Kovacs stepped through the door, and immediately, the atmosphere changed. The room was luxurious, a stark contrast to the grimy streets outside. Polished wood panels lined the walls, and a thick carpet muffled his footsteps as he was ushered forward. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something more subtle—power, which didn’t need to be flaunted because it was understood.

Behind a large mahogany desk sat a man who looked more like a corporate lawyer than a crime lord. Donald "Don" Johnson was big, with broad shoulders and a presence that dominated the room. His blond hair was neatly combed, and his suit was impeccable, tailored to perfection. His blue eyes fixed on Kovacs with curiosity and authority, but there was no mistaking the deference with which he glanced at the man seated slightly to his left.

Kovacs’ eyes were drawn to this second man, introduced simply as the “advisor.” He was shorter, with dark hair slicked back, his features sharp, and his eyes calculating. His suit was just as expensive as Johnson’s, but something about him exuded danger—a sense that he was the one you really had to watch out for. The realization hit Kovacs almost immediately: this was the real boss, the one who pulled the strings while Johnson played the part of the figurehead.

“Mr. Kovacs,” Johnson said smoothly, his voice as polished as his appearance. “Please, have a seat.”

Kovacs obeyed, lowering himself into the chair across from the desk. His limp was more pronounced, the pain gnawing at him, but he kept his face neutral. This wasn’t the time to show weakness.

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Johnson continued, leaning back in his chair. “Very impressive. You're displacing our former student from the mecha design program. Quite an achievement.”

The words were casual, but the underlying threat was clear. Kovacs nodded, his throat dry. He was out of his depth here but had to play it cool.

“It wasn’t exactly by choice,” Kovacs said, forcing himself to speak despite the tightness in his chest. “I was just running a diagnostic. I was being paid by one of the students to run it, and he wanted to get ahead and impress the teachers by having all the answers. Next thing I know, the dean catches me in the act and, I had to explain what I was doing and what I’d figured out, then I was showing him my design in Iron Reaper,” I was babbling in terror. “Then the next day, I was called into the dean's office. I was told I was being offered a chance to enter the design program, and then I was enrolled. I never intended to displace anyone.”

Johnson leaned forward, his expression somewhere between intrigued and amused. “So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you just happened to be in the right place at the right time? That you, a nobody with no formal training, just stumbled into a spot in one of the most prestigious mecha design programs on the planet?”

Kovacs held his gaze, refusing to back down. “It’s the truth. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t know who your guy was, and I didn’t plan on stepping on any toes. I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

The “advisor” spoke up then, his tone soft but laced with menace. “Whether you planned it or not, Mr. Kovacs, the fact remains that you disrupted our plans. And in our line of work, disruption comes at a cost.”

Kovacs clenched his fists in his lap, the tension in the room thickening. “I’m not trying to cause any more trouble. What do you want from me?”

Johnson exchanged a glance with the advisor before speaking again. “We recently acquired thirty older mecha, sourced from the outer sectors, half a universe away. They’re in various states of disrepair, but they’ve got potential.”

“We want you to rebuild them,” the advisor added, his voice smooth. “Turn them into something we can sell. You do this for us, and we’ll consider your debt paid.”

Kovacs felt his stomach churn. Rebuilding thirty mecha was no small task. It would take time, resources, and skill. But it was also clear that this wasn’t a request but a demand.

“And if I say no?” Kovacs asked, already knowing the answer.

The smile on Johnson’s face widened, but the advisor’s expression truly chilled him—a look of calm certainty, like a predator who had its prey cornered.

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“That wouldn’t be advisable,” the advisor said softly. “For your sake.”

Kovacs nodded, the weight of the situation settling over him like a heavy blanket. He was trapped, and they both knew it.

“Fine,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ll do it. But I’ll need supplies, parts, and tools. These machines won’t rebuild themselves.”

Johnson’s smile turned approving. “Of course. You’ll have everything you need. Just remember, we expect results—and soon.”

Kovacs stood every movement, a reminder of the pain he carried with him. “I understand. Can you send the design information and whatever else you have to me? I need to work up a plan to get these things rebuilt.”

