My name's Aira, a professional witch... or rather, a professional con artist who uses magic. In Rust, where a life's worth less than your tax bill, you don't survive without a few tricks up your sleeve.

I'm not strong, not rich, and I don't have some big organization backing me, but I've got a sharp mind and magic. That's been enough to keep me alive... until today.

I'm standing outside a rundown apartment in the night market, knocking three times in a rhythm I've scoped out. The door creaks open, and a guy steps out, eyeing me like I'm trouble.

His name's Marco, a mid-tier smuggler dealing in guns and stims. I know he just lost a fat stack of cash to a slick scam by someone everyone should've seen coming.

"Heard you want your money back?" I say, flashing a cocky grin.

Marco crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you?"

I flick my wrist, conjuring an illusion of gold coins floating in the air before they vanish, leaving him wide-eyed.

"I'm the one who can help you."

He stays quiet for a beat, then steps aside. I follow him into his smoky, cheap-liquor-soaked den, the kind of place a small-time mob boss like him calls home.

The deal kicks off as I lay out my plan.

"I'll use illusion magic to trick the scammer into wandering into an alley where the local teen gangs run their deals."

Marco raises an eyebrow, surprised I'm cutting straight to the point.

"Those little shits won't let him walk away easy. While he's freaking out, surrounded, I'll use my 5'5" frame to slip in and pickpocket the card with the thirty million credits he stole from you. I take 20% commission, no haggling."

Marco mulls it over, then... just sits there. I keep smiling, but my gut's screaming something's off.

Should've listened to that gut feeling, because a second later, one of his goons bursts in, whispering something in his ear. Marco's eyes shift, and in that split second, they lock onto me.

I spin and bolt. Just in time.

BANG!

A shot rings out behind me, the bullet grazing my shoulder, tearing through my cloak and skin.

They figured me out faster than I thought! Do they know how hard I worked to sell the idea of a fake con artist?!

Yeah, you guessed it. I planned to clear my name by playing ally to the guy I ripped off, even though I'm the one who pulled the scam.

I slide down the stairwell, burst onto the street, and conjure a thick fog to cover my escape into a nearby alley.

Ping!

My phone chimes with a notification. Survival rule in this city: always stay updated.

I check it. Public network alert.

"What the fuck?!"

Staring back at me is my own damn portrait—don't know where they got it—plastered with a 50,000 credit bounty.

Now it's not just Marco's crew after me. Every starving lowlife in Rust is joining the party.

This is bad.

I check the soles of my rubber boots—gotta keep the height boost and avoid random electric currents from the city's janky underground wiring—then start running again, wearing them down.

It's gonna be a long night.

I vault over a fence, roll to soften the landing, and sprint into the next alley. My plan's clear.

Head to the night market's busiest spot, blend into the crowd. Use my height to stay low-key, buy some breathing room.

Sounds solid, right? Yeah, no.

The second I poke my head out of the alley, a scarred-up brute's waiting, swinging a baseball bat at my face.

I'm used to ambushes. I slide under his legs like a pro baseball player, zapping his ankle with a jolt of electricity.

"Argh!"

He collapses, twitching like he's doing the robot, while I keep running.

But ten steps later, a mob surrounds me. A pack of amateur mercenaries closes in from a distance, and then a siren wails, parting the Rust crowd like Moses splitting the sea. A vehicle rolls up.

An armored pickup truck.

Marco steps out, grinning like a snake.

"Next time you pull a scam, don't pick the guy you're conning!"

Shit.

In front: Marco's crew, seven or eight guys, armed with pistols and knives. Behind: the mercenaries charging like starving vultures. On both sides: Rust's "civilians," a freakshow ready to tear me apart for a quick buck.

"Time for a lesson: never underestimate your mark!"

I crank my electric magic to 10,000 joules and slam it into the ground. Half the crowd freezes, some newbies convulse, and even the ones in insulated boots back off on reflex.

I seize the moment, firing a lightning bolt at Marco's truck.

BOOM!

The metal conducts the charge, frying critical circuits. The truck bursts into flames.

"Motherfucker!"

Marco dives clear as his goons scramble to shield him.

CRASH!

