The air in the corporation’s medical bay was thick with the scent of antiseptic, a sterile chill that clung to Alexei’s skin like a second layer. He sat on the examination table, the thin paper beneath him crinkling faintly, as a swarm of tiny medical drones hummed overhead, their sensors pulsing red against his vitals. Holographic screens flickered to life around the room, streams of incomprehensible data dancing in the air. In the waiting area beyond, a man with a cybernetic arm fidgeted nervously, his implant twitching with each movement. The doctor scrolled through diagnostics on a sleek tablet, his face a mask of indifference—no trace of pity, just cold efficiency.

  "Uncurable," he said, his voice flat as the device he set down. "Your condition’s too rare, too aggressive." He slid a small white box across the table. "But it’s manageable. One pill a day keeps it dormant. Simple enough. The issue’s the cost."

  Alexei’s gaze locked on the box—biometric-locked, its surface cool and smooth under his fingers. He pressed his thumb to the sensor; it clicked open with a faint hiss, revealing thirty capsules nestled in their slots—thirty days of borrowed time. He forced his voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. "How much?"

  "Prohibitive." The doctor didn’t blink. "Too niche for mass production. The corporation won’t foot the bill beyond this." He gestured to the box with a flick of his hand, already turning away. "That’s your severance, plus the standard payout. After that, you’re on your own."

  Alexei’s jaw tightened. A decade here—brokering deals, turning losses into wins. He’d once orchestrated a merger that saved the company billions, outsmarting a rival CEO with a smile and a handshake while the boardroom applauded. And now, they were cutting him loose like a frayed thread. Earlier that day, the HR rep had sealed it, her voice echoing through a sterile vid-call: "Business decision, Alexei. You get it. The numbers don’t add up."

  A business decision. He’d lived by those words, but hearing them turned against him lit a fire in his gut. They thought they’d discarded him, but he wasn’t done yet.

  Alexei stepped out of the medical bay, the pillbox clutched in his hand like a lifeline. His mind churned—thirty days, maybe fifty with the severance. It wasn’t enough. He needed more: credits, data, anything to barter with. The corporation owed him that much.

  He turned down the corridor toward his office, the sterile white halls now feeling like a trap closing in. His access card—still clipped to his jacket—might not work, but he had to try. If he could slip in, grab his files, maybe siphon a few thousand credits from a slush account. He’d covered his tracks before; he could do it again.

  But as he approached the office door, the biometric scanner flashed red. "Access denied," a synthetic voice chirped. Alexei’s stomach dropped. He swiped his card again—same result. A security drone whirred overhead, its camera lens focusing on him with a faint click.

  "Mr. Volkov," a voice echoed from behind. Two corporate security officers, their faces hidden behind visors, stood at attention. "You’re no longer authorized in this sector. Please follow us to HR for your exit briefing."

  Alexei’s pulse quickened. "I just need to grab my things—"

  "Your personal effects have been collected," one officer interrupted, his tone flat. "HR will provide them after the briefing."

  They didn’t wait for a response, flanking him as they marched toward the HR wing. As they passed a break room, Alexei caught sight of Dmitri—his rival for the last promotion—leaning against the doorframe, a smirk twisting his lips. His new executive badge gleamed on his chest.

  "Guess the better man won, Volkov," Dmitri said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Enjoy scraping by—heard it’s the new gig for has-beens like you." He chuckled, raising a mock toast with his coffee cup.

  Alexei’s fists clenched, but a security drone whirred closer, its warning light flashing amber. He swallowed his retort, the fire in his gut burning hotter. You’ll regret that, he vowed silently as the officers nudged him forward.

  In the HR office, a woman in a crisp suit awaited him, her smile as synthetic as the newsfeed flickering on a nearby holographic display. "Alexei, we’re sorry to see you go. Please review and sign this NDA reminder." She slid a tablet across the desk. "Any breach—data theft, insider trading—will result in immediate legal action. You understand, of course."

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  His hand trembled slightly as he signed, the stylus slipping for a moment as a faint tremor ran through his fingers—a whisper of the disease already taking root. He nodded, forcing his voice steady. "Of course."

  "Good." She handed him a small box—his belongings, sanitized of anything useful. "Your severance has been deposited. Best of luck."

  And just like that, he was escorted to the exit, the doors sealing shut behind him with a final hiss.

  The maglev hummed through the city’s underbelly, its windows streaking with neon reflections. Alexei sat rigid, the pillbox cold against his palm—thirty pills, thirty days. Beyond that, nothing but tremors and death. Dmitri’s words still burned in his ears, but he pushed them aside. Survival first—revenge second.

