The night was heavy with tension. Kovacs sat in his dimly lit flat, staring blankly at the glowing screens of his CAD system, but his mind was elsewhere. Tonight was the night Professor Thornton was going to betray him. Weeks of suspicion and quiet observation had led to this inevitable moment—the night when Kovacs would find out just how far the professor was willing to go to steal his compressed armor formulation.

But Kovacs wasn’t going to be there.

He had consciously decided to stay away, not to get involved directly. He had hired someone for this. Someone capable of handling the situation and ensuring the professor’s plans didn’t go as smoothly as he intended.

The man he hired was an ex-special operations officer turned private investigator. He had the skills, connections, and cool detachment that Kovacs lacked. Everything was in place—bugs in the professor's office, cameras set up, and a discreet tail on Thornton for the past few days.

Kovacs took a slow breath, his hands hovering over his wristband. He could easily dive into the system right now, let it distract him, and maybe even work on the new design slowly coming together in his mind. But the weight of the situation kept him grounded in reality.

As the clock ticked past midnight, his phone buzzed. It was a message.

Kovacs read the message, his fingers tightening around his phone. He had always known Thornton was corrupt. The professor had always had an eye for the promising work of his students, but this—this was something else. Thinking it was the golden ticket to wealth and prestige.

Another message came through.

Buyer arrived. Recording everything. Don’t worry.

Kovacs exhaled. He trusted the man and had a reputation for getting things done cleanly and without leaving a trail. Kovacs didn’t need to be there, and he didn’t need to watch as his professor sold out to some corporate buyer or military contractor. Jax would handle it.

Time, dragged slowly, each minute feeling like an eternity. Kovacs leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the whir of his system filling the quiet of his flat. He knew that Jax’s surveillance would capture everything—the exchange, the documents, the proof. It would be enough to ruin Thornton.

Then the phone buzzed again, a single word from Jax:

Handled.

Kovacs sat up, heart racing slightly. The message was ambiguous, but it told him everything he needed to know. The sale didn’t go through. The professor wouldn’t be walking away with his secrets.

He typed back quickly and to the point.

Thanks. I’ll transfer the rest of your payment. It would take everything he had saved but it would be worth it.

There was a pause, then another buzz.

He won’t be a problem anymore.

Kovacs let the phone fall onto the desk, his chest feeling lighter. He didn’t ask what Jax had done or how he had “handled” the situation. He didn’t need to know. All he cared about was that Thornton couldn’t sell his work, and whatever leverage the professor had thought he had was now gone.

The system flickered on his wristband, catching his eye. Kovacs allowed himself a small smile. He’d avoided a dangerous situation tonight, and more importantly, he’d outplayed the professor without ever leaving his flat.

Leaning back in his chair, he allowed his thoughts to drift again to the design he was working on—the one that could change everything. Tomorrow, he’d dive back into it. But tonight, he let himself rest, knowing that, for once, the game had been played in his favor.

And the professor... well, he wouldn’t be making any more deals anytime soon.

***

In the cold, dimly lit interrogation room, Professor Thornton sat slumped in the chair, hands cuffed to the table. His once polished, confident demeanor had crumbled, leaving a hollow, nervous man behind. Across from him stood two CID agents, their expressions stone-cold. The weight of years of corruption and betrayal pressed down on the room, palpable and suffocating.

One of the agents, a grizzled veteran named Lieutenant Markham, flipped open a file and sighed heavily. His younger partner, Agent Keenan, paced behind him, the tension between them almost as thick as the air in the room.

“What do we know?” Markham asked, voice rough with frustration.

Keenan stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He didn’t answer immediately, choosing his words carefully. “You remember the student five years ago? The one who committed suicide?”

Markham’s face hardened. “Are you telling me this is related?”

Keenan nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah. And you’re not going to like it.”

Markham exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Great. Probably not,” he muttered, knowing this would get uglier than anticipated. “Start talking.”

Keenan walked over to the table, setting down a stack of files. “We dug into the professor's records, starting with this investigation into Kovacs. But what we found goes deeper. Much deeper.”

Markham straightened in his seat, his full attention now on Keenan. “Go on.”

“It’s not just Thornton,” Keenan began. “A group of professors—faculty members—who’ve been stealing students’ research, their designs, and ideas for years. They’re using the brightest minds to push their careers forward, claiming the credit, and eliminating anyone who becomes... problematic.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Eliminating?” Markham’s voice was dangerously calm.

Keenan nodded grimly. “We believe the student from five years ago—Michael Grayson—was one of their victims. His ‘suicide’ doesn’t add up anymore. He was working on a propulsion system. The kind of project that could have earned a professor top accolades... or get them fired if it was stolen.”

Markham cursed under his breath. “And Kovacs?”

Keenan opened another file, revealing research pages, schematics, and notes. “Thornton was trying to sell Kovacs’ compressed armor formula. The kid didn’t even know how valuable it was. This formula could revolutionize the field, but instead of nurturing that talent, Thornton saw him as another payday.”

Markham’s hands gripped the table, knuckles white. “So they kill or ruin students who threaten their plans?”

Keenan nodded, his tone dark. “The professors involved—Thornton included—see these kids as disposable. If they don’t fall in line, they make sure they disappear. Grayson was one of many, but we’re only just starting to uncover the full extent of it.”

Markham stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with force. He began pacing the room now, anger radiating from him in waves. “How the hell has this gone on for so long without anyone catching on?”

Keenan sighed. “They’ve been careful, easy victims; they were just students. The faculty involved have years of tenure; they cover for each other, and students don’t have the resources or the power to fight back. We’re only onto them now because of Kovacs. His paranoia and the investigator he hired forced Thornton into the open. Good call on that, by the way.”