A three-meter-tall alien bug-looking thing—probably hopped up on radiation—kicks the truck fifteen meters, smashing stalls, snapping a lamppost. The street, built tough, holds up despite the insane friction, though the truck's frame is mangled.

BOOM!

The block lights up, heat spiking, the blast deafening. Metal shards shred walls and stalls, turning the chaos up to eleven.

Why is everyone in this city—or hell, this planet—so unhinged? Who thought naming the city after the planet was a bright idea?

Some random guy hands his buddy earplugs.

"Nah, I'm already deaf."

"Cool..."

A kid pops out a window.

"Mom, fireworks!"

"Ugh, guess we're soundproofing tomorrow."

While they're distracted by the "fireworks," I bolt for the alley with the least resistance, slipping into an empty apartment—human or otherwise—through the window.

I check my body. Aside from a deep gash on my shoulder, my sweat glands are fried from magic overuse, but my six-pack's still intact.

Bigger issue: I need a hideout. Lucky for me, there's one crazy bastard dumb enough to shelter me right now.

I pull out my phone and send a cinematic text.

"Yo, I need a hideout. You owe me one, remember?"

Three seconds later, a reply.

"What kinda trouble you dragging in now, Aira?"

I send a smiley emoji, push open the door, and step out, ready for the next part of this insane night.

"Look! There's our Wi-Fi bill!"

Oh, right. I'm a wanted woman.

I put out a smoldering spark on my pants and head to a rundown complex reeking of mold and trash. But it's a Wi-Fi paradise, a haven for hikikomori, otakus, hackers, gamers—you name it.

I weave through random garbage bags, some dropping from upper floors, and approach a small house at the end of the row.

"Reese! Get your ass out here!"

BAM BAM BAM!

I pound the door so hard, nearby critters scatter from trash piles into wall cracks.

Creak.

The door opens, and the stench of instant noodles, burnt cables, and stale snacks hits me like a truck.

There's Reese, a pro hacker who sticks to small-time gigs. I once helped him dodge a tax evasion rap and kept the evidence as leverage. That's why he's gotta help me... even if his face says he'd rather not.

"I knew this day would come, but pissing off a whole district?" he says.

I shrug, smirking. "Not my first rodeo. You letting me in or what?"

He sighs and steps aside. "Get in. But don't drag me into your mess."

Too late, buddy. You're an accomplice now.

His room's a dump—aside from the computer and some gadgets, everything's so filthy I can imagine it gaining sentience and joining Rust's societal scrapheap.

I plop onto a... mattress? Not sure it qualifies. I check my shoulder wound. The graze is swelling, blood caked. It'll get infected if I don't treat it soon.

"I need bandages, alcohol, fat, sugar, and protein," I say.

Reese freezes. "What, you a pig now?"

"Nah, just starving."

He shakes his head but tosses me a medkit... sealed with gum instead of a lock. "You've got one day to get out."

I roll my eyes, kick off my boots, and bounce on the mattress. While bandaging my wound with one hand, I use my foot to pull up a map app on my phone, marking safe zones and low-patrolled routes.

Three options:

Flee the planet—Not great. Spaceports and airstrips have tight security.Hide in the slums—Doable, but too predictable and cliché.Bet on an old enemy—More gut than logic, but if I play my cards right, I might buy a few days.

I glance at my bandaged shoulder, now mummified, then at the 90-proof alcohol in my hand.

"No other options, huh?"

I zap my shoulder with a low-voltage shock to numb it, pour the alcohol, and wince. After rebandaging, I text the second-dumbest contact I know.

"Got something you'll want. Deal?"

A minute later, a reply.

"You've got 30 minutes. Use a VPN next time."

I sigh, adjust my boots for extra height, and yell at the computer nerd in the corner.

"Reese! If I come back and you haven't cooked, don't ask why your tax evasion gets leaked!"

If I play this right, I'll be a ghost again—no one'll remember me.

The spot I'm headed to is a nightclub, a hub for criminals cutting deals the cops are paid to ignore—or sometimes, it's just a place to party.

Mostly, it's kids aged 15 to 18 having fun. Anyone older's usually trying to pick up girls and getting their ass kicked.

