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  The sun blazed mercilessly, battling cool breezes for Foo-shing Village’s stifling streets. At noon, the village sank into a post-lunch hush. Sun-scorched refugee workers, gripping 3-liter jugs of iced tea, sprawled in small groups under banyan trees. Their job: clearing rubble piles from the Shenzhen Independence War, when PLA loyalists shelled the area. Unlike the U.S. military’s precise strikes in the Sino-American War, the PLA unleashed artillery barrages to crush both stone and morale. The Republic banned villagers from touching the debris, citing unexploded ordnance. But state sappers, overstretched in inner Shenzhen, left Bastion’s slums ignored. Locals, unwilling to rot, pooled cash to hire rogue engineers from war-ravaged inland zones or abroad—mercenaries who cleared rubble faster than government crews, reportedly with fewer mishaps.

  Ruoxi Lam, clad in a food delivery rider’s gear, rode her e-bike cautiously through Foo-shing’s alleys, unnoticed by passersby. Through her AR glasses, she spotted Slade’s repair shop, its shutter sealed with a police tape. Trouble. She veered into a store, a cramped storefront crammed with off-brand sodas, smokes, smuggled baby formula, snacks, stationery, and cheap tools. A humming beverage cooler reeked of mold and heat. The plastic sign outside, “Heizzi’s Convenience,” bore hand-painted and crooked characters.

  The owner glanced up, flashing a grin of stark white teeth. “Yo, Ruoxi, slingin’ takeout now?” His Mandarin carried a thick Cantonese drawl, lazy and familiar, as if he were an uncle hawking mangoes and pineapples. Ruoxi slipped off her AR glasses, tucking them into her bag, and forced a grin. “Heizzi, you clock me even in this getup? Gimme a Coke.” Her eyes flicked to the alley outside, where storm clouds cloaked the horizon like gray gauze, wind tossing fast-food boxes and dust. She lowered her voice: “What’s up with my boss’s shop? Sealed tight?”

  Heizzi sipped kung fu tea behind his tiny counter, skin dark as coal, hair a tight buzz. His name, 黑子 (“Little Black”) in Chinese, was a fond nod to his dark complexion, a childhood nickname neighbors used with no malice, and he rolled with it. Born and raised in Foo-shing, he was the son of an African trader who married a local in 1990s Shenzhen, had Heizzi, then ditched them during the U.S.-China trade war when business soured, fleeing to Africa. Word was he had another family there—common enough back then.

  Heizzi fished a Coke from the cooler, slapping it on the glass counter. The sky darkened abruptly, thunderclouds rolling in from distant hills like spilled ink. He perked up, eyes gleaming. “You missed the show, girl! Last night was wild! Bastion cops stormed in, sayin’ your shop had a stolen Abai—bullshit, they’re after that hacker bounty for whoever cracked that Abai, lah! You quit, or what? Ridin’ deliveries now?”

  Ruoxi’s heart thumped, fingers tightening on the icy can, sweat slicking her palm. She popped the tab, gulping the syrupy fizz, which caught in her throat. Thunder cracked, and rain slammed down, turning the alley into a waterfall. Pedestrians vanished, shop doors clanged shut. Ruoxi ducked deeper into the store, feigning nonchalance. “Cops in the village? On what grounds? Where’s Slade?”

  Heizzi, unfazed by the deluge, leaned on the counter, relishing his tale. “Last night was a circus! Cops rolled up with auxiliaries and a swarm of drones, hollerin’ about a search. But c’mon, Slade’s the deputy village chief’s nephew-in-law, right? They got stalled at the village memorial archway by village security for a solid half-hour, in a yellin’ match and all. Someone tipped him off, bet. I saw Slade bolt, shutter down, bag slung over his shoulder, gone lah. By the time cops got there, poof—no trace. They tried to pry the door, but the village guard squad showed—dozen guys, strapped, shoutin’, ‘Cops got no right here! No chief’s writ, you touch nothin’!’ Both sides squared off in the alley, cops raisin’ guns, guards darin’ ‘em to shoot. ‘Try it,’ they said, ‘Foo-shing ain’t your turf. Fire one round, you’re not walkin’ out.’ Some cyber-armed goons in plainclothes came with ‘em—leader was ThunderVolt himself, they say. Cocky at first, but he got shut down. Strong dragon don’t crush local snakes, yeah?”

