Page 266 of Fatality

A perfect one.

And, of course, hack the government network.

Ren contacted a hacker in the Deadzone to get some kind of device you just have to plug in near an office.

That thing hacks everything by injecting a virus so powerful it detects a weakness, spreads through the entire system to weaken the defenses, then forces it to reboot.

During the window between the virus exploiting the weakness and the reboot, we can access the files about her brother and take everything.

The only problem is that Ren will have to be as fast as he is on his bike during a fucking race.

We'll have one minute at most to find what we're looking for before the system reboots.

The government's software is too advanced.

I've got to close the damn deal with that hacker in the Grid—the black market of Kairo-9.

Neo and Varek followed me at the warehouse to get weapons in case.

Not that I need them or the weapons, let’s say it’s just an addition for that hacker to not try anything stupid.

The Grid is a place where anything can happen. You can get killed and end up with your mods—or parts of your body—sold for credits just as easily as you can walk into an illegal clinic and leave with new implants.

Most of the people who go there are racers or just chromeheads.

In this part of the Lower Layers, you pay with Ghost Credits.

It’s illegal, digital, anonymous, encrypted and untraceable. We use it for the black market, illegal body modifications, underground betting, and race prizes.

Down in the Lower Layers, we usually use official credits for everyday transactions.

Ghost Credits, though?

They offer something even better.

Freedom from the government tracking every fucking move you make.

Varek flanks my right, Neo my left.

The Grid is loud, packed with makeshift stands, hidden workshops, and rusted metal storefronts.

Vendors shout over clanging tools, humming generators, and restless crowds beneath flickering neon and harsh industrial lights. The air smells of oil, hot steel, disinfectant, old blood, and smoke.

Smells like home.

People are starving, beating each other bloody. Sometimes you'll even see a vendor behind one of those stalls get stabbed in the throat because he refused to negotiate.

The only advantage I have—and every racing gang leader has—is our reputation.

People usually don't try anything and if they do, they usually go for our comms or holos to steal our credits—Ghost or official.

As for me?

I erase them from existence, and they know it.

I walk with a heavy, deliberate stride toward the meeting spot—a run-down old shop. The door hangs crooked on its hinges, and the place smells like shit and oil.

I recoil the moment I shove the door open.