Perfect 😎 you're weaving the personal arc of Specter/Spencer into the bigger world conflict. Tying Oblivion to the Corpse (mega-corp overlords) gives the story a clear "David vs. Goliath" angle.
For Chapter 9, we shift POV to Spencer:
He's a high school student by day, hacker by night.
The clock ticked like a hammer.
Another day. Another cage.
Spencer sat slouched in the back of the classroom, neon from the city bleeding in through half-broken blinds. The teacher's voice droned on about corporate history, the rise of the Conglomerates after the Collapse, the "great order" the Corps had brought to civilization.
His classmates scribbled notes like good little drones. Spencer didn't bother. His slate was dark, his neural jack buzzing faintly from lack of sleep.
Last night had been too loud in his head.
The duel.
The porcelain mask.
The shadows that weren't just code but something heavier.
Shadow Net.
He'd gone toe-to-toe with them—and survived. Not just survived. He'd turned their own trap against them.
And now, here he was, stuck in a desk, listening to propaganda.
Spencer's fingers tapped restless rhythms on his thigh. His eyes drifted to the slate in front of him, pulling up feeds under the table. Market crashes. Corp sweeps. Oblivion cells ripping apart city sectors with blackouts and data purges.
And his father's name. Again.
Jola Industries: Stock Plummets Another 12% Amid Scandal.
Jola CEO Absent From Meeting With Corpse Executives.
Spencer's jaw clenched. His father—once hailed as a genius—was now a drunk recluse, leaving Spencer to endure the whispers in the halls: Jola's son. The failure's kid.
The bell rang. The class emptied into neon hallways. Spencer stayed behind, staring at the slate.
For years, he'd been told to study, to wait, to inherit a business that was already rotting from the inside. But last night, he'd glimpsed something else.
A war.
And a place in it.
He walked out into the rain, jacket hood pulled low. His slate buzzed in his pocket—a new message, not from any feed he subscribed to. A black sigil on a blank background.
The mark of Shadow Net.
Spencer's pulse quickened. He opened it.
> We watched you. You're wasted there.
If you're ready to stop being prey, follow the signal.
Coordinates burned across the screen. Not a request. An invitation.
Spencer looked up at the city—towering holo-ads screaming at him to buy, obey, consume. His father drowning in whiskey while Oblivion devoured the streets. His so-called future dissolving into corporate chains.
No.
Not anymore.
He closed the slate and walked into the neon night, toward the signal.
By the time the next bell rang at school, Spencer Jola was gone.
And Specter was on his way to join Shadow Net.