hayashi, 42, divorced biotech executive. Two kids—Emma, 8, and Marcus, 12. Lives alone in a Sector 5 apartment, works late, takes the same route home every night. No security detail, no obvious defenses. Just a man whose only crime was developing the wrong patents for the wrong company.
His photo shows tired eyes and graying hair, the kind of face that disappears in crowds. Unremarkable. Forgettable. Human.
Like the stranger on the table.
But the math is brutal. Fifty-three hours until my debt comes due. 12,400 Zen or a slow death in the harvesting room. Richard Hayashi is worth 8,000 Zen, and I need every bit of it.
I accept the contract before I lose my nerve.
Sector 5 at midnight is all glass towers and corporate security, a different world from the industrial wasteland I call home. The air tastes cleaner here, filtered through atmospheric processors that cost more than most people earn in a year. Even the shadows look expensive.
I crouch on a fire escape three blocks from Hayashi's apartment, hands shaking as I assemble the rifle. My fingers fumble with the scope mount, and I have to stop twice to wipe sweat from my palms. This isn't a surveillance job or a courier run. This is murder.
The target's building is a mid-tier residential complex, the kind that promises safety and comfort to middle management types who think they've escaped the city's violence. Hayashi's apartment is on the fourteenth floor, corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows that might as well be a target painted on his back.
I focus on his face through the scope, studying the details I'll need to remember. Sharp cheekbones, narrow nose, the way his left eye sits slightly higher than his right. My jaw burns as I memorize the bone structure, my body already preparing for the transformation I might need later.
Morphogenesis. The ability to reshape flesh and bone into any form I've studied and understood. I've been hiding it for seven years, suppressing the cellular reactions that would trigger the Academy's genetic scanners. As far as anyone knows, I'm just another disposable Class C graduate with no special talents.
But that's not entirely true. Abilities like mine are supposed to be inherited, passed down through bloodlines that stretch back generations. So where are my parents? My family? Why do I have no memories before the age of ten, just a blank space where my childhood should be?
The Academy found me in a Sector 19 orphanage, alone and unremarkable. Just another throwaway kid with sticky fingers and a talent for getting into places I shouldn't. They never mentioned family, never spoke of inherited traits or genetic markers. They just processed me like any other recruit and shoved me into Class C with the rest of the disposables.
But if my abilities are inherited, where did they come from? And why am I the only one I've ever met who can do this?
The obvious answer makes my stomach clench. The Academy doesn't just train students—they hunt them. They collect the useful ones, harvest the valuable ones, and eliminate the dangerous ones. If there were others like me, morphs with the ability to become anyone, to infiltrate anywhere...
They'd be a threat to everything the Academy represents. Too dangerous to train, too valuable to waste, too risky to let live.
I push the thought away and focus on the scope. Hayashi moves through his apartment like clockwork, following the same routine he's maintained for months. Kitchen for a drink, living room to check messages, bedroom to prepare for tomorrow's meetings. Predictable. Vulnerable.
At 12:47 AM, he stands in front of his living room window, silhouetted against the warm light inside. The crosshairs center on his chest, and my finger tightens on the trigger.
He's holding a photo. Even through the scope, I can see the smiles—two kids, a woman, happier times before the divorce and the corporate politics and the contract on his life. Emma and Marcus, ages 8 and 12, who will wake up tomorrow to find their father dead.
My hands shake. The crosshairs drift off target.
I think about the stranger on the table, brown eyes pleading for help I couldn't give. I think about the supervisor's smile and the sound of the blade sliding between ribs. I think about my debt and the harvesting room and the choice between Richard Hayashi's life and my own.
I pull the trigger.
The window explodes inward. Hayashi staggers, drops the photo, and collapses. Blood spreads across the expensive carpet, dark and final. Through the scope, I can see his chest still moving, shallow breaths that won't last long.
I should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Instead, I feel empty. Hollow. Like I've just crossed a line that can never be uncrossed.
The rifle disassembles quickly, each piece fitting into the courier bag that makes me look like any other late-night delivery worker. I'm three blocks away when the first emergency vehicles arrive, their sirens wailing through the empty streets.
Richard Hayashi dies alone on his living room floor, surrounded by the debris of his shattered window and the photo of his children. The news will call it a tragic accident, a stray bullet from gang violence in the lower sectors. Corporate security will file a report and move on to the next case.
