April 18, 2021. 21:20. Burnaby.
Easy. Too easy.
Jamie stared down at the bodies scattered across the battered apartment floor—five in total, tossed aside like someone's forgotten garbage.
Some were already dead; others twitched faintly, clinging to life as blood spread in dark puddles beneath them. Each one was carved with deep, jagged slashes—wounds left by someone who hadn't shown mercy.
All of them had tattoo symbols belonging to the Melders gang. These gangsters in particular, were low-level pushers, tied into the growing drug trade that plagued the city's streets.
Jamie—or rather X, the masked figure now standing amidst the wreckage—breathed out slowly, centring herself. The knife in her hand gleamed under the flickering light of the ceiling fan, its edge still slick and red.
Another cleanup. Another mess. Nothing new.
It didn't start that way earlier though.
A few hours earlier, everything had been still—eerily still. Now, knee-deep in blood and chaos, Jamie found herself longing for that quiet again… even if part of her had been desperate for the noise.
…
April 18, 2021. 16:30. Burnaby.
Steamed rice, roasted vegetables, and pan-fried pork filled the air, the scent of a homemade feast hanging heavy over the table. The dining room smelled like heaven—comforting, familiar, and alive with the warmth of family routine.
Jamie dropped into her usual seat, resting her chin on her palm as she watched her mother bustle around. Vanessa—brown-skinned, medium build, her toned arms moving with practised ease—had her black hair slicked back and wore a casual blouse with fitted jeans. She hummed an old tune under her breath as she plated dinner, her sharp mismatched eyes—one blue, one gold—scanning the spread like she dared the food itself to misbehave.
Across the table, her father was already halfway through his plate. John, in a crisp white dress shirt, looked every bit the unremarkable salaryman—the kind you'd pass on the street without a second glance. And that was just how he liked it.
"So?" Vanessa slid into her chair, grinning. Her light Swedish accent curled softly around her words. "No drama today? No fights behind the school?"
Jamie shook her head and took a bite. "None. Why do you consider fights a normal Sunday?" She passed a dish toward her mother.
Vanessa shrugged, flashing a teasing smile. "It's Burnaby. You never know, especially with how things are lately."
John chuckled, reaching for the pepper shaker. "Unfortunately, she's got a point. Police can't keep up right now."
Jamie barely responded. "I guess so…" Her hands hovered over another plate.
Banter like this was normal—comfortable, even. She liked listening more than talking, content to let her parents fill the room with warmth and noise. Being the family's golden child—good grades, perfect attendance—made everything easier.
Her parents didn't worry about her; they trusted her enough to let her breathe.
Conversation rolled on effortlessly. Vanessa and John argued about sauce pairings, accused each other of culinary crimes, and mocked one another's taste in music. Laughter mingled with the clatter of dishes, wrapping the home in the illusion of peace.
Then, just as Jamie finished her second helping, her smartwatch buzzed faintly against her wrist.
She glanced down.
Neighbourhood Alert: Unauthorized Movement—2 Blocks West. Possible Melder Drug Activity.
Her pulse quickened. She hid it well, shovelling another mouthful of rice to buy a second to think—to plan.
Vanessa noticed the shift, her gaze narrowing—not suspicious, just curious. "Everything okay?"
Jamie forced a shrug. "Erica wants to go shopping." The lie rolled off her tongue easily—an old excuse she'd used more times than she could count. "Second round."
Vanessa immediately brightened. "Again? Woowwww, really? Good! You should add more colour to your wardrobe while you're out." She wagged her chopsticks with mock authority. "Say hi to her for me."
"Yeah," Jamie murmured, already mapping the quickest route in her head. She downed her water in one gulp and pushed her chair back.
But before she could step away, John's calm voice cut through.
"Be safe, Jamie."
She froze—just a fraction. Then turned with a small, practised smile. "Of course. It's just Erica."
John's expression didn't change, but his eyes lingered. There was something in them—something soft, knowing. Like he understood more than he let on.
Does he know? He probably knows.
Maybe not everything—but something.
A quiet moment passed. Neither of them spoke until John's phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, jaw tightening before slipping it back into his pocket.
"Alright, well, enjoy yourself, sweetheart," he said, giving Jamie a quick hug and ruffling her hair. Then he turned to Vanessa, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Looks like I'm needed again. Emergency reroute—the Seattle branch flagged a shipment error messing with the Pacific client accounts. If we don't fix it tonight, Legal's gonna throw a tantrum."
