Several minutes later,
The crew glided silently through the misty streets of Neo-London. Ghost guided the vehicle beneath the looming shadows of Canary Wharf's towering spires. The air was thick with the salty tang of the Thames, mixed with the ever-present hum of distant machinery.
Sliding into an abandoned maintenance bay nestled beneath the east docks, Ghost brought the car to a smooth halt. The bay smelled of rust and old oil, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you'd left.
The crew spilled out of the car with the easy, ragged relief of people who'd just outrun death.
"Right then," Bucky muttered, reaching up to peel off his mask. The fabric came away with a soft sound, revealing a slightly aged face with lines around pale blue eyes. "That's us home safe, lads."
Bull was next, his mask revealing a square jaw covered in reddish stubble. "Bloody hell, Ghost," he said, voice still shaking slightly. "That jump... I thought we were done for."
"Name's Kyle now," Ghost said quietly, tugging down his own nose mask. The cool air felt good against his face. "We're not running anymore."
"Right you are, love," Phoenix said, pulling off her mask with practiced ease, her dark hair spilling free. Her face had sharp angles and calculating eyes, but there was a softness around her mouth when she smiled. "You've outdone yourself yet again. We couldn't have pulled this off without you."
"No doubt about that," Bucky added, reaching into his bag of cash. "Don't know how you do it, kid. That was proper artistry back there."
Ghost... Kyle, shrugged. "It was nothing, really," he said modestly, though a faint smile played at his lips.
Bucky shoved a wad of pound notes into his palm. "Here," he said, grinning. "This is your cut. For the ride." He handed it over with obvious respect.
Then he reached out into the bag again and pulled out another bundle of cash. "And this... is for saving our arses back there. Hahaha!"
Kyle chuckled and pocketed all the money, his voice tinged with gratitude. "Thanks, Bucky." he said with a smile.
"Oi, Kyle," Phoenix called. "We're heading topside to celebrate the loot. You in?"
"Yeah. Come down to party with us," Bull added, already stacking cash into his pocket. "Have a few pints, maybe even find some company for the night. You've earned it."
"Nah," Kyle shook his head. "I've got some work to do on the car. That landing was rougher than it should've been." Then he gave a wry smile. "Besides... I'm not feeling very partyey tonight."
"Suit yourself," Phoenix chuckled, already walking toward the exit. "But you're missing out. That new club in Soho's meant to be wild."
"Good run tonight, Kid," Bucky said, patting his back gently. "You sure you don't wanna come?"
Kyle exhaled. "Maybe some other time," he replied.
Bucky nodded and walked off to join Phoenix and Bull. Kyle watched as they piled back into another sleek car, their laughter fading as they drove off into the labyrinthine streets.
Kyle remained in the bay, standing beside the car. He was alone, but not entirely. The car was all the company he needed. It was a revamped Ford Mustang that he'd modified himself. It was his confidante, his sanctuary.
He popped the hood open and went to work with practiced hands: a quick diag of the suspension, a feel for the shock mounts, a spanner here, a jury-rigged patch on the turbo line. He checked the ECU readout with a thumb-drive hack, tuned fuel maps, tightened a loose cam follower with the same careful attention he'd been raised to give machines.
He wasn't just a master driver... he was a skilled engineer too.
He spent the next hour meticulously tending to the car's faulty parts. It was a ritual, a way of grounding himself.
When Kyle finally finished, he locked the car, closed up the bay, and stepped out into the Neo-London night. He pulled up his hood and started walking.
The streets were alive with tech and decay: android vendors frying noodles under umbrellas, chrome-skinned escorts whispering to businessmen, homeless cyborgs huddled under data-tarp shelters, their eyes flickering with static. The hum of electric bikes and mag-trams filled the air, layered with the distant thunder of club bass.
He stopped by the currency exchange on Commercial Street, a tiny shop wedged between a betting shop and a kebab place.
The woman behind the counter had purple hair and bored eyes. "Cash to credits?" she asked without looking up.
"Yeah." Kyle slid the some notes across the counter. "Fifty grand."
The woman took the money and got to work. "Rate's 2.5 credits to one pound tonight. Market's been rough since the last corp war." she said, running the notes through a scanner, each beep marking another thousand converted.
In this world, credits were the main currency. It lived on your phone, traceable and convenient for everything else. But cash still existed for the small things... street food, black market parts, bribes.