  He needed money, fast. Mercenary work? Ads for private security gigs flashed on the maglev’s screens, promising quick credits for those with the right enhancements. But without combat implants—reflex boosters, dermal armor—he’d be outmatched. I’d be dead in a week, torn apart by some chromed-up thug before I drew my gun. No good.

  Hacking? He’d skimmed the dark pools before; data theft paid well. But without a neural jack or cyberdeck, he’d be too slow, too exposed. A newsfeed overhead blared: "NexusCorp Cracks Down on Unlicensed Hackers—Sentences Doubled." I’d fry my brain or get traced before I cracked anything. Another bust.

  Maybe a loan could tide him over. He pulled out his datapad, its screen flickering as he tapped into the maglev’s public network. NexusCorp’s credit line portal was still pinned—a perk of his old job. He input his ID, requested a modest sum, and hit submit. The response flashed instantly: "DENIED—Employee Termination Clause." His stomach sank. Bastards, he thought, jaw clenching. They’d locked him out faster than he’d expected—no appeal, no mercy.

  His gaze drifted to the window, where a billboard flashed by: “Velocity Nexus Championship—10 Million Credits.” NexusCorp’s logo glowed beneath it. Just another corporate leech sucking the city dry. He barely glanced at it, his mind still racing through dead-end options.

  The maglev slowed, and Alexei stood, shoving the datapad back into his pocket. Dmitri’s smirk lingered in his thoughts, but he pushed it down. “I’ll survive,” he muttered. “And I’ll make you all pay.”

  He stepped into his apartment, a cramped cube of flickering LEDs and peeling walls. The door hissed shut, sealing out the city’s drone. A mandatory corporate newsfeed chirped from a cracked screen in the corner: "NexusCorp’s Velocity Nexus Team Dominates Prelims—Stocks Surge." Alexei scowled, muting it with a sharp gesture. The air hung heavy with the smell of synthetic noodles from the dispenser down the hall—a cheap meal he’d choked down too many times. He dropped the pillbox onto his desk and sank into his chair, but his mind was already racing. Survival was a negotiation—he’d talked his way out of worse. He needed leverage, a deal to strike. Capital.

  First, the pills. Could he stretch them? He powered up his terminal, its screen flaring to life, and dove into the dark pools of the net. Old corporate codes slipped past firewalls as he skimmed medical archives and black-hat forums, hunting for anything on his disease. The corporation hadn’t even given it a proper name—just a string of numbers: XKR-7419. He navigated encrypted corners—pirated pharma reports, fragmented patient logs—until a single thread flickered with promise.

  "One pill daily halts progression," it read, the text glitching faintly on his screen. "Dosage reduction viable—alternate days possible—but progression resumes at half-rate. Symptoms: tremors, synaptic lag, collapse. Median survival without full dose: 90-120 days."

  Alexei exhaled sharply, leaning back. Yes... but. He could take one every two days, stretch his thirty pills to sixty—maybe seventy with luck—but the disease would creep back. A trembling hand here, a missed step there, until his brain frayed beyond repair. Three, four months before he was a husk, too broken to work, let alone win. It wasn’t survival; it was a slower funeral.

  He rubbed his temples, forcing the math aside. Sixty days wasn’t enough—he needed cash now, not later. Another lender, maybe. He pulled up QuickFunds on the terminal, a sketchy outfit known for taking risks on the desperate. He filled out the form—name, ID, no income—and hit submit. The screen pulsed for a moment, then flared green: "APPROVED—Processing Funds." A rare smile tugged at his lips. Maybe he had a shot.

  But then the screen flickered, and red text replaced the green: "DENIED—High-Risk Medical Profile. Further Verification Complete." His smile vanished. He slammed a fist on the desk, the pillbox rattling. They sold me out. NexusCorp had leaked his health data—or worse, auctioned it to every lender in the city. He was a ghost, a liability no one would touch.

  His gaze drifted back to the terminal. The newsfeed, still muted, showed footage of a high-speed race—sleek cars tearing through a neon-lit track, the Velocity Nexus logo blazing in the corner. Alexei froze, the pieces clicking into place. It wasn’t just noise. It was NexusCorp’s pride, a VR racing sim where strategy mattered more than muscle or implants. A game with prize pools deep enough to drown his medical debts and hit the corporation where it hurt.

  He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Winners weren’t just racers; they were gods, their victories broadcast to billions. And the corporation was pouring billions into their team, desperate to dominate. If he could crack that game, turn its market into his playground, he could buy his way out of this death sentence. And maybe—just maybe—make Dmitri and the rest of them choke on their smugness.

  Alexei wasn’t a driver—never had been—but he didn’t need to be. He was a strategist, a deal-maker. His lips curled into a faint, grim smile. “I’ll do it,” he muttered. “And I’ll make them regret it.”