Denver, Colorado, Summer 2023

  Kai Nakamura woke at 5:00 AM to the sharp buzz of his smartwatch, its glow cutting through the dark of his Denver apartment. He rolled out of bed, feet on cold hardwood, and dropped into push-ups, breath steady, counting reps like a reflex. Twenty-two years in the Marines had carved discipline into him, but two years as a civilian had softened the edges. At forty, he wasn’t chasing missions—just quiet routines.

  He hit fifty push-ups, sweat beading, and switched to sit-ups, a faint scar on his forehead itching. The apartment was small—a bed, a desk with monitors, a shelf of gaming books (Dungeons & Dragons, Cyberpunk RED) next to a hand-painted mug with a lotus design, a gift from his grandfather. Kanji flashcards sat in a drawer, tied to memories of his childhood, but Kai didn’t linger.

  Coffee brewed, black and bitter, the machine humming like servers at PeakPulse Solutions, his job since leaving the Corps. Kai sat at the desk, sipping from the lotus mug, smartwatch showing 5:20 AM. Emails loaded—alerts about a network glitch he’d traced to a bad update. His fingers, callused from keyboards and climbing holds, typed a fix plan for Monday’s meeting. Cybersecurity was all about patterns: find the flaw, seal it, move on. PeakPulse’s corporate drone wasn’t his old life, but it funded his climbs and gaming nights.

  His phone buzzed, a text from Mark: Still hyped from that netrunner hack last night. Dice were clutch! Climbing today? Kai smirked. Last night’s Cyberpunk RED session had been sharp—his netrunner outsmarting an Arasaka AI, dice clattering as the table roared. Mark, Sarah, and Jen, coworkers from PeakPulse, were his gaming crew, a tight group built over two years, their banter a rare tether. He replied: Yeah, solo climb. Text you when I get back. The cliff needed focus, no chatter.

  By 6:00 AM, Kai was dressed—cargo pants, worn jacket, scuffed boots. His climbing pack waited: rope, carabiners, harness, checked twice last night. He added chalk, a water bottle, and a topo map of the Front Range trail, a 40-foot cliff marked in red—a fast climb, brutal if you slipped. His smartwatch synced to his phone, tracking altitude for the trail. He locked the apartment, Denver waking outside—cars humming, a siren fading, the gray morning cool.

  Kai drove to Joe’s Place, a ritual stop on the way to the trail. The diner smelled of grease and coffee, chipped counters worn but familiar. Joe, a retired cop with a gray beard and a limp, nodded as Kai took a stool. “Usual?” Joe asked, pouring coffee.

  “Add eggs,” Kai said, voice low, scanning the room—a trucker, a couple, no threats. Joe slid over scrambled eggs and toast, leaning on the counter, eyeing Kai’s pack.

  “Front Range again?” Joe asked, brow raised. “Heard rockslides. Be careful out there, Kai.”

  Kai chewed, slow. “I’ll watch my step.” Joe always worried, a cop’s habit, but Kai trusted his prep. The cliff was familiar, its cracks like a puzzle he’d cracked before. Risk was there—frost, loose stone—but that’s why he went. Not for thrills, just clarity.

  Joe wiped the counter. “You’d better come back, or I’m eating your eggs.” His tone was gruff, but his eyes held worry.

  Kai’s lips quirked. “Deal.” He paid, tipped, and headed out.

  The air was crisp, the sun breaking over the city. Kai drove his truck to the Front Range trailhead, an hour out, the road winding through pines and rocky slopes. The radio crackled, a news bit about cybercrime, then cut to static. His mind drifted to last night’s game—Mark’s dice fumble, Sarah’s fixer cutting a deal, the neon city they’d spun. Arasaka loomed, a shadow Kai’s netrunner chipped at, one hack at a time. He’d rolled a critical, grinning as the table roared. It was control, a puzzle, like the cliff ahead.

  The trailhead was empty, just dirt and a faded sign: Caution: Rough Terrain. Kai parked, shouldered his pack, and hiked, boots crunching gravel, the cliff rising like a gray wall. His smartwatch showed 7:45 AM, 8,100 feet. Pines whispered, wind carrying resin and earth. Solitude settled, a quiet he needed, far from monitors and meetings. The cliff’s base was littered with scree, its 40-foot face scarred, cracks tracing paths like code.

  Kai set up, movements steady and practiced. Rope uncoiled, harness secured, carabiners clipped. He tested the anchor, wedged in a crack—firm, no give. Chalk dusted his fingers, calluses rough against cold stone. The topo map showed the route: 40 feet, quick but unforgiving, frost a hazard. He tied in, knots tight, trusting the gear like a familiar tool. The cliff waited, a challenge he’d meet alone.

  He climbed, fingers finding holds, boots wedging into cracks. His body moved steady, breath even, each step deliberate. Two years at PeakPulse hadn’t dulled his edge—discipline stuck, even in flannels. At fifteen feet, the rock felt solid, like a network he’d patched. He’d fixed a glitch at work last week, tracing a flaw to a rushed update. Same mindset: read the pattern, keep moving.

  At twenty-five feet, the rope brushed a jagged edge, a faint fray catching his eye. He paused, breath fogging, and tugged. Still held. Should’ve swapped it, a thought nagged, but he pushed it down. Doubt was a trap—trust the prep. Frost glinted on the holds, wind tugging his jacket. He moved up, slower, testing each grip.

  At thirty-five feet, the rope shuddered. A snap, loud as a gunshot, and the anchor tore free, stone crumbling. Kai’s gut dropped, hands clawing for a hold, boots slipping. The rope fell limp, frayed end whipping past. He lunged, fingers catching a crack, shoulder slamming rock. The valley yawned below, scree glinting like broken glass. His watch cracked, screen dark.

  “Come on,” he growled, voice lost to the wind. A raven circled, cawing, and he smirked, picturing his gaming crew laughing at a bad roll—Mark’s fumble, Sarah’s quip. His fingers burned, chalk mixing with sweat. The crack was slick, frost brutal. He reached for another hold, arm shaking, but the rock gave nothing. His grip slipped, and he fell—stone, sky, pines blurring into a rush of gray and green.

  The impact was a thunderclap, ribs and skull crunching against stone, blood warm on his scalp. Pain roared, a white-hot wave, then dulled to a cold ache. His chest hitched, breath shallow, the world fading. Neon flickered in his mind—towers, red signs, a city pulsing: Arasaka. Dice rolled, his netrunner’s grin, a holo-ad’s glow. Cyberpunk 2077’s streets, sharp and vivid, bled through the haze. His fingers twitched, reaching for a hold that wasn’t there.

  No regrets, he thought, heavy, final. He’d lived his way—climbs, games, quiet nights. Mark’s laugh, Joe’s coffee, the kanji flashcards—they flickered, fading. The cold sank deep, the raven’s caw distant. Something lingered—a life half-built, trails unwalked, a city he’d only played. Then darkness, neon bleeding into void.