Marcus Greyson pedaled his electric bike through the streets of Virelia, already alive with morning activity. He parked in front of the modest garage, the familiar smell of oil and metal greeting him before he even stepped inside.
—Another long day —he muttered—. I have to make it count… I can't afford to slack off.
Inside, the workshop was already buzzing with activity. Tools clattered, engines roared, and a few coworkers moved briskly between the repair stations. Marcus set down his bag and surveyed the tasks awaiting him.
He was nineteen years old and an apprentice mechanic, but the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on his shoulders. He needed the money; his father, crushed by a massive loan from Financia—a gang notorious for making debts and debtors disappear—had seen no way out and ended his own life. Now the debt had fallen squarely on the rest of the family., and even two years of salary wouldn't cover it. The family's plan was to save enough to move to another city and hope the gang wouldn't catch up to them. For the past few months, Marcus had been constantly running from Financia. Sometimes they spotted him and gave chase, and the day before he hadn't managed to get away, forced to fight just to avoid a brutal beating.
He rolled up his sleeves and began working on the first vehicle of the day. It would be a twelve-hour, grueling shift, each task a small victory against the pressure that life in Virelia had placed on him.
Marcus took a deep breath, clenching his fists slightly, determined to keep going despite everything.
FINANCIA OFFICES
Vincent Krall, the man in the gray suit who ran Financia, was furious. Stout and imposing, with broad shoulders and an angular face, dark hair slightly graying at the temples, and piercing blue eyes, he radiated a mix of authority and menace.
He had received the report of Marcus's fight and could not believe that a young man had defeated three of his men. He clenched his fists on the table, the tension visible in every line of his face.
Catching Marcus was not just a matter of pride: it was crucial to maintain his control over the city and to show that no one can go against his authority.
His subordinates hurriedly left, aware that any wrong move could cost them dearly. Krall remained alone, trying to calm the rage running through his body, when something unexpected happened: a black man with an athletic build, wearing a sleeveless shirt and black leather pants, appeared, sitting across the table with absolute calm, as if nothing could disturb him.
Vincent blinked in disbelief. For a moment, he thought he had imagined the figure. When he opened his eyes again, the man was still there, staring at him with a calm that bordered on insulting. Instinctively, he reached for the pistol concealed in his belt, but his pulse raced and a chill ran down his spine.
"Good afternoon, Vincent," said the black man, in a relaxed, soft, and measured voice. "I heard you have a little problem with a young man, right?"
Krall swallowed hard and tried to maintain his authority:
"Who… who are you?"
"Ah, it doesn't matter who I am," the black man replied, shrugging slightly. "What matters is that I know who your problem is. And, if you're willing to pay, I can tell you exactly when and where Marcus will be, and I can assure you he won't miss."
Vincent swallowed again, aware that his pride was colliding with reality. He was conflicted. He obviously didn't trust the intriguing figure, but his desperation to solve the problem led him to ask the question.
"And how much do you want for that?" he asked tensely, still with his hand near his pistol.
"10,000 credits," said the black man with absolute serenity, as if he were simply stating the time of day. "Not a credit more, not a credit less. I guarantee the precise information you need."
Krall hesitated, then opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, heavy envelope filled with bills. He slid it across the table toward the black man without taking his eyes off him.
The black man took the envelope with a calm gesture. "Perfect. Everything is set."
"Good… but it must be exact," said Vincent, holding his breath, nervous at the calmness of the man in front of him.
"Relax," the black man replied, utterly composed, as if he were discussing something mundane. "He'll be at the intersection of Central Avenue and Marlowe Street at 20:42. You can intercept him there if you want."
Vincent nodded, still astonished by the precision of the information and the absolute calm of the man before him. He blinked—and in that instant, the black man was gone. The chair across from the table was empty. For a moment, silence enveloped the room. Vincent's heart pounded, and a chill ran down his spine. For the first time, control was not entirely in his hands, and that black man had demonstrated a silent power impossible to ignore.
Marcus pedaled home, his body aching and exhausted after a 12-hour shift at the workshop. Every muscle reminded him of the fight from the previous day, and hunger gnawed at his stomach relentlessly. His mind replayed the family's plan: saving as much as possible to move to another city, hoping the gang Financia wouldn't track them down.
The sun was beginning to set over Virelia, painting the streets in a dull orange. The city seemed calm, but Marcus couldn't afford to relax. His experience over the past months had taught him that danger could be lurking around any corner.
As he passed the intersection of Central Avenue and Marlowe Street, exactly at 20:42, a black car came speeding out of a side alley. Marcus tried to brake, but the impact was inevitable. The vehicle struck him full-on, sending both him and his bike flying, crashing and rolling across the pavement toward the alley directly in front of the car.
Marcus felt a sharp pain in his chest as he hit the ground: some ribs had cracked from the force, and the pressure of the pavement made it hard to breathe. Every movement sent stabbing pains through his arms, shoulders, and abdomen. Air rushed from his lungs in ragged bursts, and dizziness overtook him as he struggled to get up, fighting not to pass out amidst the searing pain across his torso.