8,000 Zen appears in my account before I make it home. Blood money. The price of a man's life, paid in full with no questions asked.
I'm still shaking when I reach my apartment.
The encrypted chat request comes through at 3:17 AM, just as I'm starting to think I might actually sleep.
> Chat Log Start
>
> 0_0: Nicely done.
>
> Me: What?
>
> 0_0: The Hayashi job. Clean shot, no witnesses, perfect exit. You're leveling up your game.
>
> Me: How do you know about that?
>
> 0_0: I know about all your jobs. Been watching you climb the ratings, job by job. Tonight was different though. Tonight you proved you're ready for the real work.
>
> Me: Ready for what?
>
> 0_0: Class B contracts. The kind that pay enough to matter. The kind that get you out of the Academy's debt trap permanently.
>
> Me: I'm listening.
>
> 0_0: Not here. Too many ears in the digital dark. But I'll give you a taste. How does 50,000 Zen sound for one job?
>
> Me: Impossible. No one pays that much.
>
> 0_0: I do. And if you can handle it clean, no loose ends, no traces, I'll pay your entire Academy debt. All of it. Consider it a signing bonus.
>
> Me: What's the catch?
>
> 0_0: The catch is you have to trust me. The catch is you have to be exactly as good as I think you are. The catch is you have to stop pretending to be just another Class C nobody.
>
> Me: I don't know what you mean.
>
> 0_0: You know exactly what I mean. The way you move, the way you think, the way you survived a full year without losing a piece. You're not like the others, Kairo. You're something special.
>
> Me: Everyone's special at something.
>
> 0_0: Not like this. Not like you. I've been watching Class C graduates for years. Most are dead within six months. The lucky ones make it a year before the Academy collects. But you? You're different. You adapt. You survive. You become whatever you need to be.
>
> Me: You don't know me.
>
> 0_0: I know enough. I know you're tired of scraping by on scraps. I know you want more than just survival. I know you have questions about who you were before the Academy found you.
>
> Me: Everyone has questions.
>
> 0_0: Not everyone has blank spaces where their childhood should be. Not everyone grew up in an orphanage with no family history, no genetic records, no explanation for how they ended up alone. You've wondered about that, haven't you? Where your abilities came from. Why you're the only one.
>
> Me: What abilities?
>
> 0_0: The ones you've been hiding for seven years. The ones that make you perfect for jobs other people can't handle. The ones that will get you killed if the Academy ever finds out.
>
> Me: I don't know what you're talking about.
>
> 0_0: Sure you don't. But here's the thing, Kairo. I'm not the Academy. I'm not your enemy. I'm offering you a way out. A real way out. All you have to do is take one job. One perfect job. And your debt disappears forever.
>
> Me: What kind of job?
>
> 0_0: The kind that pays 50,000 Zen and erases your Academy contract permanently. The kind that gives you Class B status and access to the real freelance networks. The kind that makes you somebody instead of nobody.
>
> Me: And if I refuse?
>
> 0_0: Then you keep running small jobs for small money until the Academy gets tired of waiting and puts you on the harvesting table. Your choice.
>
> Me: I need details.
>
> 0_0: You need to decide if you trust me. Details come after commitment. But I'll give you this much—the job involves the Academy. Direct action against the people who've been bleeding you dry for a year. Interested?
>
> Me: Maybe.
>
> 0_0: Good. Think about it. You have 48 hours to make up your mind. After that, the offer expires and you're back to scraping by on courier runs and surveillance gigs. Your call.
The chat window closes, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the weight of what I've just done. Richard Hayashi's blood is still under my fingernails, and 0_0 is already talking about the next job. The next line to cross.
But 50,000 Zen. My entire Academy debt, wiped clean. Freedom from the system that's been slowly killing me for a year. The chance to become something more than just another Class C survivor counting down the days until harvest.
I look at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The face staring back isn't just Kairo Vex, debt-ridden nobody. It's someone who just proved he can kill when necessary. Someone who's been hiding abilities that might be the key to something bigger.
Someone who's tired of being prey.
Outside my window, the city hums with its endless rhythm of survival. Somewhere in Sector 7, the Academy's medical complex gleams under floodlights, its clean corridors hiding rooms where people like me are carved apart for the crime of being different. Somewhere in those corridors, answers wait about who I was before I became nobody special.
I have 48 hours to decide if I want those answers badly enough to risk everything.
The reflection in the mirror already knows what I'll choose.