Chapter 1: NEW GAME
The smell hit first. Mold, sweat, something rotten underneath it all.
My eyes snapped open to water-stained ceiling tiles. Wrong ceiling. My apartment had white popcorn texture, not this yellowed decay.
I tried to sit up. The motion came wrong—body lighter than it should be, limbs responding at the wrong angles. My hands came into view.
Not my hands.
Thin fingers. Bitten nails. A small scar on the left palm I'd never earned.
"What the—"
Memory crashed through my skull like a freight train. The intersection. Headlights. The crunch of metal and the weird peace of knowing I was already dead before I hit the pavement. Forty-three years old, forensic accountant, killed by a drunk driver running a red light.
That was supposed to be the end.
A translucent blue interface flickered into existence three inches from my face.
[LONG CON PROTOCOL ACTIVATED]
[WELCOME, HOST]
[INITIALIZING TUTORIAL SEQUENCE...]
I blinked. The text remained, floating in my vision like a heads-up display from a video game. My heart—this body's heart—hammered against unfamiliar ribs.
[CURRENT HOST BODY: MARCUS WEBB]
[AGE: 26 | OCCUPATION: IDENTITY THIEF | THREAT LEVEL: IMMINENT]
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"FBI! Open the door!"
The sound punched through my confusion. Heavy fists against cheap wood. A door that wouldn't hold for long.
Information flooded my brain—not memory exactly, more like files being downloaded. Marcus Webb. Small-time identity thief. Worked for a man called Dutch, processing stolen social security numbers into sellable identities. Due for arrest this morning.
Due for arrest right now.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: 2 FBI AGENTS, STANDARD ARREST PROTOCOL]
[SUSPICION LEVEL: 95%]
[ESTIMATED TIME TO BREACH: 28 SECONDS]
I threw myself off the filthy mattress. No sheets. Clothes on the floor. A laptop open on a card table, screen glowing with incriminating evidence.
Twenty-three seconds.
My legs moved without conscious thought, muscle memory from a body I'd never trained. I grabbed the laptop, fingers flying across keys I'd never touched before.
Emails. Transaction records. A chain of communication leading back to Dutch—David Keene, the system supplied, real name David Louis Keene, identity mill operator out of Greenpoint.
Eighteen seconds.
The system interface shifted, overlaying the door with text.
[MARK ANALYSIS ACTIVE]
[AGENT 1: STANDARD STANCE, WEAPON DRAWN, AGGRESSIVE POSTURE]
[AGENT 2: BACKUP POSITION, COVERING APPROACH]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: SURRENDER AND REDIRECT]
"Surrender and redirect," I thought. "Right. Because I have so many other options."
The door shuddered. Wood cracked near the hinges.
[SILVER TONGUE LV.1 ACTIVE: +10% LIE BELIEVABILITY]
Another window. More information I didn't ask for but desperately needed. The system—whatever this thing was—wanted me to talk my way out. It was giving me tools.
The door splintered.
Two agents came through fast, weapons up, shouting commands that blurred together. I raised my hands slowly, laptop dangling from one set of fingers.
"Don't shoot."
The words came out calm. Too calm for a man about to be arrested. The lead agent's eyes narrowed.
"On the ground! Now!"
"I'm not Marcus Webb."
The lie flowed smooth as silk. The system pulsed warm at the edge of my vision.
[LIE DELIVERED: PARTIAL TRUTH VARIANT]
[TARGET SUSPICION: HOLDING]
"I'm the guy who can give you his handler."
The second agent—younger, hungrier—exchanged a look with his partner.
"Hands behind your head. Slowly."
I complied. The laptop hit the mattress.
"David Keene. Goes by Dutch. Runs the whole operation out of a printing shop in Greenpoint." I kept my voice level, meeting the lead agent's eyes without blinking. "Webb was just a processor. Low-level. I've been building a case for six months."
The lie expanded, grew legs, started walking. Six months. Building a case. Language that sounded like law enforcement, like someone who belonged in their world.
The lead agent's gun didn't waver.
"You have ID?"
"Check the laptop. Third folder. There's a file called 'Insurance.' Everything's there."
It wasn't, of course. I had no idea what was on that laptop beyond the fragments Marcus's memories provided. But the system had shown me something else—a log of Dutch's communications, enough breadcrumbs to verify my story if they looked in the right places.
The younger agent moved toward the laptop while his partner kept me covered.
"Come on," I thought. "Take the bait."
Seconds stretched. The younger agent's expression shifted as he scrolled.
"There's... there's a lot here, Jenkins."
Jenkins—the lead agent—finally lowered his weapon half an inch.
"Who do you work for?"
"I'm freelance." Another lie. Smoother this time. "Webb's handler burned some people I care about. I was going to take the whole network down myself, but you showing up actually helps."
[SILVER TONGUE: SUCCESSFUL DELIVERY]
[TARGET SUSPICION: DECREASING]
"This is above my pay grade." Jenkins holstered his weapon. "You're coming with us. We'll sort this out downtown."
Handcuffs clicked around my wrists. Cold metal against skin that wasn't mine.
As they led me out of the apartment, I caught my reflection in a cracked mirror by the door. Young face. Mid-twenties. Dark hair that needed washing. Eyes that looked older than the body they sat in.
Not my face. Not my life.
My hands wanted to shake. I forced them still.
[TUTORIAL QUEST INITIATED: SURVIVE INTERROGATION]
[REWARD: 500 GC, 100 EXP]
[FAILURE: INCARCERATION, SYSTEM LOCKOUT]
The sedan waited at the curb. Jenkins opened the back door.
"Watch your head."
I ducked into the car, mind already racing three steps ahead. Interrogation room. More questions. More lies that needed to feel like truth.
The door slammed shut. Through the window, I watched Marcus Webb's apartment building shrink in the distance. Somewhere in that ruin of a life, a small-time identity thief had existed. His soul was gone now—where, I had no idea—and I was wearing his skin like a borrowed suit.
The system pulsed again, softer this time.
[HOST ADAPTATION: 23% COMPLETE]
[MOTOR FUNCTION INTEGRATION: STABLE]
[IDENTITY COHERENCE: PENDING NEW DESIGNATION]
I memorized the route as we drove. Left on Flatbush. Right on Atlantic. Heading toward Federal Plaza.
My old life was over. Dead on an intersection in a city that probably didn't matter anymore.
This body came with a criminal record and an imminent prison sentence.
And somehow, I had a system that wanted me to con my way to the top.
The sedan merged onto the bridge. Manhattan's skyline caught the morning light.
"Okay," I thought. "New game. New rules."
I'd spent twenty years finding fraud in corporate accounts. Following money trails. Spotting lies in quarterly reports.
Time to see how those skills worked from the other side.
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