Chapter 3 — "Shopping List for Psychopaths"
The world smells like burnt coffee and paranoia.
I haven't slept. My eyes feel like sandpaper. Every time I blink, I see flickers of blue code behind my eyelids, like the system is tattooed on my retinas.
The TV drones in the background — some Vought morning show host pretending not to be terrified.
> "Breaking news: A Vought biochemical lab was breached last night. One scientist missing, multiple casualties, and reports of stolen prototype material."
The words stolen prototype material hit like a hammer. I sip cold coffee that tastes like guilt and mold and mutter,
"Congratulations, Tony. You're officially interested in things that get people erased."
On the counter lies my Download Journal — spiral-bound, pages already warped from blood and ramen grease.
I flip it open and scribble down:
Vought Storage 09
Underneath, I add a new line:
Bad idea counter: 5.
> "Steal from Vought," I say aloud. "Because clearly, I haven't learned a single thing since dying."
The system hums faintly, like it's laughing at me. I can almost hear it breathing through the static.
A new line flashes across my vision:
> System Diagnostic: Partial Adaptation Complete — Regeneration (Minor)
I tug my shirt up and look at my abdomen in the mirror — where Bone-Armor Guy skewered me. The scar's nearly gone, just a pale line that shouldn't exist.
Not perfect. But definitely worth calling regeneration.
By noon, I'm in Maya's bar, pretending to be someone who just likes day-drinking. The neon OPEN sign buzzes like a dying bee.
Maya eyes me as she wipes a glass. Her limp's more pronounced today; maybe weather does that.
"You look like a raccoon that lost a fight with a coffee grinder," she says.
I raise my cup. "Compliment accepted."
She smirks, then slides me a napkin. Scribbled on it:
'Corner of 8th and Lexington. Ask for Stitch.'
I stare at it, then at her. "You handing out treasure maps now?"
"Guy came by this morning asking about blue stuff," she says. "You're not into that crap too, are you?"
I force a laugh. "Me? Nah. I'm more of a coffee and trauma guy."
But my hand trembles slightly as I pocket the napkin. Maya notices but doesn't comment. That's her style — observes everything, says nothing unless it profits her.
Maybe she knows more than she lets on. Maybe she's connected to the underground V scene. Either way, I make a mental note:
Don't underestimate the woman with whiskey breath and detective eyes.
Google's useless.
Every search for Vought Storage 09 hits a firewall faster than I can type.
I try downloading basic hacking tutorials — hours of YouTube and half-baked Reddit videos.
> Download Progress: 1%
Estimated Completion: 2 years
I groan, slumping back. "Fantastic. I'll be a master hacker right around the time the sun explodes."
So I go analog. Word on the street says there's a guy named Rico, runs scams out of an old comic shop basement in Chinatown. Used to work data security before he got caught selling classified files to Reddit kids.
The place smells like old paper and dusted dreams. Rico's hunched behind a monitor graveyard, surrounded by snack wrappers and paranoia.
"You're late," he says without looking up.
"I didn't know I was invited," I reply.
He chuckles — a smoker's laugh. "Nobody ever does. What do you want?"
"Information. Vought Storage 09."
He freezes mid-type, then turns slowly. "You trying to die early, or just stupid?"
"Bit of both," I say.
He studies me for a long moment, then shrugs. "Fine. But info costs money. Or favors."
"I'm broke."
"Then it's favors."
I sigh. "What kind?"
He grins, teeth yellowed. "Protection. One job. Tonight."
Of course, it's not a date night.
It's a data exchange — because apparently, every crime in this city happens in an alleyway during bad weather.
Rico explains while we walk through puddles that reflect neon signs like broken glass. "Two ex-Vought scientists. They've got research files. I'm just the middleman. You stand there, look scary."
I glance at my reflection in a puddle. "You sure about the scary part?"
He doesn't laugh.
By the time we reach the meeting spot, rain's coming down hard. The alley smells of wet trash and desperation. The two scientists wait by a van, one clutching a metallic briefcase like it's a newborn.
"Quick and clean," Rico whispers. "We do the trade and go."
But this is New York — quick and clean died here decades ago.
A black SUV screeches in, tires spraying water. Four masked men jump out, rifles up.
"Vought cleanup crew!" one of the scientists yells.
Gunfire explodes. Bullets shred the air, sparking off dumpsters. Rico dives behind cover, screaming.
My system flashes red:
> Combat Scenario Detected — Partial Adaptation Engaged.
Time slows — just slightly. My pulse roars in my ears. Each raindrop looks suspended midair.
I grab Rico's arm and drag him behind a crate as bullets tear through the metal. One grazes my shoulder — pain blooms, dull but distant.
Something shifts inside me. Instinct takes over.
I leap from cover, grab one of the shooters by his collar, slam him against the wall. The crack of impact vibrates up my arm. I don't think — I just move. Punch, twist, drop.
He's down before I realize what I've done.
Another attacker aims — I grab a metal pipe, swing hard. His gun goes flying, clattering into the gutter.
Screams. Footsteps retreating. Tires squeal as the SUV speeds off.
And just like that, silence.
One of the scientists lies sprawled on the ground, blood spreading beneath him. The other is gone.
Rico's shaking. "Jesus, Tony, what the hell was that?"
I look down at my hands. They're steady. Too steady.
"Adaptation," I mutter.
We find the briefcase half-buried in trash. Rico wants to ditch it, but curiosity's louder than fear.
Inside are three things:
1. A data chip labeled Project Helix
2. Two blue vials, glowing faintly
3. A Vought security tag with a biometric scan pad
Rico whistles low. "You didn't tell me you were robbing God."
"I didn't know either," I say.
The system hums to life:
> "Compound Source Identified. Trace Upload Complete."
Quest Update: Locate Origin — Helix Files.
Rico slams the case shut. "You didn't see me. Ever."
"What vials?" I reply.
He nods and disappears into the rain like a bad dream.
Back in my apartment, the city feels quieter than usual — like it's holding its breath.
The briefcase sits on the counter, locked, pulsing faint blue light through its seams.
I grab my journal and start writing:
> Day 2 — Things escalated faster than my therapy bills. Rico's alive. Scientists aren't.
Found something called Project Helix. Smells like trouble.
I stare at the glowing vials. My fingers twitch. I could touch one — just a brush, see what happens. But my gut says no.
That's when the mirror flickers again.
For a split second, my reflection's eyes glow blue.
> "Every download has a cost."
I spin, heart hammering. "Yeah? And what's yours?"
The voice distorts, static curling through the air like whispers.
> "I'm… learning."
I freeze.
The reflection smiles — not mine. Just half a second too late. Then syncs perfectly again.
The system pings softly, almost playful.
I shut off the lights, sit in the dark with my notebook, and write one last line before trying to sleep:
> "Day 2. I think my system's alive."
Outside, sirens wail. Somewhere in the city, someone screams.
And me?
I just laugh quietly to myself.
Because for the first time since dying, I'm starting to feel alive too.