I drag myself out of the Slagworks, clutching my wounded arm, blinking in the garish neon daylight filtering through the smog. The towering factory stacks belch black smoke into the sky, adding to the perpetual twilight.

A chime sounds in my neural implant. Another message from the System.

LEVEL UP ACHIEVED: 15

NEW SKILL CHOICES AVAILABLE: \- BULLET TIME: SLOW DOWN TIME DURING COMBAT \- ENHANCED TARGETING: INCREASED ACCURACY AND DAMAGE WITH RANGED WEAPONS \- SHADOW CLOAK: BRIEFLY BECOME INVISIBLE IN LOW LIGHT CONDITIONS

ALLOCATE SKILL POINT TO UNLOCK CHOSEN ABILITY

I grunt in acknowledgement and dismiss the translucent screen. The new skill options are tempting, but I'm too exhausted and beat up to think straight. I'll need a quiet place to mull it over, decide what will keep me alive the longest in this hellscape.

I pull up my stats with a thought, wincing at the numbers.

Stat Value Level 15 HP 73/200 MP 50/50 Strength 18 Dexterity 22 Constitution 16 Intelligence 12 Wisdom 10 Charisma 8 Unspent Points 1

My HP is looking grim. Definitely need to slot that free point into Constitution, shore up my dwindling stamina. I make the allocation and feel a small surge of vitality, my battered body knitting itself back together just a bit more. It'll have to do for now.

I check my mission log. No new contracts. Makes sense, given I just completed one. The System only doles out contracts once a month. Gives its "players" time to rest, recuperate, and upgrade their gear before throwing them back into the meat grinder. How generous.

I limp down a crumbling side street, the asphalt cracked and pitted. Heaps of ancient plastic garbage moulder against graffiti-scarred walls. Denizens scurry past, eyes downcast, lost in their own daily struggles. Not everyone is cut out for the assassination game. The System has deemed some individuals better suited for other roles - tending to the medical needs of their designated district, repairing infrastructure, even governing what's left of this blasted city. All just cogs in the System's grand design.

I come to a derelict storefront, "Chang's Cybernetics" flickering on the grimy holo-sign. The faded awning sags under caked-on soot. I push through the door, servos whining. A bell jingles, a relic of a bygone age.

"Chang, you back there?" I call out, my voice rough from disuse.

A stooped figure emerges from the curtained back room, cleaning his liver-spotted hands on a rag. "Ah, Ryan my boy. Been a while," Chang says, mouth stretching into a rubbery grin beneath his bulbous eye implants. "What trouble you get into this time, eh?"

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I shrug off my armored longcoat with a wince, exposing the ugly wounds. "Sniper. Jade Serpent territory. Got a little too close for comfort."

Chang tsks and gestures me into the back. "System still using you young assassins as ablative armor, I see. Well, come on then. Let's get you patched up."

I follow him into the cramped workshop, bundles of fiber-optic cable and chains of servos dangling from the ceiling. A stained gurney occupies the center of the room, a spidery med-drone crouched beside it. I hop up onto the slab and lean back as Chang fires up the bot.

"This might pinch a bit," he warns as gleaming manipulators descend. There's a sharp sting and then blessed numbness spreads through my injured flesh. I watch, detached, as the drone plucks shrapnel from the wounds, squirts coagulant foam, knits together torn meat with flashing micro-lasers.

"How much do I owe you?" I ask as synthetic skin flows over the healing gashes, sealing them.

Chang waves a wizened hand. "No charge for you, Ryan. Call it a frequent customer discount."

I sit up, rotating my shoulder. Still tender, but functional. "Thanks, Chang. I'd be dead a dozen times over if not for you."

The old man's eyes go distant. "We all do what we must to survive in this world the System has made. I tend to wounds. You spill blood. Each of us trapped in our roles."

I nod soberly. Chang is a rare breed. The System has designated him a doc, sparing him from the brutal culling faced by assassins like myself. But that doesn't make his existence any more of a choice.

"I'd better get going," I say, standing with a grimace. "Need to rest up, figure out my next move."

"Be careful out there, Ryan," Chang admonishes. "Don't neglect what's up here." He taps a spindly finger against his temple. "Might be the only thing that keeps you human."

I clasp his bony shoulder in thanks and take my leave, his words echoing in my mind. Unbidden, my new skill options resurface in my display. Which would Chang think I should choose? Bullet Time or Enhanced Targeting, to better slaughter my fellow man? Shadow Cloak, to slink unseen and slit throats in the dark?

I shake my head in disgust. When did I start thinking of myself as just another loaded gun, a blunt instrument to be aimed and fired? I'm more than my body count, dammit. At least, I used to be.

Lost in grim reflection, I make my way back to my grimy capsule hotel. The coffin-like room is the only space I can call my own in this neon-drenched hellhole. I peel off my sweaty clothes and collapse onto the narrow cot, muscles aching, psyche stretched to its limit.

I pull up my skills and stare at the pulsing options. Each carries the promise of more efficient kills, more survival potential in this never-ending war of all against all. But which will cost me the least of my dwindling humanity?

Enhanced Targeting would make me an even deadlier shot, but would it also make it easier to pull the trigger, to snuff out lives with callous precision? Bullet Time would let me act with preternatural speed, but wouldn't that just be borrowing the System's power to drive me toward its own murderous ends?

In the end, I choose Shadow Cloak. The ability to disappear, to slip away unseen...there's something reassuring in the notion. A chance to de-escalate, to choose not to kill. It's a razor's edge to walk, balancing bloodshed and mercy. But if I don't at least try, I'll be no better than the soulless killing machines the System wants us all to become.

I allocate the skill point and feel a cold rush as the cloaking tech inside me spins to life, ready to activate at my command. One more weapon in my arsenal. One step further from the man I used to be.

I close my eyes, but sleep is a long time coming. The faces of the slain flicker behind my eyelids, silent accusations. The weight of my choices, of this devil's bargain I've been forced into, crushes down on my chest like a hydraulic press. How long can I keep doing this before I become the very thing I'm struggling not to be?

There are no easy answers. The System has us all ensnared, dancing to its bloody tune. Kill or be killed, the oldest law of nature. But I have to believe there's still some shred of choice, of free will left to me. Otherwise, what's the point of surviving at all?

As I finally drift into a fitful slumber, Chang's parting words replay in my exhausted brain:

"Don't neglect what's up here. Might be the only thing that keeps you human."

I pray he's right. Because in this harsh new world, our minds may be the only sanctuary we have left.