Copyright 2025 Old King. All rights reserved

  Circuit North’s afternoon heat was like a bamboo steamer. Buildings’ glass walls blazed with sunlight, scorching the eyes. A colossal LED screen on a corner building blared ads for “StarLink Genuine, Officially Authorized.” Delivery boys and clunky bots hauled flatbed carts with cardboard boxes brimming with chips, cyberparts, and knockoff tech. Components crafted in pristine American and Japanese automated warehouses lay stacked in the neon-lit streets, like cheap meat and vegetables in a wet market. Circuit North wasn’t East Asia’s biggest tech bazaar for nothing; its pulse was the heartbeat of the free market.

  Kim Eun-hee navigated a second-hand electric motorcycle through the alleys, deftly avoiding carts, while Amin clung to her waist, the drive tucked tightly in his belt pouch. That morning, he had journeyed to Salt Port, delivering the drive to Old Li’s contact—a disheveled man in a stained SouthSea Transport jumpsuit. Old Li handed him the fee back at the depot, offering a brief nod. Amin remained silent. He gripped his fists, thinking, You ordered, and I delivered… 200 dollars for this? It’s good stuff. I copied this drive all by myself—selling it is my right, as it should be.

  Kim shouted over her shoulder, “Hold fast, Boss Amin! These streets are treacherous—drop that precious drive, and we’re both undone!” Slender and wiry, she bound her long hair in a tight bun, her T-shirt emblazoned with Korean characters Amin could not decipher: “??.” It meant freedom, she told him.

  “I’m from Sinuiju,” she told him, her petite frame barely reaching his shoulder, subtle traces of past wounds visible on her neck. “Parents and little brother, still stuck in that hellhole, yo. I sneak cash through smugglers—damn tough. I saw smuggled Korean and Chinese dramas back home—I had to get out, yo.” She had duplicated the drive the previous night, with no time to double-check its contents—Amin’s insistence on a quick sale took precedence. The sum could send Amin into a frenzy.

  Amin muttered, “Slow down, Miss, my head’s killing me, heavendamn.” He pressed closer to her waist, confirming the hard drive was still in his pouch, muttering, “30 grand, you sure it’ll sell? Buyer that easy to sway?”

  “Quit fidgeting, dumbass!” Kim’s laugh carried a North Korean cadence, sharp and lively. She hollered, “Trust my nose, yo! That drive’s a goldmine—don’t ask too much, take the money and go, send more to your eomma!”

  Amin mumbled, “A kid like you outhustling old-timers like me—how?” She gunned the throttle, the motorcycle darting into Zhenhua Road, nearly clipping a clunky delivery bot hauling circuit scraps, its LED eyes glaring. “Whoops, close one, yo!” she cackled.

  “Ten years running Asia’s underbelly—dealing trumps all! You think I’m just hauling junk like you, huh?” Her tone was playful and self-mocking, but her focus remained fixed on the road.

  In SEG Industrial Park, a young woman in a shimmering nano-dress sat behind an open door, her jasmine perfume slicing through the acrid coolant odor. Amin’s gaze lingered, curiosity stirring, until Kim’s scarred hand seized his arm. “Eyes front, dumbass,” she snapped, her grip unyielding, guiding him forward. The studio was concealed on the third floor, with an acrylic sign that read: “Data Processing, Buy & Sell.”

  A man in a mask opened the door. Kim grinned wide, “Yo, Sima, your VIPs are here!” She dragged Amin inside. Sima shot them a hard look through his mask’s holographic eyes, growling, “What kept ya, kid?” He leaned back, his mask glinting, scars twitching beneath its edge. “Where’s the drive? Ain’t got all damn day.”

  Kim snatched the drive from Amin, passing it over with a flourish. “Sima, this is the real deal—100 grand, not a cent less!” Her voice was firm, her bright eyes locked on him.

