The meeting place was an abandoned warehouse—or at least it appeared that way. The paint was peeling, the metal doors looked like they’d survived grenade blasts, and graffiti in every imaginable color covered the walls with messages ranging from "Freedom or Death" to a peculiar "This is Polansky's Rock, Take Care of It."

Of course, a façade like this could only mean one thing: someone was trying to keep a low profile while spending fortunes to ensure nobody noticed what was really happening inside.

—At least the air here doesn’t reek of chlorine,— I muttered, remembering my academy days where the stench of lab equipment always permeated the halls.

Inside, a man in a generic uniform with a face that screamed “action movie extra” stopped me to check my credentials. After a quick glance, he let me through like I was a tourist with an all-access pass. I guess in a place where everyone is on edge with paranoia, it’s easy to slip by if you have the right paperwork and know how to act.

In the center of the warehouse, the rest of the team had already gathered—a motley crew that looked like they’d been plucked straight out of a dime-store adventure novel:

The first group consisted of six young people, barely a year or two younger than me. Clearly, rookie gunslingers, with the aura of cannon fodder. The second group, also six men, seemed more seasoned. Their weapons and gear were better quality, though their demeanor made it obvious they weren’t top-tier professionals either. Both groups shared a certain uniformity in their attire and stood close enough to assume they were part of the same contingent.

In one corner, two women stood out. The first, a slim figure no taller than 1.60 meters, carried a sniper rifle that was at least 2.5 meters long. The contrast was so absurdly comical that I almost laughed—until I remembered that thing could punch through armor like paper. Next to her, a muscular woman over 2.20 meters tall had binoculars hanging at her hip. She was likely the spotter. Together, they looked like a duo straight out of an over-the-top comic book, but any mockery would die with you if you underestimated them.

On some sofas nearby sat a group of four guys, all around their early twenties. They definitely didn’t look like fighters. Instead, they resembled students dragged into a school trip gone horribly wrong. Their defeated expressions screamed “I want out of here,” and it was clear they’d be the first to run when things went south. Still, they were technicians, and one of them even had visible implants in his head, making them potentially useful.

Near the entrance, two men were chatting idly. They looked like drivers assigned to transport the group. Their job was probably to drop us off at some point, wait for the signal, and get us out. I didn’t bother analyzing them too much; I had no plans to rely on them.

What truly worried me, though, were the two hulking figures in the corner: gorillas straight out of a military lab. Everything about them screamed danger. At a glance, their weapons were 13th-gen military-grade tech. There was no way these two were from the Pits or the Lower City. This was technology reserved for the great families. And not just that; it was clear they’d been enhanced with cybernetic augmentations and genetic upgrades.

Two individuals like that didn’t make sense in a group like this. It was obvious they weren’t ordinary mercenaries. They reminded me of the elite bodyguards that used to surround the heirs of the major families when they were forced to complete their mandatory military service. People like that operated in an entirely different league.

And now they were here, in this warehouse, with us.

Finally, Chitosane arrived, surveyed the gathered group, and wasted no time summarizing the information we already knew about the contract. When he asked if anyone had questions, the thin woman raised her hand and pointed at the gorillas.

—They were sent by the employers to ensure the VIP’s survival,— Chitosane responded without hesitation. —But let me be clear: you can’t rely on them for anything. In fact, it’s better if you don’t even consider them part of your plans. They will not intervene in any of your movements, even if those movements endanger the VIP.

That confirmed everything: they were essentially vultures. The VIP’s family wanted them back alive… or dead. And these gorillas were here to ensure that we wouldn’t try to sell the body if everything went south.

The rest of the team didn’t seem thrilled by their presence, but it wasn’t clear if they understood the implications. The gunslingers seemed to see them as competition, while the women easily identified them as walking threats. Meanwhile, the technicians looked too depressed, like old men waiting for a pension that would never arrive.

