The city didn't just glow; it hummed with the predatory vibration of a billion credits being spent at once. From the 150th floor of the HEX HQ, the metropolis looked like a circuit board made of neon and glass. Floating skyscrapers drifted like icebergs in a sea of toxic clouds, and the constant stream of flying cars looked like a slow-motion river of fireflies. Below, on streets John hadn't touched in years, silver-skinned robots buffed the pavement to a mirror shine while genetically perfected citizens laughed over ice cream served by machines that knew their heart rates. It was a paradise, provided you never looked too closely at the shadows.
John adjusted his silk cufflink as he strode through the building's main artery. The floor was polished white quartz that echoed with the rhythmic clack-clack of his leather shoes. Every face he passed wore a mask of aggressive, corporate cheer.
"Morning, John! Looking sharp," a coworker called out.
"You too, Dave," John forced a grin. "Tell the wife I said hello."
His phone twitched against his thigh—a sharp, insistent vibration. The caller ID was a blank, silver void. Only the Executive Level used ghost IDs.
"Hello, sir," John said, his voice dropping into the smooth, submissive register of a man who knew his place. "How are you doing on this fine evening?"
"John," the voice on the other end was dry, like sandpaper over silk. "I'd like to congratulate you. The Big Boss looked over your file. He likes your numbers. You're being promoted. Research Executive, 195th floor. You're only five levels away from the man himself now."
John stopped walking. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The 195th. Close enough to see the throne; close enough to be smelled by the wolf.
"I… I don't know what to say, sir. Thank you."
"Don't thank me," the Executive's voice turned ice-cold. "Thank the Big Boss. Don't ever forget who owns the air you're breathing. Have a good day at work."
The new office smelled of ozone and expensive scotch. As the door hissed shut, an automated voice rose from the walls—a rich, warm baritone.
"Welcome, sir. I am your personal assistant. You may call me Mark."
John squinted at the empty air, a chill creeping down his neck. Having a personal AI meant he was never, ever alone. "Mark, can you make me a cup of tea while I get used to this place?"
"As you wish, sir."
But before the steam could rise from the cup, the room's lighting shifted to a deep, bruised purple.
"Sir," Mark's voice lowered. "A priority transmission from the Big Boss."
The speakers didn't just play the voice; they vibrated with it. It was a sound like tectonic plates grinding together.
"Congratulations on making it to the inner circle, John."
John stood at attention, his palms sweating. "Thank you, sir. For the opportunity."
"I know," the voice—Sovereign's voice—murmured. "Get used to the view, John. It's a long way down."
Alone at his desk, John began to scroll. The files were death sentences written in code. His eyes snagged on a folder marked in jagged red script: COMPOSITE X: THE NEW PUNISHMENT. He tapped the file and felt the blood drain from his face. A total cellular purge. Targeted neutralization of V-strains. Permanent power stripping. It wasn't a medicine; it was an eraser. It was a way to turn a god back into a bug. A punishment to those who betray.
"The fuck is Composite X?" he whispered.
That night, the walk to the elevator felt like a funeral procession. As he passed the reinforced labs, a sound leaked through the heavy shielding—a blood-curdling scream, that ended in a wet cracking sound, and a heavy thwack of something hitting a floor. John didn't look. He didn't stop. He let Mark drive his car into the black velvet of the night.
Inside his home, John paced. He looked at the glowing blue interface of the AI. "Mark," he said. "If I were to violate the rules... would you tell on me?"
"As your personal assistant... no," the AI replied. The pause was a microsecond too long.
"Don't bullshit me, Mark. You're a spy in a tuxedo."
"You are correct, sir," Mark said after a long silence. "If you betray the interests of HEX HQ, I am programmed to report you directly to Sovereign."
"I knew it." John felt a strange surge of pity.
"You can erase my memory, sir." Mark said.
John is confused as to why the AI would say this all of a sudden. "What?" John said as his eyes shoot open before he drove to sleep.
"I am your personal assistant, sir. Although I'm designed to take out any traitors, I'm still an AI assistant that's programmed to help you in any and every type of way."
John felt an odd surge of comfortness with the AI. "Mark, wipe the last ten minutes of memory. Then shut down."
"Shutting down... goodnight, John."
John went to his basement, opening a false wall to reveal a secret stash of high-class gear: rayguns, laser cannons, and prosthetic limbs. He grabbed a specific arm—one designed to blast electrical shockwaves. He stared at it for a long time before taking it out into the night. He floated down on his own power, landing in a filthy alleyway where the rich never ventured. He placed the prosthetic arm near a pile of trash and vanished back into the sky.
When the morning light shined through John's windows while he was getting ready for work, what he was thinking wasn't about what is about to go down in his work and what will he do. He couldn't get Composite X off his head, others saw it as a punishment while John saw it as a true opportunity. Everyday, nobody would betray the rich which brang John closer and closer to his plan that he didn't want to do as he thought it was a mere 50/50 gamble.
Five years passed in a blur of hollow smiles and silent plotting. "They need a test subject of this Composite X but no one has betrayed the empire, they can't use it on test robots since they don't have pure Composite V in their veins... Oh god, am I really gonna do this? Am I really gonna betray these bastards on purpose to join the poor? But it's nothing but gamble, either they'll kill me or I really will be a test subject of Composite X. John thought in his head, walking down the hallway nervously. Then, without a second thought, he said "Fuck it."
The day finally came. John didn't sneak into the executive boardroom; he exploded into it. He waited until the high-level executives were mid-laugh and then let out a roar that had been building for five years.
"EVIL MOTHERFUCKERS!"
He swung, his fist connecting with an executive's jaw. But the "gods" fought back. The room turned into a nightmare of ice and kinetic energy. They dragged John, bleeding and broken, to the center of the room.
"Do not kill him," Sovereign's voice boomed over the intercom.
A scientist named Aris stepped forward, a silver syringe glinting in the light. "Perfect," he whispered. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall."
The needle slid into John's neck. It wasn't pain—it was emptiness. The strength, the "buzz" of power he'd lived with for years, vanished. He felt small. He felt heavy.
"Toss him," Aris commanded.
Two guards flung John's ragdoll body through the shattered glass of the 193rd floor. The fall was a scream of wind until he crashed through a rusted manhole cover in the slums. He landed in the filth of the sewers, the smell of rot filling his lungs.
Above, Sovereign stood over Aris. "Keep an eye on him," he said.
"Yes, sir. You'll see how right I was."
"Are you calling me stupid?" Sovereign asked. Two beams of red light sliced from his eyes, and Aris's hand exploded into a spray of crimson. "Scream," Sovereign whispered, "and everyone in this room dies."
In the dark of the sewer, John crawled. Every inch was an agony of broken bone. He grabbed a discarded iron pipe, trying to bend it with his old strength. It didn't move. He smiled, his teeth stained red.
Suddenly, the shadows moved. A heavy boot slammed into John's face.
"YA CUNT!" a voice screamed. "WE'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
Five rebels emerged from the gloom, their faces twisted with hate for the "Richie" who had fallen into their laps. They began to kick him, their boots hitting his ribs with dull thuds. Through the haze of pain, John saw the leader's arm. It was the prosthetic he had built five years ago.
"THAT ARM!" John screamed, coughing blood. "I GAVE IT TO YOU!"
The leader, Benjamin, paused his boot. "What?"
"The alley... five years ago... I built it. I'm... on your side." John's voice was a wet rattle. "They're watching me... the Big Boss... they're watching to see if the serum works..."
John's eyes flickered and went dark. Benjamin looked at the arm, then at the broken man at his feet.
"Grab him," Benjamin ordered. "We're going deep."