As he turned to leave, the advisor spoke again, his tone almost casual. “Sure, kid. One more thing, Mr. Kovacs. We’ll be watching you closely. Don’t disappoint us.”

Kovacs didn’t reply. He nodded and walked out, the door closing behind him with a soft click. As he stepped back into the cold night air, the enormity of what he’d agreed to, hit him hard. He’d bought himself some time, but at what cost?

As he returned to his apartment, the city’s lights blurred in his vision. The road ahead was long, and the challenges immense, but he’d made his choice. Now, he just had to survive it.

***

When Kovacs returned home, the weight of the meeting with Don Johnson and his "advisor" still hung heavy. As he opened the door to his flat, his eyes were immediately drawn to a datapad lying on the small table in the entryway. It blinked with a notification, and he knew what it was before he picked it up.

His hands trembled slightly as he tapped the screen, revealing a list of mecha designs: five total: twenty-one light and nine medium mecha, all last-generation models. The names were unfamiliar, each a relic from a bygone era of warfare—Fusiliers, Round Heads, Musketeers, and Ravagers.

Kovacs sighed, sinking into the rickety chair by the table as he stared at the list. These were old mecha, obsolete by modern standards but still deadly in the right hands. They would need significant work to be battle-ready, and the task ahead was daunting.

He recalled how he had ended up in this situation. It had all started with a simple diagnostic. He had been caught by the dean, of all people, in a restricted area, running a diagnostic on an old mecha. Kovacs had always been curious, tinkering with machines wherever he could find them. He never imagined this curiosity would land him in the university's mecha design program. It had been a fluke, a moment of being in the wrong place at the right time. But now, that same fluke had pulled him into the orbit of a crime lord with far more dangerous expectations.

He knew why they wanted him. Rebuilding these mecha was no small task; finding someone with the skill and knowledge to do it on short notice wasn’t easy. The crime lord’s "advisor" had clarified that failure wasn’t an option. But it was more than just the work—it was the implications. They weren’t simply going to restore these mecha; they were going to weaponize them, likely for purposes Kovacs would rather not think about.

Kovacs rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the growing tension. He needed to figure out what he could afford to give up. How much could he give them without losing everything? And more importantly, how could he use this situation to his advantage?

He knew he had no choice but to proceed. The designs, while old, had potential. If he could restore them correctly, they could fetch a high price on the black market or be used to tip the scales in whatever conflict Don Johnson was preparing for. Either way, this job would be his making—or his undoing.

Kovacs sat at his desk, the cold surface grounding him as he pulled out his notes and textbooks. The pile of missed work loomed before him, a testament to how much he had fallen behind. His eyes kept drifting to the datapad lying on the corner of the desk, its screen dark now, but the list of mecha designs etched into his mind. Fusiliers, Round Heads, Musketeers, Line Holders—names that carried weight, responsibility, and a whole lot of trouble.

He shook his head, trying to refocus. "Study first, work second," he muttered, forcing his eyes back to the textbook in front of him. He had much to catch up on, and the material wasn’t getting any easier. Advanced physics, metallurgy, materials science—all of it critical if he would rebuild those mecha. But every time he tried to dive into the equations or the properties of alloys, his mind kept wandering back to the task waiting for him.

Kovacs sighed, rubbing his temples. The pressure was immense, but he knew he couldn’t afford to let it distract him. He had to get through his studies first; without the knowledge he was trying to cram into his head, the work on the mecha would be impossible.

But it was easier said than done. The looming deadline, the expectations, the threats—everything weighed on him. He knew he had to keep it together, but the enormity of what lay ahead was hard to ignore.

Taking a deep breath, Kovacs forced himself to focus. He started working through the first set of problems, breaking them down methodically, one by one. The work was challenging, but it helped to occupy his mind, keeping the worst of his anxieties at bay.

Still, every so often, his gaze would flicker to the datapad, and he’d feel that gnawing worry rise again. But he pushed it back down, telling himself again, "Study first, work second." He had to take it one step at a time.