Markham glanced back at Thornton, who sat quietly at the table. The professor hadn’t spoken since they brought him in. He knew the game was over.

“You’re going to talk,” Markham said, his voice a low growl. “You’re going to tell us everything. Because if you don’t, I promise you’ll wish you’d never set foot in that university.”

Thornton lifted his head slowly, meeting Markham’s gaze with a hollow stare. “It’s bigger than you think,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

Markham’s eyes narrowed. “Then enlighten me.”

Thornton gave a weak, bitter laugh. “This isn’t just about careers. It’s about control. Power. The research we’ve been selling—it’s not just for academic recognition. It’s military contracts, corporate interests... things that go beyond a few stolen projects.”

Keenan’s jaw tightened. “So who’s pulling the strings?”

Thornton shook his head. “I’m just a cog in the machine. If you think you’ve uncovered something, you should go ahead and kill yourself now, or it will be your family's later.”

Markham slammed his hand on the table, causing Thornton to flinch. “Start naming names. I want everyone involved. And trust me, you’ll cooperate.”

The professor hesitated, fear flickering in his eyes. He knew there was no way out. “Fine,” he said, voice shaking. “I’ll talk. But I need protection. If they find out I’ve turned... I’m a dead man.”

Markham exchanged a glance with Keenan, then nodded. “You’ll start talking fast.”

Thornton took a deep breath, then started to speak, revealing the dark web of corruption festering in the university for years. One by one, he named the professors, the administrators, the companies that had bought stolen research—and the students whom he knew of whose futures had been destroyed or ended because they stood in the way.

As the night wore on, Markham realized this wasn’t just about a few corrupt faculty members. This was something much bigger and went to the highest levels of power. And unwittingly, Kovacs had just uncovered the first piece of a much larger puzzle. Kovacs had a target painted on his back, but he didn’t even know it.

***

Kovacs slept soundly for the first time in weeks, unaware of the storm brewing around him. His body finally allowed itself the rest it desperately needed, for once free from the weight of endless assignments, looming threats, and the constant ticking clock of the Design System, the young man overslept. The familiar ache in his hip had dulled for once, and his flat's cold, sterile air felt almost comforting in its silence. He had no idea that by refusing to be a victim or let his work be stolen, he had unwittingly stirred a nest of enemies far more dangerous than he'd imagined.

The sudden, shrill beep of his wrist device jolted him awake. Kovacs blinked, disoriented, the remnants of his dream slipping away like sand through his fingers. He groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and instinctively reached for the blinking wristband.

“Great,” he muttered groggily. “What now?”

His fingers hovered over the screen, and his world dissolved as soon as he touched the device. His flat's small, dim room faded away, replaced by a vast, dark virtual space. It was cold here, the kind of emptiness that gnawed at the edges of reality. Strange symbols floated in the distance as if suspended in mid-air, slowly spinning and shifting in patterns he couldn't quite decipher.

Kovacs's heart rate spiked, his pulse thudding in his ears. He recognized this place—it was part of the Design System, but different. Something was wrong.

A voice cut through the stillness before he could fully grasp what was happening. It was deep and disembodied, and its weight sent chills down his spine.

“War has been declared.”

Kovacs froze. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the cryptic message. War? What war? Against whom? Why was the system telling him this?

“What... what do you mean?” Kovacs stammered, his voice shaky in the vast emptiness.

The voice did not answer immediately. Instead, symbols shifted and reformed, displaying intricate maps, blueprints, and tactical data that flashed too quickly for Kovacs to absorb. The system's interface was alive with information, more than he had ever seen before. It was overwhelming.

“Define ‘war,’” he demanded, trying to maintain control despite the rising sense of panic gnawing at him.

The voice returned, calm and unwavering. “You have triggered events that will not be undone. A declaration has been made by forces unseen. Conflict is inevitable.”

Kovacs’ heart raced faster. His mind spun with possibilities—the stolen armor formulas, the professor’s betrayal, the mecha rebuilds. He’d stepped into something far bigger than a simple academic dispute. He thought of the professor, the mecha designs he’d been working on, and his quiet attempts to stay under the radar. Now, it felt like the prelude to something far more dangerous.

“I didn’t declare anything,” he argued, his voice trembling as he scanned the virtual space for answers. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You refused to fall,” the system responded cryptically. “You fought to rise. Those who resist change must fight to keep control. You have become a catalyst.”

Kovacs’ mind reeled, the pieces slowly clicking into place. His refusal to let Professor Thornton steal his armor formulation. The CID agents. The professor’s shady dealings. He had inadvertently set off a chain of events. By simply standing his ground, he had upset the balance of something far more insidious.

“But... who? Who declared war?” Kovacs asked, though deep down, he already knew the answer.

“The corrupt. The powerful. Those who have thrived in the shadows. You, Kowal Zeidis Kovacs, have become a target.”

The weight of the words sank in. Kovacs stood there in the cold emptiness of the virtual room, his mind racing. He wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t a fighter but a designer, a student—just a kid trying to survive. But now, it seemed like survival was no longer a given. Forces beyond his control were moving, and he was at the center of it all.

The system’s warning still echoed in his ears. War has been declared.

Kovacs clenched his fists, feeling the pull of inevitability. He didn’t want to be a victim. He never had. But the stakes had changed, and the fight had already begun, whether he liked it or not.

“What do I do?” he whispered, the weight of the question hanging heavy in the virtual void.

The system’s voice, colder now, offered only one cryptic answer: “Survive.”