—If there are no more questions,” Chitosane continued, “I’ll proceed to hand out the supplies provided by the employer, tailored to your profiles.

—Chitosane,— I interrupted, unable to hold back, —is this really a Class B mission?

—Of course it is,— he replied smoothly.

—No. No, it’s not.

—Yes, it is.

—Then why are they here?— I pointed at the gorillas.

—The mission is Class B because that’s the level of difficulty it represents for you,— he said with a touch of impatience. —You won’t need to worry about them.

Something didn’t sit right. Leaving my life up to chance was not something I could tolerate.

Chitosane must have sensed that I was genuinely considering backing out because he quickly tried to reassure me.

—Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t recommend you take this on. Losing contracts only tarnishes my reputation, and in the Lower City, reputation is all we have. Trust your instincts, and you’ll make it through. Plus, you’ll be able to save your friend.

Damn Kan. If it weren’t for your sorry ass, I wouldn’t have to be tangled in this mess.

—Understood,— I muttered reluctantly.

Chitosane nodded and signaled to one of his assistants. Shortly after, several people appeared, carrying boxes of equipment and distributing them among the different groups.

From where Chitosane had emerged, another assistant approached with a smaller box.

—For you, kid,— he said, pointing at me. —The employer sent a trelerium kinetic shield. This beauty will let you withstand massive physical impacts, even from beasts several times your weight. However, it’s ineffective against bullets, and its energy isn’t rechargeable. Once it’s drained, it’s as good as dead. Use it wisely.—

There was something strange in Chitosane’s eyes as he handed me the shield. A latent tension, an unspoken warning. This was the second consecutive hint—there was no doubt now that a hidden danger awaited in this mission.

Everyone inspected their new toys like excited schoolchildren. Even I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of excitement. Inside the package assigned to me, I found several highly effective medicines. Of course, I knew they were meant for the VIP if needed, but if it didn’t come to that, I’d have my hands on something nearly impossible to obtain without the right connections.

In addition to the medicines, there were other things: common gear, normal weapons, ammunition, and light armor. The latter was designed to automatically adjust its dimensions so that, when fully extended, it fit me perfectly. When I found the VIP, I could give it to them for extra protection.

—Ahem. Now that we have our equipment, I’d like to know a bit more about the other groups. —The one who spoke was the apparent leader of the gunmen.

Ah, I see. Each group was only informed about their own task.

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However, none of the other groups showed any initiative to respond.

The gunman began to get impatient with the silence; it was obvious by the way he stomped his foot. He repeated the question but got the same result.

—It’s useless —answered one of the two presumed pilots—. No one will give you personal information. It’s mercenary 101 to keep your cards secret from both your enemies and your comrades.

—How are we supposed to cooperate if we don’t know anything about each other?

—We don’t. Everyone was hired for a specific task; just stick to yours —interjected the big woman.

—Bah, what a bunch of losers. Fine, then at least tell me who the central is. That’s the least I need to know.

Again, silence fell like a dead weight.

"What’s a central?" I wondered, confused. If it was about the brains, it was clear they’d be handling the enemy's technological defenses.

The gunman, now visibly frustrated, had a face as red as a Trimio’s ass. He repeated his question once more, and this time everyone began looking at each other.

"Could it be that the central hasn’t arrived?"

—Ahem. —Chitosane cleared his throat, drawing attention.

—What’s wrong, old man? Did your soul get stuck? —I asked with a grin.

—The others want to coordinate with you —Chitosane said calmly, ignoring my comment—. And as entertaining as it is to watch you with that stupid look on your face, I must urge you to wrap up this meeting quickly.

—Hey, Chitose-san! What do you mean this kid is the central? That’s impossible! —the gunman interrupted, incredulous.

—Impossible, sir. I was informed that the central would have advanced modifications, as they’ll need to withstand some of the static impact when opening certain mechanisms —added one of the brainiacs, adjusting his glasses.

—Unbelievable —murmured the thin woman, still processing the information.