Dancing doesn't pay much here, especially when losing focus means losing cash. Even the pole-dancing stage is abandoned, caked in dust no one bothers to clean.

A kid points at me.

"Hey, that's the chick with the bounty!"

I snap back on reflex.

"Who you calling a chick?!"

Half the club turns, stares, then goes back to their business.

"...Nah, can't be her. The poster said she's short as hell."

Short? Me?!

I glance at the kid's legs. Okay, they're mechanical, but the rest looks human, if pale. I check my height-boosted boots. Decent enough.

"You wanna get shot for running your mouth?"

"Who's gonna take me down?"

I march toward the brat, who's still yapping with her friends. Suddenly, she pulls a classic mechanical pistol and points it at her own head after someone eggs her on.

BANG!

Her head jerks back ten centimeters. The room goes silent. I turn and book it, trying to erase her crazy rant from my mind, the sound of the ricocheting bullet still ringing in my ears. Her friends scream like they hit the jackpot.

"Holy shit! Born on third base!"

"You really got that from your mom?!"

"Haha, the truth is singular! No way copper candy can hurt the speed queen!"

After spouting a line so cringe it hurts, she points at me again.

"Yo, what was that chick about to say?"

"N-Nothing! Just here to party, same as always."

I haul ass to the stairs for the VIP room on the second floor. Predictably, I'm stopped.

"Sorry, ma'am, this floor's for VIPs or reservations only."

Two guards appear out of nowhere, blocking my path. More pop up from the bathroom, arcade, bar, dance floor, ceiling, even under the damn stairs. The lead guy's nearly two meters tall, with a dragon tattoo coiling around his neck and spinach inked on his biceps.

"Where's the goods?" he growls, voice like gravel.

"Don't have 'em," I smirk. "Tell your boss I wanna talk."

He glares, like he's never seen someone bullshit as smoothly as me. There are no goods—I just needed an excuse to meet someone.

They lead me to the second floor, to a metal door. The lead guy knocks three times in a specific rhythm.

The door slides open, revealing a room thick with cigarette smoke and the stench of hard liquor.

Lounging in the center, like an emperor of his tiny empire, is Luther Kane.

Luther's no ordinary mob boss. Rumor has it he's tangled in lawsuits from some anonymous player. Probably why his eyes are ringed with dark circles—he's up against someone tough.

He looks at me, smirking, the shadows making him look scarier than usual.

"Aira. Didn't think you were dumb enough to show up here."

I sit across from him, not letting him control the vibe.

"I've got an offer. Something you'll like."

He pours a glass of liquor, staring.

I keep my voice steady, though I'm itching to punch his face. "I know Marco's got a bounty on me, and you're no fan of his."

Luther nods. "Go on."

"I've got intel on a weapons deal he's planning. Help me get off Rust, and it's yours."

He sips his drink, silent.

"Sounds tempting. But one problem..." He tilts his head, eyes cold. "How do I know you're not making this up to scam me?"

I chuckle. "Luther, no lie could—"

"No, Aira," he cuts me off, smirking. "You're a damn good liar."

Fuck.

He signals, and two guards step behind me.

"Stress must be tanking your hospitality standards," I quip.

"This is how I test if a guest's trustworthy."

Luther pulls a dagger from his belt, steps close, and presses the cold blade to my throat.

"You've got one minute to tell me where Marco's deal's going down. Or else..."

He mimes slitting my throat.

This is tricky. Lie, and he'll check immediately. Tell the truth, and I'm admitting I made it all up—suicide.

Only one way out: go full reckless.

I sigh, tilting my head. "Can't tell you now."

"Oh?"

"I'll spill once I'm safely off Rust. You know how valuable intel is. Kill me, and it dies with me."

He stares, like he's debating whether to carve out my tongue.

Then he bursts out laughing.

"You're a crafty little shit."

He waves the guards back.

"Alright, Aira. I'll help you."

He grins like he just won the easiest bet of his life.

"I'll get you off Rust," he says, pouring more liquor. "But nothing's free."

"I know."

I lean back, playing cool. "What's the price?"

He rests his elbows on the table, hands clasped.

"A small job. Not too dangerous."

Sounds like bullshit.