Vanessa groaned, dropping her chopsticks with a clatter. "Seriously? I thought you finally had a full day off. We were supposed to actually hang out, remember? Like normal couples?" She jabbed him lightly in the side. "God, Arasaka's logistics branch is a bigger dumpster fire than their marketing team—and that's saying something."
"I know. It's not by choice. Quarter-end chaos." John chuckled, smiling in that tired but fond way he only ever used with Vanessa. "I'll make it up to you. Dinner and a movie. Just us. No Arasaka."
Vanessa snorted, crossing her arms before leaning in for another kiss. "Fine—you owe me two movies. And a fancy dessert on top of that."
Jamie was already edging toward the stairs. Their romantic back-and-forth had long since faded into background noise. Her mind was elsewhere—slipping out of perfect daughter mode and into something different.
She retreated upstairs before she gave herself away.
Behind the safety of her bedroom door, the transformation began.
From under her bed, she dragged out a black duffel bag—stuffed with reinforced leggings, a matte-black moto jacket, and the centrepiece: a customized helmet, smooth and featureless, with an embedded voice modulator. One click, and her voice would drop into a distorted, mechanical rasp.
Just like Mister—the fixer she idolized, the shadow she one day hoped to stand beside. But for now, she'd carve out her own name, one cleanup at a time.
With practised precision, she suited up: gloves tightened, plates adjusted, jacket zipped. The matte-black helmet slid into place, its familiar weight grounding her. To anyone else—especially her parents—it would look like she was heading out for another late-night ride.
No more Jamie. Only X.
And Burnaby's streets were calling.
…
April 18, 2021. 21:37. Burnaby.
X lowered her blade, breathing steadily. Her helmet's display flickered as it registered the damage done—five confirmed takedowns.
She scanned the scene again, flipping through the Melders' gear. Scattered drugs. Cheap burners. Rusted pistols barely holding together with tape.
Nothing useful. No trail back to the source.
Still just pawns.
A weak cough snapped her focus to the corner. One of the gangsters stirred, dragging in a ragged breath.
X crossed the room in two steps, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him upright. His face hung inches from her helmet's blank visor.
"Where's your source?" Her voice came out cold and modulated, every word laced with static. "Talk. Now."
The Melder groaned, spitting blood onto the floor. "You serious, bro?" His voice rasped, but his tone was defiant. "You think this ends with us?" He laughed, a choked, broken sound. "Nah, nah… you're late. It's already started."
X's grip tightened. "What started?"
Outside, the distant crack of gunfire answered before he could. Then explosions rolled across the block—close, too close.
She snapped her head toward the window, visor sensors flaring to life. "The hell are you talking about?"
The Melder's grin split through the blood. His eyes, half-glazed, carried that sick, final satisfaction of someone who knew he didn't have to win—just had to watch the world burn. "Check it yourself," he wheezed. "You'll see."
She slammed him down. The impact echoed—a dull crack swallowed by the wrecked apartment's silence.
Without breaking stride, X moved across the debris-strewn floor, boots grinding over glass and scattered shells. A cold breeze slipped through the shattered window ahead, carrying the faint stench of smoke and gunpowder.
She leaned out, scanning the skyline. Her heartbeat steadied; focus narrowed to a razor's edge.
A few blocks down, the street was pure carnage.
Vehicles lay overturned, twisted into heaps of jagged metal. Bodies dotted the asphalt—some twitching, others still. Plumes of smoke curled into the darkening sky, glowing red under the dying sun.
Then it stepped into view.
A walking nightmare of steel, wire, and meat. Plates of scavenged merc armour clung to its body, fused with crude cybernetics. Missile tubes jutted from its back, crudely welded into place. Thick cables coiled around exposed muscle, joints jerking in unnatural spasms. Its face—if it could still be called that—was a ruin of optics and torn flesh.
In one trembling hand, it held a massive revolver, smoke still curling from the barrel.
The street behind it was a graveyard. Innocents. Maybe cops.
X didn't move. She stayed crouched in the shadow of the shattered apartment, her visor locking onto the cyberpsycho as her HUD flooded with readings. None of it mattered. Numbers couldn't capture the wrongness radiating off that thing.
The Melders had hinted at this—something bigger, spreading like infection.
Her fists clenched.
If this was happening here—my neighbourhood, my school, near Erica—
No. She needed answers. Now.
Moving fast and silent, X slipped through the window and dropped to the cracked sidewalk below, landing in a low crouch.
This wasn't over. Not even close.