The drivers let out some nervous laughs, while the gorillas didn’t even react.

—I won’t accept this. I’m not putting my life or my men’s in the hands of this idiot.

Wow, this punk sure was loud.

—I couldn’t care less —I replied indifferently—. Are we leaving?

However, no one moved. It was obvious, by the others' faces, that they thought the same as him.

—See, kid? We’re not here for your crap. This is serious work.

I shot a glance at Chitosane, hoping for some kind of intervention, but the punk was quick to mock me.

—Oh, the kid’s scared and wants his grandpa’s protection. Flash news, kid: no one’s going to protect you here.

I kept my gaze fixed on Chitosane for a few more seconds. But the old man wasn’t planning to intervene. It was obvious.

—What do you want?

Something in my tone or look seemed to surprise the punk, because he immediately changed his attitude.

—If you’re going to be the central, I need to know you won’t run when everything goes to shit. And I assure you, everything is going to shit.

—I don’t abandon my own. Besides, running solo out there is suicide.

—And how can we be sure of that?

—I served in the military for two years.

—That doesn’t mean anything, kid. Many served in the military. I had to watch a group of my men get sorted out. There are many fronts, and some battalions did nothing but stay in the rear operating cannons.

—I served in the 504th.

Silence fell over the group like a tombstone. Even the punk seemed at a loss for words.

—You were at the lake of…? —one of the drivers tried to ask, but I cut him off immediately.

—Yes.

I didn’t want to hear the name. Just mentioning it was enough to open old wounds. I could still hear the pleas in my head.

—Hey, Chitose-san, is this true? —asked the punk, clearly incredulous.

—Yes.

The punk thought about the response for a moment before turning to me.

—Kid, I haven’t heard from my boys. They were in the 72nd Engineering Corps.

I could only slowly shake my head.

—I’m sorry.

—What happened to them?

—They were showered with Hellfire missiles.

The punk swallowed hard, the words stuck in his throat. It was understandable.

—They were building an outpost and gathering data when a Class 7 showed up out of nowhere. There wasn’t time to evacuate.

—Oh, kid, did you really face a Class 7? —asked the driver.

—Of course not. That’s way above human limits. We requested containment fire and fell back.

The room fell into another silence. This time, the punk found a place to sit. Accepting that his boys were really dead must’ve been a hard blow. Whatever lie they told him, or whatever lie he wanted to believe, there was no way to hold onto it anymore. I knew that well. There was no way they survived: I saw it with my own eyes. The remains were just ashes mixed with melted metal.

The next to speak was one of the brainiacs, the one with visible modifications at the back of his skull.

—Excuse my rudeness, Mr. Kailen, but I need to check something. Within the information provided, there are some traps that are almost impossible to deactivate conventionally without drawing attention. I was recruited to find a weakness in this system and... well, I found something unusual.

—Get to the point.

—Ah, of course. I won’t bore you with the details of the procedure. In summary, I reported that to deactivate it, I’ll need someone with great physical endurance, as their bones will be subjected to intense punishment. And, apparently, you are the designated person.

—Yes, I get extra pay for that.

—I understand you’re a former military man, and I wouldn’t want to offend you, but... are you sure you can handle it?

—Yes.

—Still, I need to verify.

—You’re starting to get annoying.

—I’m sorry. I just want to know... do you have any body modifications?

I couldn’t help but look at the brainiac with irritation. A quick glance at Chitosane confirmed that he hadn’t informed anyone about me, which was the right call, as he hadn’t said anything about the rest either. Apparently, we were all completely in the dark here, except perhaps for the gorillas.

—Yes, I have a full modification in my skeleton.

—Oh, very well. I wouldn’t want to be rude, but... could I know the level? It’s just to be sure it won’t be destroyed. I don’t want to be responsible for something like that.

—It will hold!

Although intimidated, the brainiac didn’t seem willing to back down.

