Boston. Year 2030.
It was raining again.
Not the romantic kind of rain you see in movies—just the usual dirty, electric drizzle that stuck to the pavement like static. Sevryx stood perfectly still under the shadow of an abandoned tram line, his breath fogging in the cool air.
His HUD flickered.
Not unusual. Glitches happened. The Black Gambit Group's neural overlays were never perfect, no matter how many billions they pumped into R&D. But this one—this one was different.
For just a heartbeat, his vision cut to black. Then came a flicker: a flash of white tiles, the sterile ceiling of some hospital room. A scream—small, broken.
And a child's face. Crying.
Reaching for him.
Slipping from his hand.
Then—gone.
Sevryx blinked.
Once.
Twice.
No more glitch. No more child.
"...Was that real?" he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse from disuse.
"Asset, confirm status."
A voice clicked through his earpiece—cold, clipped, unmistakable. Dr. Voss.
His handler.
His warden.
Sevryx said nothing. He never answered. They knew that by now.
Across the street, Senator Daniel Kraye stepped out of his bulletproof town car, flanked by two bodyguards in sleek gray suits. Private sector muscle. The kind trained to kill, then disappear behind NDAs and offshore accounts.
Kraye. Chairman of the Defense Oversight Committee.
Smiled too wide. Talked too much. Knew too many secrets.
He'd pushed for Sentinel Units—AI-augmented drones deployed in six different conflict zones. Profitable tech.
Lethal tech.
Unstable tech.
Sevryx had read the file. Memorized it.
The kill order came in 12 hours ago.
No fanfare. No press. No questions.
Eliminate. Extract. Upload.
Business as usual.
He moved.
His body obeyed without hesitation—trained instinct smoothed into muscle memory. No wasted motion. Just clean, silent violence.
The first guard didn't see the palm strike coming.
10,000 volts through his neural lace. Lights out.
The second turned just in time for a whisper of metal—
A ceramic blade slid into his side. No scream. No sound.
Kraye froze. "Wait—you're—"
His eyes met Sevryx's. Wide. Terrified. Knowing.
The knife spoke for him.
---
10 minutes later.
The van hummed quietly, engine low, parked in an alley with no name.
Sevryx sat alone in the back, letting the neural suppressant flow through his bloodstream. Dull. Empty. His body was sore, but his mind?
His mind was burning.
Dr. Voss's face glowed blue on the monitor. "Clean work. As expected. But you hesitated before engaging the second guard. Explain."
He said nothing.
"...We'll adjust your dosage," she replied flatly, tapping away on her tablet. "Your next mission will be delivered in—"
Static.
The screen glitched.
Then, on every monitor, a message appeared:
> THEY DELETED YOU. BUT YOU'RE STILL IN THE SYSTEM.
Sevryx's breath hitched.
Not fear. Not pain.
Recognition.
Before Voss could move, another message flashed across Sevryx's personal HUD:
> TARGET LIST: NOCTURNE FINALE.
27 names.
Starting with Sevryx Nocturne.
Then—a file opened.
A video.
A younger version of himself. Strapped to a chair.
Screaming.
Begging.
"Please, don't take her—don't—! I remember now—I REMEMBER!"
His hand trembled.
He didn't understand it. Not fully. Not yet.
But he knew one thing.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
---
To Be Continued...