Ethan Kane stood rooted in the Neon Market's chaos, his cracked phone glowing with a $10 deposit that felt like a lifeline pulled from a shipwreck. Ten bucks, wired straight from Cash Machine to his real-world bank account, was a flicker of hope in a life crushed by debt and despair. It wouldn't erase the eviction notice screaming "$1,200 by Friday" or the $15,000 medical bills haunting him, but it was proof this game—this vivid, terrifying world—was real. The market roared around him, a sensory assault of neon signs flashing crypto prices, vendors shouting over sizzling street food, and players shoving through the crowd. Skyscrapers towered, their glass facades reflecting stock tickers that shifted like ocean tides. The air was thick with molten metal, spices, and an electric hum that buzzed in Ethan's bones, anchoring him in a reality sharper than his mildew-soaked apartment.
His WealthCore screen hovered, its holographic text unyielding: Cash Balance: $10.00. Objective: Earn $1,000 in 24 hours or face deletion. Time Remaining: 23 hours, 55 minutes. The word "deletion" clung to him like a shadow, heavier than a game-over screen. Was it just his account, or something more sinister? His left forearm itched where the golden coin tattoo pulsed, a mark of the glitchy Junk to Jackpot skill that had turned a rusty bottlecap into a $10 Crypto Token. That trade with Honest Hal, the grizzled vendor with the mechanical eye, had been a rush, but the market's dangers were undeniable. Ethan's mind flashed to the player dragged into an alley by black-masked figures, their scream cut short by knives. This wasn't a goldmine; it was a battlefield, and he was a sitting duck.
"Get it together, Ethan," he muttered, his sneakers sticking to the cobblestones, gritty with spilled oil and food scraps. The crowd pressed in—players in plasma-crackling armor, others in sleek suits clutching data devices, all predators in this shark tank. He needed a plan. Ten bucks was a start, but $990 in a day? That was a fantasy unless WealthCore had more tricks. His screen flickered, static crawling like ants, and a memory hit him: his mom, counting coins for groceries, her frail hands trembling but her smile steady. "We'll make it work, kid," she'd said, even when their pantry was empty. Ethan's throat tightened. He'd failed her then, dropping out of college to care for her, watching cancer win. He wouldn't fail now—not when $10 proved Cash Machine could change his life.
A rough voice shattered his thoughts. "Yo, newbie. Nice hustle with Hal." Ethan spun, heart lurching. Three players blocked his path, their armor grimy, knives humming with static. The leader, a lanky guy with a scar slicing his left eye, grinned like a hyena. His screen flashed: Player: Scarface (Level 5). Faction: Greedrats. The others, Level 3 and 4, flanked him—a stocky woman with a buzzcut and a wiry kid with twitchy fingers. "Neon Market's got a tax," Scarface said, twirling his knife. "Hand over your credits, or we carve 'em out."
Ethan's pulse hammered. His own screen screamed Level 1, a glowing invitation to get jumped. Fighting was suicide—no weapons, no stats worth mentioning. Running? The crowd was a wall, and the Greedrats' lean frames looked built for pursuit. "Tax?" Ethan said, stalling, his voice cracking slightly. "I just got here. Barely made a dime."
"Exactly," Scarface sneered, stepping closer. His knife's hum grew louder, a wasp's buzz. "Ten bucks, now. Don't make us messy." Buzzcut cracked her knuckles, her knife glinting, while Twitchy giggled, his eyes darting like a junkie's. Ethan's mind raced. He'd seen the alley's fate—knives, blood, silence. His tattoo burned, and WealthCore's voice hissed: Glitch detected. Activating Skill: Profit Sense (Rank F).
A notification popped up:
Profit Sense (Rank F)
Detect profitable opportunities within 5 meters. Cooldown: 1 hour.
A faint glow outlined a trash pile by a noodle stall, highlighting a cracked datapad buried in ramen wrappers and bottlecaps. The screen tagged it: Sellable for $50 if repaired.
Ethan's grin was shaky but calculated. "How about a deal? I fix this junk, we sell it, split the cash. No blood, just profit." He gestured at the pile, his voice steadier than his nerves. Scarface squinted, his knife pausing. "You scammin' me, kid?"
"Scan it," Ethan said, kneeling to dig out the datapad. The noodle stall's cook, a burly man with a cybernetic arm, glared but stayed silent, his spatula scraping the grill. Scarface's wrist device beeped, confirming the datapad's value. His grin widened, but his eyes stayed cold as ice. "Fine. Fix it. But we're watching. Screw up, and you're lunch."
Ethan nodded, sweat beading on his brow. The Greedrats loomed, their knives a constant threat. He'd tinkered with electronics before—fixing his mom's ancient TV to watch reruns during her chemo—but this was different. WealthCore's prompts guided him: Rewire the core, polish the screen. His fingers fumbled, the datapad's wires sparking under his touch. Buzzcut leaned in, her breath hot and sour. "Hurry up, newbie." Twitchy giggled, his knife twitching like it had a mind of its own. Ethan's hands shook, memories of his mom's hospital room creeping in—beeping machines, her weak smile. He pushed them down, focusing on the wires.