—Yes, I understand, sir. I understand you don’t want to tell me the exact level, but... could it be that maybe...?

—Ronalt, I’ll save you some time. The kid’s name is Kailen Neuvak —Chitosane calmly interrupted.

—Oh? Are you from the chemical creators? —asked the big woman, who seemed as strong as she was absent-minded.

—No, ma’am, it seems you’re mistaken. The NeuroVak conglomerate produces chemicals. The Neuvak family is one of the Six Great Families and specializes in the creation of skeletons and exoskeletons —one of the technicians clarified.

—Oh, thanks, little one —the woman said, blowing a flirty kiss. The technician shrank back shyly in his seat.

—That makes everything more believable. Of course, the sir would have the credentials. Just to verify finally: it’s known that your family has three main types of architecture. The Assault class, the Cavalier, and, best of all, the Konni class. Could you at least tell us if you possess any of these three, and if they are of the tenth generation or better?

I paused for a moment. Finally, I decided that it would be necessary to be somewhat transparent to keep the mission on track.

—Yes, both.

The technician nodded, visibly more relaxed.

—Very well. If you have one of your family’s full skeletons, I have no further complaints. Any of them far exceed the requirements for this mission. Thank you very much for your patience and cooperation, Mr. Neuvak.

—Kailen —I corrected, without changing tone.

—Oh... yes, of course. Mr. Kailen.

With two groups now in order, I turned to face the rest. One of the drivers raised his hands, making it clear from the start.

—We’re not interested.

The women seemed to have something to say, especially the sniper, but in the end, they stayed silent.

—Do you have a way to establish a connection? —asked the sniper, bluntly.

I nodded, raising my wrist to show them the old equipment I carried. I had slightly upgraded it with discarded materials from the academy. I’d have to thank Professor Gale later... when I told him that his "donations" of materials had been more useful than he thought.

—Perfect. Then, I’ll send you a connection shortly. I was hired for seven shots, and I guarantee hitting the target. Once I’m in position, you’ll give me the target. If you have optical implants, we can coordinate visuals.

—Unfortunately, I don’t have optical implants or a central system.

The big woman raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

—What did you say? Aren’t you one of those rich family boys? What do you mean you don’t have a central processor?

Before I could respond, the little one gave her a smack on the back of the head.

—Not our business, nor his family’s.

The big woman laughed, as if nothing had happened.

—No need to be so cold. I know you’re interested in the boy.

It was clear that both women had solid chemistry, the result of years working together.

The sniper ignored the comment and turned back to me.

—Anyway. Since you call the shots, I want to make something clear. One of the secondary targets, Lieutenant Ross, is an enemy of mine. If you get the chance, I’d like you to eliminate him or let me do it.

—We’ll see.

I wasn’t in a position to promise anything. I had no experience leading, and it was still hard for me to grasp that leadership would fall to me. However, considering my portion represented 30% of the total, it made sense. Probably the others were getting a lot more individually.

The last to move were the gorillas. To my surprise, they finally reacted.

From the corner where they had been standing, one of them began to walk slowly towards Chitosane. His steps were deliberately exaggerated, or at least that was my impression. It seemed like he wanted to show me something. As I observed him more closely, I was able to identify some of his modifications. I had seen them before, on the battlefield.

—I understand.

No need to say more.

The gorilla hurried to Chitosane, leaned in, and whispered something in her ear. Chitosane nodded silently, and the gorilla quickly returned to his place.

—Then, I see we’re all set. Any other questions or objections? —Chitosane finally asked, her voice firm but calm.

Everyone shook their heads.

—Good. In that case, let’s go.

Priority Objective:

1. Find the VIP

2. Rescue Kan (priority)

3. Kill the lieutenant (optional)

4. Destroy the supply of foamy drugs (optional)

5. Gather information from the facility (?) (optional)

On Standby:

1. Wait for contact from Professor Gale.

2. Complete the mission and rescue Kan.

3. Get a damn central processor (on hold).