  Ruoxi forced a chuckle, heart racing. “Damn, Slade’s quick… Village held strong, huh?” Her fingers gripped the Coke can, mind flashing to HuaCent’s drones. Heizzi swirled his teacup, eyes glinting. “Here, yeah. Outside, HuaCent’s untouchable, girl. Last year, someone bitched about HuaCent’s Soul Ore, human rights and stuff. "The company had them detained by the Bastion Police, no probation, no prosecution, no trial, no nothin’, and just let ’em rot in there. It’s all over the Dark Web, lah. HuaCent’s cash keeps half the city fed—ministers, cops, even the president’s own daughter works for them. Dark web says they’ve got dirt on every official, enough to sink the entire Republic.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Foo-shing’s small fry, but cross HuaCent, and out there, Slade’s done, lah.” Ruoxi’s fingers tightened on the Coke can, her mind racing. If the government wouldn’t touch HuaCent, who could?

  Ruoxi’s palms dampened. On the dark web, he was a specter—every Shenzhen district whispered of his kills, pinning any HuaCent foes’ deaths on him. She sipped her Coke, voice steady. “Then what?”

  Heizzi swirled his teacup, savoring the story. “Deputy chief rolled up in flip-flops and brought his crew. The cop boss played nice, saying he was just following orders and begging not to make his job harder. They slapped a seal on the door and slunk off, village guards escortin’‘em out till the memorial archway. Neighbors say ThunderVolt was pissed, dropped a threat—Foo-shing’s gettin’ a reckoning soon. The Dark web’s buzzin’: 100-grand bounty for any hacker snagged here! Turned out they were chasing a hacker here, after all. The Abai thing, just an excuse.”

  “ThunderVolt ain’t just muscle,” Heizzi said, eyes darting to the rain-soaked alley. “Word is, he’s got a direct line to HuaCent’s top brass. His drone squads can lock down Bastion in an hour, and he’s iced more hackers than any Triad. The Dark web calls him a ghost—pops up, bodies drop, no trace. Foo-shing’s guards stood him down, but he’ll be back, mark my words.” Ruoxi’s throat tightened, ThunderVolt’s name a blade in her skull. She forced a grin, clutching her Coke. “Sounds like a fairy tale.” Heizzi shook his head. “Fairy tale? Tell that to the corpses.”

  The rain roared, splashing into the shop. Heizzi yanked the shutter halfway down, nodding with a smirk. “Times changed, girl. You got guns, whole village is ours now, lah. Slade’s probably hidin’ in the New District. You… stir up any trouble lately?” Rainwater puddled on the floor, and Ruoxi shuffled inward, scanning shelves, sipping her Coke. A sudden whiff of overpowering cologne choked her—Heizzi’s arms suddenly clamped around her from behind.

  “Hey! Heizzi! What the hell!” Ruoxi yelped, twisting her shoulders.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  His grip tightened, iron-like. “Sorry, Ruoxi… Heizzi’s pushin’ 40, still no wife…”

  Ruoxi’s shock turned to panic. “Heizzi, cut it out! We ain’t like that! I’ll scream!”

  Heizzi hoisted her off the ground, her feet flailing, kicking a shelf, potato chip bags crashing down as rain muffled the noise. He chuckled low. “Chill, girl, it’s not that lah… Shop’s just you and Slade. One of ya’s the hacker. 100 grand’s enough for a wife, yeah?”