Kyle's phone buzzed with the transfer confirmation: 125,000 credits added to account. He nodded his thanks and left, stepping back into the rain, the door hissing shut behind him.
The city unfolded like circuitry. Glass towers rose like monoliths, their windows alive with holograms. Drones buzzed overhead.. tiny stars patrolling a man-made sky. Steam hissed from vents, mixing with the smell of ozone and street oil.
Kyle walked through it, silent, one hand on the pendant around his neck... a habit he'd developed over the years.
He used to love this city. Back when it was smaller, brighter. Back when his family still filled the silence and his dad was still alive. Before the men in dark suits came to his house... before they took everything.
Kyle Fox, a.k.a Ghost, was the son of an elite racer turned engineer, famous for dominating the racing circuits, and tuning the impossible. His father's name was whispered in racing circles and boardrooms alike... a man of wealth, influence, and fame.
Kyle had an older brother, Quinn, and a younger sister, Karen. Their mother had died giving birth to Karen, but they were all still happy.
But happiness was a luxury in a world like this.
When Kyle was ten, his father crossed the wrong people. The Tartarus Syndicate.
They owned half of Neo-London's underworld... from betting circuits to cyber-drug networks. Kyle's father had apparently borrowed millions from them to fund a project. But the project failed, and the Syndicate took everything.
The seized all that his father owned... the houses, the cars, the companies, everything. But even after that, his father still owed them millions in pounds.
So to ensure that he paid it all in full, the syndicate took his sister, Karen, who was only eight then. They took her away as collateral, leaving the family damaged in more ways than one.
His father died a month later in his sleep... heart failure, they said. But Kyle knew better. It was a broken heart, pure and simple. The kind that came from knowing you'd failed your children.
After their father's death, it was just Kyle and his older brother, Quinn, that was left of the family. They were forced from their gilded life into the gritty streets of London, sharing space with other broken kids.
They became mechanics and street racers, hustling to gather enough money to buy back their sister.
Quinn taught Kyle everything he knew... how to rebuild an engine, how to read a race, how to disappear when the cops came. They raced every weekend, the money going into a jar marked 'Karen.'
And for a while, it looked possible. They made money, and they made names for themselves. A thirteen and sixteen year old getting recognized as the fiercest racers in the streets of London. They were legends.
But fate was merciless.
Three years ago, Kyle's world crumbled again. Quinn, while racing in a perilous new district, was attacked mid-race and crashed fatally. He died instantly leaving fifteen year old Kyle completely broken.
After Quinn's death Kyle never raced again... not out of fear, but rather something deeper, a wound that refused to heal.
To keep up the hustle, he became a getaway driver, driving for whoever paid... smugglers, thieves, gangs. He told himself it was just survival, not sin. But every time he touched a wheel, his heartbeat synced with the engine, and part of him felt alive again.
Ghost, they called him. Because he was quick, calm, and silent. A literal ghost behind the wheel.
He hated that name. But it paid enough to keep him alive, and every credit brought him closer to saving his sister.
Kyle passed by the Tesco Metro on Whitechapel Road. He walked into the store, grabbed instant noodles, milk, and a packet of biscuits.
At the till, the young cashier there had bright eyes and nail polish that matched the neon outside.
"Long night?" she asked with a smile, scanning his items.
"You could say that." Kyle replied, handing over a twenty-pound note from his pocket cash before leaving.
Outside, he took a different route home, cutting through the narrow streets behind the high street.
He was halfway down an alley that smelled of piss and old kebabs when they stepped out of the shadows...Four men, wearing leather jackets and chrome implants. Cheap cyberware buzzing at their necks.
One of them flicked a blade that glowed faint red. "Evening, mate," he said. "Nice night for a walk."
Kyle stopped, groceries in one hand. His other hand stayed loose at his side. "I don't want any trouble, man." he said, not out of fear, but restraint.
"Neither do we," another one laughed, stepping closer. "We just want a donation. See, times are hard, yeah?"
Kyle exhaled softly. "Look," he said quietly, "I've got maybe fifty quid left on me. Take it and walk away."
"Fifty?" One of the men moved closer. "I saw you at that exchange, rich boy. You've got at least a hundred thousand credits."
Kyle didn't deny it. "So?"
"So..." the last one grinned. "...why don't you be a good little lad and give us half the credits in your account."
Kyle frowned, his fist clenching. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
The men inched even closer, blocking his path. The one with the knife smirked. "Then I guess we'll have to do this the hard way."