A spark singed his thumb, but the datapad hummed to life, its screen glowing faintly. Ethan exhaled, relief flooding him. Item Restored: Data Shard (Uncommon). Value: $50. Scarface snatched it, scanning it again. "Not bad, kid. Here's your cut." He transferred $15, his grin mocking. Ethan's screen updated: Cash Balance: $25. The Greedrats laughed, but Scarface's eyes lingered, narrowing. "Keep an eye on this one," he muttered to Buzzcut. "He's weird."
Ethan backed away, heart still racing. The $15 felt like a victory, but the Greedrats' whispers trailed him like smoke. Profit Sense had saved his skin, but he'd just made enemies. He slipped into the crowd, the market's chaos swallowing him—vendors shouting, players bartering, a drone overhead blaring ads for "Quantum Stocks." His screen flickered, glitching: Level Up! Level 2 Achieved.
Reward: WealthCore Upgrade Menu Unlocked.
Option 1: Stabilize Junk to Jackpot (Success Rate +10%). Cost: $50.
Option 2: Extend Profit Sense Duration (10 min). Cost: $50.
Warning: Glitchy upgrade failure chance: 50%.
Ethan cursed softly. Fifty bucks to upgrade? He was $25 short. The menu's text pulsed like his tattoo, taunting him. He needed more cash, and fast. A new quest pinged:
Quest: Shark's Gambit
Task: Earn $100 by market's close (3 hours).
Reward: $150 + Random Skill Unlock.
The crowd parted, and Ethan's eyes locked on a cloaked figure by a stall stacked with glowing contracts. It was the hooded player from before, their face hidden in shadow, their screen obscured by static. A chill crawled up his spine. The figure beckoned, their voice low and raspy, like gravel under boots. "Heard you're a hustler, Kane. Got a job for you. High risk, high reward. Interested?"
Ethan's tattoo burned, WealthCore glitching with static. The figure's presence felt wrong, like they knew too much. "What's the job?" he asked, his voice barely steady. The market's noise faded, the crowd blurring as if the world narrowed to this moment.
The figure leaned in, their cloak rustling like dry leaves. "Rig a trade deal. Get me a rare contract worth $500. Do it, and you're golden—$200 in your pocket. Fail…" Their voice dropped, cold as a blade. "Well, you know what happens to losers here." They gestured at the alley where the player had been dragged, the implication a gut-punch. Ethan's mind flashed to Hal's mutter: Neon Market eats fools.
He swallowed, his mouth dry. Five hundred bucks could crush his $1,000 goal, but the risks screamed trap. His phone buzzed, snapping him out of it—a real-world call. The screen showed "Unknown Number," but Ethan knew it was the debt collector who'd been hounding him, leaving voicemails that threatened to seize his apartment's scraps. He ignored it, but the voicemail icon blinked, a tether to the life he was fleeing. The market pressed in—players shoving, vendors shouting, the Overlord statue's red eyes glowing like a warning. Ethan's tattoo pulsed, and WealthCore whispered: Opportunity detected. Risk equals reward.
He met the figure's shadowed gaze. "What's the catch?"
Their hood shifted, a smirk barely visible. "Catch is, you're not the only one after this contract. Cross the wrong player, and you're out—permanently." They slid a data chip across the stall, its surface etched with runes that glowed faintly. "Take it or walk, Kane. Clock's ticking."
Ethan's hand hovered over the chip, his mind screaming to run. Two hundred bucks was a lifeline—groceries, a bill, a step toward keeping his apartment. But the figure's words echoed: out permanently. His screen glitched, static roaring, and a notification flashed: Contract Accepted: Shadow Trade. The cloaked figure nodded, vanishing into the crowd like smoke. Ethan gripped the chip, its cold weight grounding him. He turned to leave, but a low laugh stopped him cold.
Scarface and Buzzcut stood ten feet away, their knives glinting. "Going somewhere, newbie?" Scarface called, his grin predatory. Buzzcut cracked her knuckles, and Twitchy was nowhere in sight—bad news. Ethan's screen flashed: Warning: Hostile players detected. His heart pounded. The chip burned in his hand, its runes pulsing like his tattoo. He couldn't fight, and the crowd was too thick to run far.
"Think, Ethan," he whispered. Profit Sense was on cooldown, but the market was a maze—stalls, alleys, crowds. He ducked behind a noodle stall, the cook grumbling but ignoring him. The alley nearby was a death trap, but a narrow gap between two stalls caught his eye—a service path, barely wide enough for him. He squeezed through, the chip clutched tight, as Scarface's shout echoed: "Find him!"
The path led to a quieter corner of the market, where drones hummed overhead, scanning for trades. Ethan crouched behind a crate, catching his breath. His screen glitched again, and WealthCore whispered: Analyze data chip? Ethan hesitated, then tapped "Yes." A new notification appeared:
Data Chip: Shadow Contract (Rare)
Details: Grants access to Overlord Auction. Value: $500. Warning: Contested item. Rival players detected.
Ethan's stomach dropped. The Overlord Auction? The statue's red eyes flashed in his mind. This wasn't just a trade—it was a key to something bigger, and Scarface wasn't the only one after it. His phone buzzed again, the debt collector's voicemail a grim reminder of why he couldn't back out. He needed that $200, but the market was a trap, and the Greedrats were closing in. A shadow moved at the path's end—a new figure, not Scarface, but their armor gleamed with a Level 10 badge. Ethan's tattoo burned, and WealthCore's voice hissed: Danger: Elite player detected. He was out of time.