The barrel of my gun smoked as the man crumpled to the grimy alley floor, blood pooling around his body. One more down. Too many left to go.

I ducked behind a dumpster, pulse pounding in my ears, as return fire peppered the concrete. Pulling up my status screen with a thought, I checked my HP. Still in the green, barely. I had to be more careful. Couldn't afford to get cocky.

Stat Value Level 14 HP 142/200 MP 50/50 Strength 18 Dexterity 22 Constitution 16 Intelligence 12 Wisdom 10 Charisma 8

My fingers slid over the grip of my pistol as I ejected the spent mag and slammed in a fresh one. 15 rounds left. Had to make each one count. Poking my head out, I spotted two more mercs advancing cautiously, assault rifles at the ready. I steadied my aim.

BOOM. BOOM. Two shots, center mass. They went down and stayed down. 

Rising from cover, I crept forward to search the bodies. Grabbing their ammo and a few stimpacks, I straightened up and scanned the alley. No more movement. Area clear, for now. In this new reality, it never stayed that way for long.

I thought back to just a month ago, before the world went to shit. Before the System arrived, controlling everything, turning society into a battle royale. I was just a two-bit mercenary, taking contracts, trying to get by in this unforgiving cyberpunk metropolis. Killing for money, to line the pockets of corps and syndicates. Now I killed to survive. We all did.

The System's message had been simple that first day: Embrace the way of the assassin or die. Start accumulating XP and credits by any means necessary. Level up your skills. Get stronger, faster, more lethal. Because everyone else will be gunning for you too. Last one standing wins. Freedom...or so it claims. Personally, I have my doubts.

Checking my wrist monitor, I note my current contract: Eliminate the Jade Serpent Triad leader, hiding out in the depths of the Slagworks District. Another rival sent by the System to take me out, if the intel can be believed. Not that I have a choice in targets. Refusing a contract means death, or worse. I've seen what happens to those who try to quit the System's game. It isn't pretty.

I make my way through dank alleys strewn with refuse, senses alert for any hint of danger. Feral mutts watch from the shadows with glowing cyber-eyes, but keep their distance. They know a predator when they see one. 

The Slagworks loom ahead, towering mounds of scrap and waste from the factories that used to keep this city running, before the System broke down the old order. Now they're a warren of tunnels, crawling with gang scum, modded freaks, rogue drones, and worse. But that's where my target is hiding, so that's where I'm headed.

I approach a rusted access door, scanner confirming its the way in. I ready my pistol and kick it open with a clang, sweeping the dim interior. A rotting stench hits me like a hammer. I click on my shoulder lamp and peer inside. Flickering shadows dance over piles of debris...and dessicated corpses. Skulls seem to grin in the gloom, picked clean by scavengers. For a second, I wonder if I'll end up like them some day. Then I push the thought aside. Stay focused. Can't afford distractions.

I creep down the tunnel, light playing over collapsed ductwork and lengths of cable hanging like jungle vines. The biomonitor on my belt ticks ominously as it detects traces of toxins in the air. Probably seeping up from the chemical sumps below. Just one more hazard to deal with down here.  

As I round a corner, I hear it. A skittering noise, claws on metal. My light catches a blur of motion. Then another. Gleaming eyes appear in the darkness ahead. Feral cyberdogs, drawn by the scent of fresh meat. One emits a distorted growl, more static than animal. I see metal jaws snapping, pistons pumping under taut synthetic skin. These mutts have been upgraded by the System into killing machines.

I open fire as they lunge, aiming for optics and center mass. Bullets ricochet off armored hides with sprays of sparks. I'm forced back as they close in, servos whining. One leaps for my throat. I get my arm up just in time. Claws rake my flak vest as I grapple with the beast, stinking hydraulic fluid spraying my face. I jam my gun under its jaw and pull the trigger until it goes limp. 

The second hits me from the side in a tackle, bearing me to the filthy floor. I feel its fangs clamp on my forearm, servos crushing, tendons straining. I howl in pain and smash its head against the wall until it releases its grip, whimpering. Inverting my pistol, I drive the barrel through its eye socket and scramble backwards, trailing blood and lubricant.

Growling, I stagger up and put the writhing cyberdog out of its misery with a point blank shot. Panting, I pull up my status screen. 

HP: 61/200. That was too close. I'm getting sloppy. The System will punish me for that.

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I inject a stimpack, hissing through gritted teeth as damaged flesh reknits and feeling returns to torn fingers. Can't pause long. Have to keep moving. 

Reloading on the run, I plunge deeper into the Slagworks, the metal walls seeming to close in around me. The tunnels twist and turn, doubling back on themselves, trying to confuse me. I consult the automap projected on my lens display, searching for the fastest route to my target. There. Service passage 3A. Should come out near the old foreman's office. 

My boots crunch on ancient bones as I hurry onward into the labyrinth. I try not to think about the poor saps who died down here, trapped after the Corp pulled out and sealed the place down. Did they turn on each other at the end, like we're all doing now? Or band together to survive, even as the food ran out and the air filters shut down? I'll never know.

Echoes of gunfire and screams drift through the ducts. Sounds like some other unfortunates ran afoul of the System's denizens down here. Better them than me. 

At last, I emerge into a cavernous chamber, catwalks crisscrossing the upper levels above pools of stagnant runoff. The automap pings my target's location - the office up on the far wall. Gotcha.

I start forward, watching for movement, pistol and nerves primed. A sharp crack rings out and a slug sparks off the railing next to my head. Sniper!