  Kim smirked, tossing the drive between her hands. “This ain’t just any scrap, Sima. Dark web has no such thing, the one and only. Word is, one scoop ended up in some fancy estate, maybe even a president’s bedroom.” Sima’s holographic mask flickered, his voice low. “For sure? Heavendamn, kid, you’re playing with fire. HuaCent’s been planning big, undercutting Tesla’s markets. If this drive’s tied to their black ops, it’s worth more than 100 grand—or your life.” Amin shifted uneasily, head pounding, not understanding a thing they were talking about. ”

  Sima tapped the drive’s casing with a finger skeptically. “100 grand? Are you takin’ me for a greenhorn, kid? Soul Ore drives are dirt cheap here—real talk.” He slipped on VR glasses, code flowing like a digital river. A log appeared, marked “Top Secret: Project Chest-Born—Approved by SilverEye.” His pulse quickened—this looked authentic. HuaCent’s encryption, digital signatures, and internal controls? Unforgeable. Sima tapped the screen, the log’s encryption layers peeling back. “HuaCent’s not just playing local, believe me. They’ve been flooding everywhere with cheap bots, snatching Tesla’s markets. Dark web says they’re bidding on a massive infrastructure deal in South Africa, some billion-dollar grid project. If this Chest-Born log’s legit, the log will turn the tables—Soul Ore tech on a new level.” He glanced at Amin, eyes heavy. “You hauled this from HuaCent, didn’t you?” Amin shrugged, sweat beading. “Just found it, loh.” Sima snorted. “Found it? Real talk, you’re neck-deep in trouble you don’t even see.”

  He kept his cool, feigning disdain. “Got some value, sure, but most of it’s junk. 100 grand’s a laugh—30 grand, max, real talk.”

  Kim slammed the desk, her voice spiking. “30? You tryin’ to rob me blind, yo? This hits the dark web, it doubles easy! 80 grand, no less!” She shot a glance at Amin, who looked lost. She kicked his shin under the desk. “Boss Amin, back me up!” Amin swallowed, his thoughts reeling. “I… uh, 80’s a helluva lot, loh, y’know…” Last night, 30 grand was a pipe dream; now 80 felt like a fever, his heart pounding.

  Sima snorted, leaning back, his mask catching the light. “80? Keep dreamin’, kid. Where’d you snag this? HuaCent’s clampin’ down, ThunderVolt’s goons are crawlin’ everywhere—damn risky. 30 grand, take it or walk.” Kim glared, reaching for the drive like she’d bolt.

  “Since when you care where it’s from, Sima? 30? I ain’t green! 70, or I’m sellin’ to BladeScar, yo!” The holographic eyes on the mask rolled. Sima smirked, “BladeScar is too close to HuaCent, he will get you killed for this, dumb kid. 55, that’s it.” Kim pouted, faking a long pause, then sighed like she was giving up her soul. “Fine, you win—55, damn it!” She turned to Amin, grinning. “Boss Amin, you’re gettin’ 27,500 dollars. Happy?”

  Amin’s eyes bulged, his breath catching. “Happy? Yeah…” His heart raced—a 15 grand share was wild, but 27,500 dollars was life-changing. His legs wobbled, barely holding him up. “But must be cash, right now, no stalling!” Kim laughed. “Cash? In this game? ChainCoin, way safer, yo.” “ChainCoin?” Amin frowned. “Isn’t that sketchy as hell? Black market’s full of hacks, you know.” His mind flashed to depot gossip—wallets drained, no trace, only despair.

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  Eun-hee patted his shoulder. “Chill, Boss Amin, ChainCoin is fast, anonymous, no sweat. Been using it years, no problems. I’ll set you up, yo. Sima, send it, now!” Sima nodded, tapping his keyboard, and a virtual screen flashed the transaction—55,000, confirmed with a chime. Kim Eun-hee checked it, nodding. “Split even, 27,500 for you.” Circuit North dispensed wealth startlingly, rewarding those bold enough to seize it.