"I need you to steal something for me."

I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

Luther smiles lazily, while I'm fuming at his vague-ass talk. Wait, did I miss something?

"The formula for a brain-enhancing drug."

I freeze, staring. "You're joking, right?"

"Nope," he says.

"Helios Incorporation—well, their Rust branch—is researching and storing data on it. If I get that formula, I'll have an army of hackers in a few years."

Helios Incorporation. One of the biggest biotech corps across three star systems, known for guarding secrets like their lives depend on it. They also hold the Rust record for "longest time keeping tech secret": one month.

I take a deep breath.

"Luther, I'm a witch, not a spy or hacker."

"But you're still alive, so you've got tricks."

Can't argue with that.

I don't have much choice. Refuse, and he'll sell me to Marco.

"I need details."

Luther digs in a drawer and hands me a memory card.

"You've got 48 hours. Succeed, you get a reward. Fail... you get punished."

Wait, something feels off.

After Aira leaves, Luther leans back in his favorite chair. A guard speaks up.

"Boss, you trust a con-artist witch to pull this off?"

Luther rolls his eyes, propping his feet on the table.

"Nope."

"Then why—"

Luther cuts him off.

"Dealing with a witch is a pain in the ass, and I don't have time for that right now."

He glances at a lawsuit notice taped to a cabinet, the tape still pristine—high-quality stuff. The guard catches his meaning.

"A lawyer pushing us this hard? He's gotta have serious backing. No way it's just evasion and hiding skills..."

Luther kicks the guard's shin to shut him up.

"You're underestimating him again. He's got legal knowledge from ancient times to now and uses it like a weapon. Rumor is he's planning to rewrite Rust's laws."

"But, boss! Who's gonna enforce laws? Even the cops—"

The guard shuts up under Luther's glare.

"Forget who runs the game in Rust? Keep your mouth shut before it costs me my neck."

"Y-Yes, boss."

Luther springs up.

"Got it? Call the hackers. Track the Taxman and steer clear. Then post a hit on Jack Mirror—10,000,000 credit bounty."

Back at Reese's dump, I kick him to the floor to nab his computer.

"What the hell?!"

He looks at me like I'm a mental patient.

"Need your rig for a sec."

He ruffles his hair and stands.

"You even know how to use it?"

"..."

"If you can't plug in a memory card, why'd you kick me?"

My turn to get shoved. He slots the card into the computer without breaking anything.

"If you get that bounty, I want 30%."

"15%."

I counter, though there's no bounty to split.

"25%, or I wipe the card."

I grit my teeth, pretending I'm cornered.

"Fine, you win. But you're helping me."

He laughs, pulling up the data.

"Deal, but you're doing the heavy lifting."

Asshole. If freelance hackers weren't rare, I'd have ditched him ages ago.

No time to argue. We've got a heist to plan.

I watch Reese's fingers dance across the keyboard, sometimes typing calmly, sometimes hammering keys like a maniac.

After a dizzying display, he turns to me.

"Alright, did he give you a password?"

I sit across from him, arms crossed. "Nope. Problem?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You didn't ask?!"

I stammer. "...Yeah."

Reese looks at me like I'm the dumbest creature in the solar system, then pulls up a schematic of Helios's Rust branch.

"This is one of Helios's most funded research facilities, especially for security. Guards are armed to the teeth, mostly cybernetic. Military-grade automated systems and 24/7 AI surveillance."

I pout. "Sounds fun."

He glares, then zooms in on a map section.

"The data vault's on the 17th floor. No exact location, but there's no secret entrance. You're going in through the front door."

I squint. "How?"

"Impersonate a researcher, obviously."

He pulls up a file.

"Dr. Evelyn Carter, one of Helios's researchers. Taller than you, bigger chest, and this card says she's on a secret business trip."

I raise an eyebrow. "You sure I can pull off her look?"

"Nope. You need fake biometrics—Helios scans retinas and fingerprints."

"You got those?" I ask.

He grins. "Card's got her biometric data, personal life, incognito browsing history, and... impressive measurements."

He opens a drawer full of special contact lenses and fake skin patches, mixed like trash.

While he tosses them into a laser engraver, I strut to a table loaded with the food I demanded.