I hit the deck behind a crate as a second shot punches through the thin metal inches from my face. Heart hammering, I crawl to the edge and hazard a peek. There, on the uppermost walkway. The glint of a scope in the low light.  

It's him. Has to be. Fan-fucking-tastic. He's got the high ground. I'm pinned down like a rat in a cage.

Think, man, think! I scan my surroundings, looking for options. Crates, rubble, rusting barrels...there! An elevator car, halfway up its shaft. Leads almost to the catwalk. It's a slim chance, but I'll take it.

I dig a flash-bang from my pack. Dumb of me not to use it on the dogs. I cook it off, counting silently. On three, I hurl it up and away. Even with my ears covered, the thunderous bang is deafening. Light blazes, stark white. 

Now!

I vault from cover, sprinting through the spots still dancing in my vision. Rounds zing past as the sniper fires blindly. I leap, catching the edge of the elevator, hauling myself up and in. 

Still too low. I examine the car's ceiling. There, an access hatch. I shoot the bolts off and clamber through onto the roof. Servos groan under my weight. I pray it holds together.

No time to lose. I coil, then jump with all my strength for the catwalk. Just as my fingers brush the edge, the elevator gives way with a tortured screech and plummets towards the pool far below. For a horrifying second I think I've missed.

Then my hands find purchase, scrabbling, dragging me up and over the railing. I sprawl on the walkway, gasping, dizzy with relief. Too close. The System's really trying to weed me out.

I pull myself to my feet, ready for another shot. None comes. He must have pulled back to the office to regroup. Fine by me. I need a second to catch my breath anyway.

HP check: 149/200. Not terrible. Could be worse. Let's see what this son of a bitch has got.

I stalk towards the office, each step as silent as I can make it. The mesh flooring still vibrates faintly under my boots. He'll hear me coming. Stealth's not an option at this point.

As I close in, a faint whir catches my attention off to the side, like a servo spinning up. I dive on instinct, just as a turret unfolds from the wall and rakes the catwalk with auto-fire. Rounds stitch the air above me in a deadly stream. I smell hot metal and ozone.

Cursing, I blind-fire back, sending sparks showering as my shots strike home. The gun falls silent, riddled with holes. Clever trick. I'll have to remember that one.

I roll into a crouch, scanning for more surprises. Nothing. I advance to the office door, dented and streaked with rust. The lock's been busted off. He's expecting company.

I ready a flash-bang in one hand and my pistol in the other. Boot the door with a clang and step through, sweeping the room. It's dark inside, lit only by the glow of ancient monitors. No sign of--

A flicker of motion behind the desk. I chuck the grenade and drop prone. The blast slams the door shut and sets the displays to flickering. Shadows lurch on the walls. I snap off a shot at a darting silhouette. Miss. More rounds ricochet off the desk, the walls. We're both firing blind.

I roll, changing position, trying to get a bead on him. Tough little bitch is quick, I'll give him that. And there's not much cover in here for either of us.

A crash off to my left. He's tipped a server bank for protection. I put two rounds through the casing, hoping to get lucky. Get a yelp of pain in response. Gotcha.

I rise, pivoting, finger tightening on the trigger for the final shot. My gun clicks empty. Shit! I fumble for a fresh mag, knowing I'm a dead man--

His pistol barks once, twice. Agony lances my arm, my shoulder. The mag drops as nerveless fingers spasm. He's on me before I can blink, kicking my gun away, slamming me against the wall. His hands wrap around my throat as my wounded arm flops uselessly at my side. I claw at him with my good hand but it's like fighting an android. He's just too strong.

"End of the line, assassin," he growls, face contorting into a vicious rictus. His breath stinks of stale booze and synth-hash. "The System's done with you. And so am I."

Blackness closes in as he squeezes, crushing my windpipe. HP alerts flash urgently on my display. This is it. This is how I die, another failure for the System to mock. 

NO! Not like this! Not yet!

With my last ounce of strength, I slam my head forward into his face. Bone cracks. He reels back, cursing, blood sheeting from his shattered nose. It's all the opening I need. 

I drive my heel into his knee. Cartilage pops and gristles as it bends backwards. He screams and goes down, leg crumpling like scrap.  I'm on him in an instant, pummeling his face into red ruin, roaring my rage and pain. 

When it's over, I slump back, breathing hard, knuckles raw and bloody. His body lies still, barely recognizable as human. Just a sack of shattered meat and bone. 

I've done it. I've won. This time.

A chime sounds and a translucent screen unfolds before me.

CONTRACT FULFILLED. CREDITS EARNED: 2500. XP EARNED: 2000.

LEVEL UP! YOU ARE NOW LEVEL 15.

I stare at the flickering text emotionlessly as the post-fight fugue fades and reality reasserts itself. Just more numbers to feed the machine. They don't fill the hollow feeling inside. 

I think back to the man I used to be, before the System, before all this madness. Would he even recognize me now? This blood-soaked, half-mechanical thing, barely clinging to its humanity?

I don't know. And I can't afford to care. Caring is weakness. The System exploits weakness. I saw what happened to the ones who tried to hold onto the old ways, the old world. They didn't last long. 

No, this is my existence now. This is the shape of things, for however much longer I survive. I'll play the System's twisted game. I'll keep killing, as many as I have to. Because the alternative is so much worse.  

Without another backward glance, I loot the corpse for anything useful and limp off into the darkness of the Slagworks. Another mission awaits. Another target. Another test of the deadly skills the System has forced me to embrace.

I am an assassin. One of the System's tools, honed to a razor's edge. A weapon, forged in blood and horror.

God help anyone who gets in my way.