  She smirked at Sima, her eyes gleaming. “No tax, yeah? Invoice costs extra!” Sima grunted, his mask reflecting the dim light. “Invoice my ass, kid. Get outta here, real talk.” Kim Eun-hee dragged Amin out, tossing Sima a mock salute. “Next haul’s yours, yo!” Sima sighed, slamming the door, staring at the log, muttering, “Chest-Born… gotta call Ruoxi, damn it.”

  Outside, Amin’s legs remained unsteady, the $27,500 a relentless presence in his thoughts. He glanced at his phone, the balance radiant in the wallet app just installed. Memories of selling his consciousness resurfaced, each headache slicing his mind like a blade. Kim Eun-hee shoved him. “Quit zoning out, yo! Hauling cargo tonight?” Amin did not respond, trailing her into the alley, the drone’s hum overhead chilling his spine like a spectral whisper.

  That night, Phoenix Hill’s boxing ring was a cauldron of fervor, a sprawling warehouse transformed into an underground arena. Rows of overworked big AC units roared, failing to dispel the miasma of sweat, cigarettes, hydraulic oil, and metal. Enforcers guarded eight gates, their exposed metal limbs exuding menace. The octagon cage dominated the center, its chain-link walls dented and hastily repaired with scrap metal, a testament to a brutal history.

  Overhead, wall-mounted screens cycled advertisements: “HuaCent Prosthetics, Unrivaled Precision! Order Now!” A holographic announcer in a sleek outfit appeared, her voice intriguing and convincing: “Fights tonight, bets from $1000—Win to claim your cash!” The crowd surged as four ring girls in outfits entered the cage, holding LED signs displaying “4” for the fourth round, their movements synchronized to a techno rhythm. This was a night pulsing with raw pheromones.

  Amin pressed through the throng with depot workers, clutching his phone, the ChainCoin balance a persistent weight in his mind. Victory here could erase his debts—fortune favored the daring. Women in tank tops wove through the crowd with the sharp, alluring scent of perfume. A woman with short, vibrant hair in a fitted top approached, her voice soft, “Hey, handsome, fifty bucks a round, you come, with me?” A belligerent onlooker pushed her aside, muttering curses.

  Amin reached the front, where a weathered worker handed him a Budweiser, grinning widely. “First time, Split Brain? Helluva spot, yeah!” Amin nodded, his throat tight. The worker laughed, slapping his back. “Pure rush, yeah! Check it!” In the cage, two robots collided, their hydraulic limbs shrieking with each strike. The green robot suffered a whip kick, components and oil scattering across the stained mats. The referee, clad in protective gear, maneuvered swiftly, dodging debris. His frantic movements drew laughter—a planned spectacle within the chaos. The robot faltered, collapsing, the crowd dividing into cheers and jeers.

  A lean worker leaned close, shouting over the clamor, “This place is damn fancy. Thanks to brother Amin’s treat, bruh! Tickets cost a fortune! Outside’s open-air pits are wilder—free entry, real humans, cash bets, for broke asses like me. Last week, I backed a Sichuan guy with a tiger tat, won 50, bruh! Blood all over!” He yelled to Amin, “My man, ThunderVolt runs these joints. ThunderVolt’s avatars, they say, stuffed in different Abais, doin’ HuaCent’s dirty work—big shots, bruh!” Within the cage, robots dragged off the defeated contender’s sparking frame, sweeping parts, oil, and debris. Performers stormed in, their choreography fueling the crowd’s fervor.

  The weathered worker bellowed, “You don’t know shit, yo! ThunderVolt’s avatars are everywhere—word is, strong and brutal or slick and handsome, but all with those tough-ass eyes! The real deal’s across the river, the old golf club turned golden palace. Members only, millions a year, private entrance, some fly by chopper, in and out! HuaCent’s bigwigs hang there, bettin’ on custom Abais, million-dollar stakes!” He dropped his voice, leaning close. “My dock buddy sneaked a peek once—two Abais fightin’ like gods, flesh explodin’. One Abai, loaded with some PhD’s Soul Ore, spoke five languages, bowed after winnin’—outshined us all, yo! The hostesses? All hostess Abais, pleasurin’ the elites.”