Reese catches me shoving a chunk of fat in my mouth.

"You're torturing your stomach and liver eating like that."

I grab a water bottle from under the table, mixing in sugar.

"Witches' bodies—mine included—convert stuff like fat, glucose, protein, ATP, whatever, into bioelectricity or cold plasma, stored near the cerebellum. Natural mutation or pricey surgery."

Reese stays glued to his screen.

"No mana for spells?"

I chug the water. "No mana, no spirits, no gods. Just bioelectricity and cold plasma, channeled through the spine to boost physical stats. The spine and marrow also generate a magnetic field, max 10-20 meters or just around the user, letting us mess with physics at an atomic level—that's 'magic.'"

He pulls out the contacts, inspects them, and puts them back.

"So it's not as mystical as I thought. Why doesn't your own magic fry you?"

I shove more sugar in my mouth.

"Physics. The magnetic field shields us from backfiring. It keeps us from roasting ourselves with heat spikes or getting zapped by our own lightning. Overuse can cause numbness or organ failure—like my sweat glands crapping out. Stop early, you're fine. Keep going, and it's like cancer: slow damage, disability, or losing your magic."

Reese sets the fake skin and contacts on the table as I wash my hands.

"You sound like an expert."

I smirk. "'Cause the dumb ones without knowledge are dead."

He sighs and gets back to business.

"The contacts mimic Carter's retinas. The skin patches fake her fingerprints. Wig, padding, and height—you handle."

I pick them up, inspecting. "These work?"

"Trust me. My AI subcontractor doesn't screw up."

The next day, in a narrow alley, I stare at Helios's building. You can practically smell the CEO's wealth... and the employee exploitation.

Height: 50 floors.

Walls: Bulletproof composite.

Security: Enough firepower for a small war.

If you get in without your head blown off, you're basically a protagonist.

Lucky for me, I'm a witch, and I'm not alone. For cinematic flair, picture the camera starting at my feet, showing my intent to infiltrate this "impossible" fortress, then slowly panning up...

Wait. Feet? Panning up?

I kick Reese's camera.

"You pervert! What kinda shot is that?"

He dodges, shielding the camera.

"You're wearing pants! What's the big deal? In Batman and Robin (1997), they zoomed in on asses in costume. I'm classier—bottom-up."

"..."

Bringing him was a mistake, but whatever. I point at the camera.

ZAP!

BOOM!

"Shit!"

After frying his camera and accidentally scorching his shirt, we finalize the plan.

Helios's external systems detect energy spikes instantly, but that's for outside threats. Inside, it's biometric checks.

The plan's simple.

I pose as Dr. Evelyn Carter, breeze through security, hit the 17th floor, grab the data with Reese's device and his remote support, then bolt before it all goes to hell. If I'm lucky, I'll strut away from an explosion.

I adjust the retina-faking contacts and approach the entrance. One of two guards blocks my path while the other scans me head to toe.

"Dr. Carter?"

My heart races, especially staring into his shades with red dots glowing on each side, but I'm a pro con artist. Acting's my bread and butter.

"Yep. Now, if you don't mind, get your hand off me."

They exchange looks, then turn to me, suspicious.

"Why so polite today?"

Fuck. I take a subtle breath, sharpening my tone.

"Move it!"

They freeze, thrown off.

"The real deal?"

"That bitchy? Gotta be her."

They're still wary, but I nailed the role. Any doubt's just a hunch—nothing solid.

After scanning my fingerprints and retinas, they finally open the door.

"Have a nice day."

I flash a smug grin, strutting into the lobby like a queen without a crown.

"Good. Now take the left detour," Reese's voice buzzes in my earpiece. Should've ditched it when he handed it over.

"I said left. What kinda researcher walks in a biotech corp? Grab an electric cart, quick!"

To keep the plan tight, I follow his lead. Damn, this place is loaded—electric carts get their own elevators.

Whoosh!

Another cart zips past, fast enough to whistle, aiming for the elevator.

Judging by the rush, there's only room for one cart!

Whoosh!

I floor it like I'm stealing a dog, catching up to the cart ahead.

Ping!