  Fury replaced fear. Struggling, she hissed to avoid drawing attention, “Heizzi, we’re neighbors—don’t do this lah…”

  “Don’t hate me, Ruoxi.” Heizzi’s voice hardened: “100 grand, girl. I can use it for a wife, I need that cash. You or Slade’s the hacker. If I grab the wrong one, I’ll buy you dinner to make up, lah. Stay still…”

  He glanced around, loosening his right arm to grab packing tape with his left still pinning her. Ruoxi moved like lightning, slipping free, and drove her foot into his groin. Heizzi groaned, collapsing, tape rolling to the corner. She snatched a can of baby formula and smashed it on his skull, powder exploding. As he reeled, she lunged for the shutter. A pair of hands outside began lifting it—a wiry figure blocked the exit. HuaCent’s goons already? No time to think—she aimed a kick at the figure’s crotch.

  The stranger leaped back, her kick grazing his shin. “Fuck! Who’s kicking me?” he cursed. Ruoxi glimpsed a black-clad man, buzz-cut, rain-soaked. A deafening blast shook the street—like sappers detonating ordnance—ground quaking, water splashing. Both froze. Ruoxi didn’t hesitate, sprinting past, leaping onto her e-bike, and twisting the throttle, tearing into the alley’s depths. The man reached for her, missing. Glancing back, she saw a blue glow at his nape. He bellowed, “Ruoxi Lam! You Ruoxi Lam? Don’t run, wait!”

  Rain eased as Ruoxi fled Foo-shing. Heart pounding, she rode over an hour, weaving into Nanshan’s “DragonFlight Cyber Café.” The ground floor buzzed with smoke, gamers hunched over massive screens, shouting into headsets, tables littered with instant noodle bowls, ashtrays, and other debris. Upstairs, players reclined in pods, holographic battles projected above. Once jacked in, they lived in virtual game worlds. Waiters shuttled food to keep them alive. Ruoxi pushed into a third-floor private room, finding a woman in her early twenties sprawled on a couch. Fluorescent green hair, black leather jacket, minimal makeup, eyes closed, dozing. They exchanged quantum passcodes, verifying identities. Ruoxi exhaled. “VenomSpike, damn, your disguise is tight.”

  VenomSpike puffed an e-cig, drawling, “NeonEdge, late as hell. You’re hot property now.” Ruoxi adjusted her bag, a scavenged rock inside for self-defense. She slumped by the door, voice low. “Just a mix-up, no biggie.” VenomSpike raised a brow, blowing a smoke ring. “Mix-up? One worth 100 grand? HuaCent’s splashing cash for a hacker.” Her eyes darkened, voice dropping. “Don’t worry, I ain’t snitchin’. Sima told you, right? My boyfriend, CobraLens, tried hackin’ AbyssNet last year. ThunderVolt caught him, fried his brain with a consciousness eraser. He’s a vegetable now, hospital bills pilin’ up.” Ruoxi’s gut twisted—CobraLens was a dark web legend. She eased her grip on the bag, asking, “Consciousness eraser? What’s that?”

  VenomSpike’s voice turned venomous. “HuaCent’s covert black tech. Zaps your mind clean, like an Ore Shredder for human brains.” She tapped the spot on the back of her head where the neural jack is located. “Wired or wireless, palm-sized device, one tap, and you are done. ThunderVolt used CobraLens as a guinea pig, did it in front of our crew to scare us straight. He doesn’t just kill—he makes you wish you were dead.” She exhaled, eyes shadowed. “Hospital fees keep climbin’. Death’d be kinder…”

  Ruoxi’s chest ached, words failing her. VenomSpike shook off the gloom, cranked the room’s speakers, game explosions drowning their talk. She leaned close. “Sima sent you ‘cause he don’t trust me, I get it. StarPulse’s Soul Ore haul is worth a fortune, and I want the location of the vault. CobraLens’s score needs settlin’.”

  Ruoxi nodded. Years on the run taught her trust was a luxury—only Avei was family. VenomSpike tossed her a black backpack. “Rest up, you look like hell. We move at 11 at night.”

  Midnight painted Shenzhen Bay’s Ferris wheel and Snake Estuary docks in radiant light, the sea beyond a void. The “Black Tide” club crowned a tower at Oceanview Road No. 1, its holographic sign pulsing like liquid metal to the beat. Crystal chandeliers glittered at the entrance, where Abais in tuxedos scanned members’ irises with unnerving precision.