  Blue and red robots stomped in, their steps shaking the floor. Performers followed, flashing countdown signs. Screens showcased robots’ specifications, performance data, odds, and streaming info. The holographic announcer urged wagers: “Place your bets, now!” The air grew dense with murmurs and disputes as bets shifted on the boards.

  The lean worker scoffed, spitting. “Dream on, bro! Who’s seen that palace? This good enough, bet big, lah!” He pointed at the screen. “Bro, who you pickin’? Red Dragon, bruh! ThunderVolt’s bot! Five wins straight, solid as hell!”

  A grizzled technician, cigarette dangling, chimed in, “Forget who’s backin’ it, check Red Dragon’s hydraulic arms—ten-millisecond response, three-point-five tons a punch, can crush steel. Legs are slow, but one hit’s game over, lah.” Red Dragon towered in the cage, its hydraulic limbs gleaming, outperforming standard designs. A Chinese “Thunder” emblem adorned its chest. The screen flashed: “ThunderVolt Sauna, Custom Abai Services!” Amin’s stomach churned, his headache intensifying. He pulled his phone, pausing, fingers hovering. Red Dragon’s odds were tight, a safe bet. He staked 10,000, muttering, “This one’s money.”

  The bout kicked off, Red Dragon slamming the blue bot’s head, dropping it. The crowd erupted, wagers flashing on the boards. Amin’s pulse raced—over already? The referee jumped in, counting, “One! Two! Three!” Losers grumbled, but Amin grinned, picturing cash for his family. The vibrant-haired woman slid back, her voice soft, “Handsome, you won! 100 bucks, full night, let’s party!” Amin waved her off, eyes on the referee, mind on the prize, the crowd’s roar fueling his high.

  At nine, the blue robot staggered up, its frame groaning. The crowd split into cheers and jeers, bets shifting fast. The fight resumed, Red Dragon swinging, missing, and charging the cage. It froze, its optics locking onto Amin, glowing red, a warped voice rasping, “I! I! How the heavendamned are I there, loh?”

  The voice, distorted by faulty systems, chilled the arena. The referee yelled, “Keep fightin’!” but Red Dragon stood rigid, staring at Amin, pounding the cage, denting the metal. The blue bot seized the moment, unloading blows, oil and sparks flying. Performers screamed by the cage, oil staining their outfits, the crowd surging, some climbing the cage, enforcers barking to restore order.

  Amin’s mind blanked, his beer hitting the floor, soaking his pants and shoes. Red Dragon went berserk, shattering the cage, roaring, “I! You! I! Who am YOU, yo?” Its systems overloaded, oil spraying, sparks igniting. The blue machine’s strike smashed its frame, debris scattered. The crowd froze, then exploded in laughter and shouts, the arena’s chaos overwhelming. “ThunderVolt’s top bot crashed, yo!” a voice hollered.

  Amin collapsed, memories of selling his consciousness flooding back—needles piercing, currents searing, the white-coat’s lies about side effects. Each headache felt like an entity clawing within. Where was his Soul Ore? He’d dodged the question, thinking it didn’t matter. Was it in Red Dragon? I! I’m him… or he’s me? His throat tightened, the machine’s cries echoing his own. The lean worker shoved him, yelling, “Split Brain, it knew you, yo!” The weathered worker shouted, “Your Soul Ore’s in that thing! ThunderVolt’s comin’ for you, lah!”

  Fear and liquor overwhelmed Amin. He stumbled through the crowd, emerging into the alley, the cold wind biting, Circuit North’s neon mocking him. Crouching, he retched, his phone slipping, its glow searing. Balance: 14,200.