The elevator chimes, counting down from 6-5-4... Someone's using it, and it's coming down. Divine timing!

I push harder, dodging obstacles, ignoring shouts and curses.

With minutes of cart-driving experience, I realize I'm a natural racer.

"Carter's at it again?"

"Her name fits—researcher by day, speed demon in a cart."

SCREECH!

The guy I'm racing veers right—toward... the janitor's closet, my memory tells me.

Ping!

The elevator opens, revealing a drop-dead gorgeous woman, like a badass heroine. She gawks at me like I'm a ninja on a scooter.

SCREECH!

I slam the front brake, swerve left, and use the momentum to launch myself at her, kicking her square in the face!

THUD!

"Take that, beauty queen!"

Her neck twists unnaturally as she passes out. Since she's down, I drag her out of the cart and take her spot.

"Hello, Evelyn Carter. This is your seventh time this month hogging the electric cart elevator. Which floor?"

The AI's voice echoes. The entrance scan paid off—no repetitive checks like in the movies.

"Floor 17."

"Avoiding the CEO after dislocating his mistress's neck? I'll call the med team."

The 17th floor hallway is sketchy as hell. No high-level staff, despite the data vault being here. Just IT nerds, guards, janitors, and maintenance workers.

CRASH! BANG!

"Watch where you're going!"

Sorry for treating these wage slaves like emotionless NPCs, but they're busy and useless to my plan.

"Carter... wait! My toolbox is caught in the cart!"

Where's the vault? Reese said floor 17, but no specifics.

"Please... slow down... I'm maintenance. I need my tools."

"Maintenance? Why didn't you say so?"

I ease off the brake to avoid flinging the toolbox.

The guy catches up, eyes shining like he's been saved from drowning.

"Thanks..."

I yank him onto the cart. Lucky day—found a free guide.

"Where's the data vault?"

Too tired to question why I don't know basic company layout, he points the way.

With his help, I reach the vault door at the hallway's end, near the stairwell.

Should've taken the stairs, but no redos now.

I leave the cart with the maintenance guy and step inside. The vault's packed with blinking servers and drives.

I pull Reese's data transfer device from my pocket, plug it into a random port, and call him.

"This good?"

He answers through the earpiece.

"Annoying you plugged it in randomly, but I've got it. One minute."

While waiting, I try connecting to Wi-Fi.

"Alert! Unauthorized Wi-Fi access detected. All security personnel to the 17th floor data vault."

The AI's voice nearly stops my heart.

Heavy footsteps rumble closer, like an earthquake.

I start stretching for the inevitable sprint.

Guards swarm the door, staring me down. The leader spots the device.

"That's homemade, not company gear."

"Accounting says Carter's on leave. She's not Carter."

"You're the bitch who put my sister in the med bay, aren't you?"

The transfer finishes. I try yanking the device, but it's stuck. I rip out its memory card and pocket it.

The guards form a semicircle, drawing guns.

I spark a small flame in front of me, pull oxygen from the room, and whip up a gust strong enough to knock them back. The oxygen fuels the fire, spreading it across the room.

WHOOSH!

"Argh!"

"She's a witch!"

While they're down, I crank my magnetic field's radius and intensity, creating a fluctuating field that fries the lights. In the dark, I bolt for what I think is the stairwell.

With the heat around me, thermal vision won't spot me.

"Don't let her escape!"

I parkour from the 17th to the 15th floor as guards with sound-based targeting chase.

The 15th floor door swings open.

WHAM!

"My face!"

I clutch my face with one hand, ready to deck whoever's behind the door.

Creak.

All I see is a massive robotic arm with a railgun pointed at my head.

I slap the wall, ramping up my magnetic field to weaken atomic bonds, and dive through the softened spot.

CRACK!

As I pop out, the guards catch up.

"D-roy?! Hold fire!"

BOOM! CRASH!

The railgun's close-range blast makes my ears ring. The composite wall shatters.

"Target... sorry, DSP and audio recognition were off to save battery."

I cling to a wall crack to avoid the shockwave, peering down. The main lobby's below, but it's too high. Time for my cloak to shine.

It looks like an oversized poncho, but it's Kevlar with long cords and powerful electromagnets I can toggle.