  Ruoxi and VenomSpike flashed a member’s invite code, slipping inside. The dancefloor shimmered like a starry river, floating speakers pounding bass, LED ceilings casting a psychedelic cosmos. Waiters wove through with champagne, laced with a hint of perfume and Cuban cigars. Wealthy patrons danced, their laughter manic or dazed—digital drugs—code injected via neural jacks—sent them soaring like kites. Undetectable and hence pricey. Ruoxi’s skin crawled as VenomSpike explained.

  In a VIP suite, a middle-aged man lounged on a sofa, smile greasy, eyes sharp. A blonde Abai, tailored to perfection in a suit, stood in the corner, a micro-taser glinting at her cuff. VenomSpike had briefed her: this guy flipped Premium Soul Ores on the dark web, dealt only by pickup orders, a cagey fox in the trade. As Ruoxi stepped forward to swap passphrases, her silver eyeshadow caught the pulsing neon from the club’s LED ceiling, a calculated shimmer masking her nerves. The man’s gaze lingered, hooked, and he said, “Well, damn, didn’t expect two stunners today!”

  They glided to the sofa, flanking him with practiced ease. VenomSpike projected the pickup order from her phone, her cat-eye liner sharpening her gaze under the suite’s holographic glow, codes verified with a flick of her wrist. Ruoxi leaned in, her mesh skirt swaying against the leather couch, purple metallic lipstick gleaming as she purred, “Hey, boss, where’s the goods?” His grin widened, distracted.

  The Abai dragged out large hardshell luggage, and Premium Soul Ore drives were neatly arrayed. VenomSpike bent to scan each for anti-counterfeit seals, her purple silk dress rippling like liquid metal in the suite’s dim light, blood-red lips set in a focused line. Ruoxi’s pulse raced—Could Avei, her lost brother, be in one? Was this how he’d been trafficked? She kept her cool, her silver crop top glinting as she shifted, drawing the man’s eye. With the Abai watching, the man relaxed. “Who’d guess two young ladies got this kinda pull? Let’s trade digits, be friends—long-term deals, yeah?” His hand grazed her knee, testing. Ruoxi played along, stomach churning.

  He boasted, pointing at the Abai. “Bet you didn’t know—in the States, these are just nanny bots, stuck with dumb AI. Here? Only the elite roll with Abais. Why? Soul Ore tech, baby! Turns scrap into gold. Yanks got nothin’ on us! Chinese wisdom!”

  VenomSpike finished, confirming 54 drives and repacking them. She flashed a smile, her blood-red lips a stark contrast to the suite’s cool tones. “Boss, goods check out. 3 million ChainCoins, full price.” She glanced at Ruoxi, transferring the funds. The man nodded, grinning. “You ladies don’t mess around!” He invalidated the pickup order on his phone.

  Ruoxi stood, ready to bolt, her glowing cheek highlights catching a stray beam from the club’s floating speakers. The man grabbed her wrist, chuckling. “First deal, smooth as silk, and you’re both gorgeous. Stay, have a drink, celebrate?” Ruoxi’s gut roiled, but VenomSpike, all charm, signaled her to sit. He poured two glasses of champagne. As they clinked, VenomSpike’s hand slid to his shoulder, then his neck, planting a nano-tracker—a black-market device that burrows under skin, undetectable even by neural scans. Her purple silk dress brushed his arm, a deliberate distraction. He grinned, oblivious, his hand squeezing her thigh, smug at her flirtation.

  Ruoxi dumped her drink discreetly, untouched, and stood again. “Boss, great drink, better deal. We got places to be.” The man tugged VenomSpike’s hand, begging for her number. “Next time, we party!” They hauled the suitcase through the dancefloor, digital drug users now a writhing mass, the air heavy with decadence. Ruoxi’s AR glasses locked the man’s coordinates. The tracker was live.