POV: Third Person (Real World)
The late afternoon sun bled through the smog layer, painting the industrial scrapyard in hues of bruised orange. Inside the "Frankenstein"—a hideous, magnificent hybrid of a 1980s combustion camper and modern magnetic hover-ports—Lee Koyanagi was calculating angles.
He held a dense-wood walking stick. He wasn't just swinging it; he was dissecting the air.
Vector seven. Impact velocity. Drag coefficient.
He snapped the cane forward, stopping it precisely three millimeters from the rusted wall. Bartitsu. It wasn't just fighting; it was physics. It was the gentleman's puzzle, and Lee loved puzzles.
He exhaled, checking his reflection in the polished kitchenette metal. Mono-lid eyes, Egyptian bone structure, and that strange curly crew cut that looked black until the sun hit it, revealing a violet sheen. He looked calm. He looked like a good boy.
Inside, his mind was a storm of static and numbers. Three months. Ninety days.
That was the countdown. If he breathed wrong near an internet connection before his eighteenth birthday, the WCAF would throw him in a hole.
A vibration hummed through the floorboards.
Lee didn't panic. He froze, his head tilting to the side. Frequency low. Displacement high. Not a police drone (too quiet). Not a garbage scow (too smooth).
He moved to the window. A teardrop of matte-black glass and white ceramic touched down on the gravel. It was beautiful. It was expensive.
And it pissed him off.
Lee stepped out, putting on his "mask." He clasped his hands behind his back, respectful and polite.
When the man stepped out, Lee's eyes scanned him like a barcode reader. Suit: Nanoweave, custom fit. Shoes: Italian synthetic leather, scuffed on the heel—he drives himself. Face: Ethnically ambiguous. Arabic name, but the features don't match. Daeghan Allah-Sihr.
"Koyanagi Lee," the billionaire said.
Lee bowed slightly. "Mr. Allah-Sihr. To what do I owe the pleasure? If you're lost, the highway is two klicks north."
"I know where I am," Daeghan said, his voice smooth. "I'm looking for the hacker who zeroed out the payroll of a Fortune 500 company at age thirteen."
The mask shattered.
Lee didn't mean to react. He prided himself on control. But the mention of that arrest—the moment his life ended—hit a raw nerve. The "calm planner" vanished. The impulsive, angry kid surfaced.
"You got a wire?" Lee snapped, stepping off the porch, his hand tightening on the cane. "You recording this? Because that record is sealed. You come here, flashing your money, bringing up the worst day of my life? Get the hell off my property."
He was shouting now, the strategy gone. He was ready to swing the cane at a man worth trillions.
Daeghan didn't flinch. He looked almost... proud. "Passion. Good. But I didn't come to arrest you. I came to hire you."
Lee stopped, his chest heaving. The anger receded as quickly as it had come, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating computer in his brain. Hire? Risk assessment: High. Potential reward: Unknown.
"But no net access?," Lee said, his voice dropping three octaves back to normal, the charm re-engaging. "Parole. No net access."
"I have a waiver. And a pardon."
Lee went still. "A pardon?"
"Complete my Beta Test. Your record is wiped."
Lee looked at the man. He deduced the truth instantly: He needs me. Why does he need me, doesn't matter.
Lee's eyes narrowed. He leaned on his cane, the manipulative gears turning. He wasn't a victim anymore; he was the one holding the cards.
"No," Lee said softly.
Daeghan blinked. "No?"
"A pardon fixes my life," Lee said, his voice silky. "It doesn't fix theirs." He gestured vaguely to the poverty-stricken sector. "I have people. Family. I want them out of here. Sector 4 housing. A monthly stipend—let's say, ten thousand credits? Adjustment for inflation guaranteed."
Lee smiled. It was a terrifyingly polite smile. "You want my mind, Mr. Allah-Sihr? You pay my price. Otherwise, I'll go back inside and wait my ninety days."
Daeghan stared at him for a long moment. Then, a slow grin spread across his face.
"You really are what I am looking for," Daeghan said admiringly. "Deal."
Lee turned around slowly. The wind kicked up dust around his ankles. The sun caught the purple in his hair, making it flare. This was the trap. It had to be. But the bait... the bait was freedom.
"Why me?" Lee asked, his eyes narrowing. "There are billions of players. Millions of professional divers. Why a kid living in a hovering trash can?"
Daeghan smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Because the professionals play by the rules, Lee. I need someone who doesn't."
Daeghan reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, crystalline data drive. He tossed it through the air.
Lee caught it instinctively. It was heavy, warm to the touch.
"The install key," Daeghan said. "It's offline. Plug it into your rig. The server goes live in twenty minutes."
Daeghan said, turning back to his ship. "Don't disappoint me."
As the ship blasted off, Lee stood alone in the dust. He looked at the drive. Deduction: I just sold my soul.
He grinned. Conclusion: Worth it.
Lee looked down at the drive in his hand. It felt like holding a grenade.
He looked at the setting sun, then at the Frankenstein. If he did this, there was no going back. If Daeghan was lying, Lee's life was over.
He walked back into the camper and locked the door.
He sat in the modified sleep-pod, the leather worn smooth by years of use. He slotted the crystal drive into the console. The dusty machine hummed to life, lights flickering on for the first time in years.
System Boot... Bypass Authorized... Connection Established.
Lee's hands trembled slightly as he picked up the helmet. It was a Neural-Link Visor, heavy and smelling of old plastic.
"ID: 404-1752, run external drive," he whispered.
He pulled the visor down over his eyes.
Darkness. Then, a sensation of falling—not physical falling, but a tearing of the mind, a velocity that ripped the breath from the lungs. The smell of ozone and old grease vanished, replaced by the scent of pine and ozone.
Click.