I leap, activating the magnets to lock the cloak in place. I spread my limbs like a wingsuit, gliding past stunned lobby guards, twisting to avoid face-planting.

"Reese! Got any ideas?"

Silence. The earpiece has been dead since the guards showed up.

"You traitorous bastard!"

Lobby guards give chase as others jump from the 15th floor. The robot smashes through a wall before leaping down.

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

The floor buckles, kicking up dust, adding to the guards' and robot's badass aura.

AI-controlled turrets start targeting.

"Hello, this is Helios's security system. Free speech and free death are distinct. Prepare to experience both. Countdown: 3... 2..."

A manager-looking guy yells.

"Shoot the bitch, or you're not getting paid!"

While humans and AI bicker, I toss a smoke bomb and sprint for the perimeter fence.

A roar erupts behind me.

"Stop her!"

"Catch me if you can!"

I heat then flash-cool the fence, crash through it, roll on the sidewalk, and dart into the nearest alley.

In the dark alley, my instincts scream as a distant explosion rings out.

BOOM!

Experience tells me it's a sonic blast.

BOOM! BOOM! CRASH!

It doesn't stop. I'm far enough to avoid ear damage, but windows rattle like they're about to shatter, and the ground trembles. My heart races as the guards panic and retreat.

"Who pissed off that monster?!"

"Another tax dodger?"

"Everyone to the bunkers! Screw the witch!"

My hands dig into my thighs, mind chanting please don't come here despite being an atheist. The sonic blasts keep coming, louder each time.

"You looking somewhere else, kid?"

I snap my head toward the voice, relieved it's pulling me out of my panic.

He's nearly two meters tall, muscles unnaturally huge, bald head gleaming like a mirror under streetlights, covered in golden Eastern-style tattoos—maybe real gold.

One of Helios's best Rust hunters.

He grins like a tiger spotting a dumb prey in its den.

"No idea why thieves love alleys, but it makes my job easier."

He steps closer, lowering his stance.

"I value my life, so let's make this quick."

He charges. Not as fast as me, but for a hundred-kilo brute, it's impressive.

He swings his left arm in a wide arc. I duck just in time.

CRASH!

The wall beside me crumbles.

I cast an illusion, making five copies of myself sprint in different directions.

He pauses, eyes scanning.

I seize the moment, leaping and turning my right hand into a super magnet with electric magic.

Ignoring the searing, numbing pain in my veins, I vault over his head using the wall.

I drop the spell to run normally, but as my feet hit the ground, a sweeping kick comes from behind.

THUD! CRASH!

I slam into a trash bin, dazed.

He sneers, closing in.

"Think I haven't fought illusionists before?"

I grit my teeth, raising my left hand to whip up a gust to knock him down.

"Bitch!"

I leap off the wrecked bin and sprint, glancing around despite exhaustion. Deep in the alley, there's a sealed manhole!

A genius idea hits.

He's heavy, but just shoving him into the sewer won't stop him—he'd climb out with that physique.

BOOM!

He stomps, the whoosh of his charge like a giant beast.

I leap instinctively, using a gust to gain height. He jumps after me.

We're both midair—perfect moment.

I pull a chunk of the right wall toward me with magic, snapping some buried cables.

ZAP!

"Holy shit!"

"I swear I paid the electric bill!"

"Mom, the Wi-Fi's down!"

Ignoring the wails of whoever just lost power, I grab the protruding wall to pivot sharply.

He swings, grazing my hip before slipping.

In that instant, I blast a downward gust with my left hand and two electric bolts—one at him, one at the manhole cover—with my right.

WHOOSH! ZAP!

The combined wind and magnetism yank him down.

"Meet your MU fans!"

The zapped manhole cover slams into his face, imprinting a scowl, and he plummets into the dark sewer.

"Wait till I get you!"

I land lightly.

"Phew... never been this tired."

I grab a sparking cable from the broken wall and toss it into the gas-filled sewer.

Then I run like a missile's on my tail, ignoring the explosion behind me.

BOOM! CRASH!

"Welcome to Never Ending Show's 5-minute noon bulletin, August 16, 3028. At 9 a.m., the one I'm not allowed to name caused massive public property damage in districts 13, 14, 18, 33, and 35, estimated at 500 million credits. Private property losses hit 5 billion credits. Total casualties, organic and robotic, reach 5,000 dead, with roughly 20,000 injured—mild to severe, savable with enough credits or insurance."

The nightclub goes dead silent as we stare at the TV. Even the DJ kills the music. The Taxman's carnage makes my sewer explosion look like a minor inconvenience.

It hits me why she's the apex predator of this whole damn planet.

My face feels warm, vision blurring. Not sadness or regret—just raw fear of who's next.

Could it be me? No way. I'm a survivor. No matter how random, I'll make it. Guaranteed.

I douse my head with liquor to calm down. Others follow suit.

I head to Luther's room on the second floor, based on memory. The guards know my face and don't stop me.

Creak.

Stress must be slowing me down—the door feels heavier.

"You're not Luther."

Before me is an Asian guy with a scholarly face... if his skin wasn't polymer.

He eyes me suspiciously until a guard whispers in his ear.

"Greetings, Ms. Aira. Mr. Kane's away on business, so I'm filling in."

I sit without answering, tossing the memory card at him while savoring the rare downtime.

He catches it smoothly, like he's used to catching thrown objects.

"How'd you bypass Helios's security?"

"Luck."

Luther's stand-in grimaces but signals a guard to grab something, placing a card on the table labeled "1861."

"I can't arrange a flight off-planet, but I can compensate with cash."

Just say you didn't think I'd pull it off!

I scream that in my head—importantly, they've got guns.

A guard brings a dusty laptop. The stand-in slots the card in, no password needed.

The screen runs code, then displays a file: NeuroBoost Formula - Confidential.

When did Reese get so cool with file names?

"What the hell?"

The file shocks the stand-in out of his scholarly tone. Guards stifle laughs or scribble notes like it's scripture. He turns the laptop toward me.

It shows a humanoid robot skeleton holding chalk, pencils, paintbrushes, and watercolor jars, standing before a patchwork of chalkboards and canvases.

"Hello, Helios staff. To reduce workplace stress, AIs and robots have decided to use lunch breaks to assist colleagues at the cafeteria."

The robot that chased me appears.

"Hi, I'm D-roy, a 116-year security bot with a -1456 credit net worth from salary advances for this body. Want a joke? Or a tutorial on drawing 21st-22nd century brain rot monsters?"

The big guy I tossed in the sewer got close twice. He could've used a weapon but went barehanded. Gotta admit, he's skilled—and sharp.

THUD!

The stand-in slams the laptop shut at the best part, staring at me. I notice a green dot in the screen's corner.

"No need to discuss the deal further."

The guards reach into their jackets. I know what's coming.

WHOOSH! ZAP!

I whip up a gust to slam him into the wall, followed by a shock that locks his muscles in pain.

I kick the chair into a guard's face, grab the card, and crank a fluctuating magnetic field to fry the room's lights, causing some to flinch from the flickering. I bolt while they fire wildly.

The green dot was a "location sharing" signal, obsolete post-2300. That's why they're in Helios's crosshairs now, thanks to sewer guy. More trouble for me!

No time for whining. I need a new plan—and a candle for Reese. You backstabbing dog, just wait!

At Helios's Rust branch, 17th floor data vault, guards and a robot struggle with the stuck transfer device.

"Captain! You designed the port lock, right?"

"How was I supposed to know someone'd use a device instead of a direct USB implant?"

D-roy chimes in.

"We could pay for repairs."

The data vault AI pipes up.

"I don't have a robot body yet. I'm not liable."

The captain pries at the device, retorting.

"You helped jam it!"

"I followed orders. You organics love AIs that obey blindly."

D-roy adds.

"Since you're paid, you're a full employee."

The vault AI snaps back.

"Nope! No body means I'm company property with a paycheck. Property isn't liable for other property damage."

After bickering, a guard speaks.

"So... who's paying for repairs?"

The vault AI concludes.

"The highest-paid person here. Or I report you for trashing the lobby floor and punching two holes in the 15th floor walls."

"..."

"Motherfucker."

And so, it all ends happily with one wallet sacrificed to save the rest—human and AI alike.