Chapter 2

The morning sun struggled to break through the thick smog hanging over the city. Ethan Cross crouched in the shadows of a derelict warehouse, his breathing shallow. His clothes were soaked from the rain and caked with dirt from his desperate escape. His mind raced with questions.

"What the hell is happening?" he whispered to himself. His jaw still throbbed from where one of the masked men had punched him the night before. He couldn't stop replaying the moment over and over in his head—the flatline, the cold lifelessness of Senator Marcus Holt's face, the threats that followed.

And then, there was that voice.

"System online. Objective complete. Reward delivered."

The voice had been calm and clinical, but there was no denying what it had done. Ethan didn't know how, but it had given him skills—knowledge he didn't have just hours before. He rubbed his temple, trying to process.

"I don't have time for this," he muttered. The police were still after him. And if the officers chasing him last night were any indication, they weren't interested in bringing him in alive. He needed a plan.

"System?" he said hesitantly. "Are you… still there?"

The voice responded immediately. "Online. User: Ethan Cross. Current status: Fugitive. Next objective: Secure immediate resources for survival."

Ethan blinked. "Resources? What kind of resources?"

"Money, identification, and shelter are critical for continued survival."

Ethan frowned. "How am I supposed to get all that when the entire city is looking for me?"

"Guidance will be provided. Objective 1: Locate and acquire transportation. Objective 2: Obtain new identification. Objective 3: Secure temporary shelter."

He scoffed. "Sounds simple enough. You forgot to mention that I'll probably die trying."

"Probability of failure: 64%. Adjusting parameters to increase likelihood of success."

Ethan let out a bitter laugh. "Great. A helpful computer voice with an optimistic death rate."

With no other options, Ethan stepped out of the shadows. He'd spent years living in this part of the city. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to navigate the maze of alleys and abandoned buildings. He stuck to side streets, keeping his head low as he moved through the industrial district.

Every sound set him on edge—a car engine rumbling in the distance, the faint chatter of voices. He couldn't tell who was hunting him, but the tension in the air was suffocating. The city felt like it had turned against him.

As he rounded a corner, he spotted a small repair shop with a rusty motorcycle parked out front. It was the first break he'd seen all day.

"System," he whispered. "I'm guessing that's my best bet for transportation?"

"Correct. Calculating optimal approach… Recommended strategy: hot-wire the vehicle and exit the area immediately."

Ethan shook his head. "Hot-wire? I'm a doctor, not a car thief."

"Temporary skill upload available: Vehicle Manipulation Level 1. Would you like to proceed?"

Ethan hesitated. The last time the system uploaded something, it felt like his brain had been set on fire. But there was no time to argue.

"Do it," he said through gritted teeth.

A sharp pain shot through his skull, and suddenly, he knew exactly how to start the bike without a key. It wasn't knowledge he'd learned—it was simply… there. Like he'd always known it.

He approached the motorcycle, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. His hands moved instinctively, working the wires under the seat. Within seconds, the engine roared to life.

"Okay," he muttered, climbing onto the seat. "That's one down."

As he revved the engine, the shop door slammed open, and a burly man stormed out, a wrench in hand.

"Hey! That's my bike!" the man shouted, his face red with rage.

Ethan cursed under his breath and twisted the throttle. The bike shot forward, tires screeching as he tore down the street. Behind him, the man's shouts faded into the distance, replaced by the sound of sirens.

Ethan sped through the narrow streets, his eyes darting to every alley and intersection. The sirens were getting louder, and his gut told him they were meant for him. He gritted his teeth and pushed the bike harder, weaving through traffic with reckless precision.

"System," he said, his voice tight. "Any advice?"

"Avoid checkpoints. Law enforcement activity detected three blocks ahead. Suggested route recalculated."

A map appeared in his mind, highlighting a detour through a series of back alleys. Ethan followed it without question, cutting through tight corners and barely avoiding collisions.

"Who the hell are these people?" he muttered. "Why do they want me dead so badly?"

"Analysis: Senator Marcus Holt was a high-value individual with extensive criminal connections. His death has triggered multiple factions to pursue you for political and personal reasons."

"Great," Ethan muttered. "Not just the cops. Everyone's after me."

As he rounded another corner, his luck ran out. A patrol car screeched to a halt ahead of him, blocking the street. Two officers jumped out, guns drawn.

"Stop the vehicle! Hands where we can see them!" one officer shouted.

Ethan didn't slow down. He swerved hard, narrowly missing the car as he sped down a side street. His heart pounded in his chest, but his hands were steady on the handlebars.

"Objective updated: Locate a safe location to regroup. High-priority hideout available in Sector D."

"Sector D? That's halfway across the city!" Ethan snapped. "I can't keep running forever."

"Survival requires immediate action. Additional tools will be unlocked upon completion of the current objective."

Ethan gritted his teeth. The system wasn't wrong—he couldn't fight back or figure out the truth unless he survived the day.

After what felt like hours, Ethan finally reached the hideout the system had directed him to: an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. He parked the bike and crept inside, his senses on high alert.

The place was dark and damp, with broken windows and a faint smell of mildew. But it was quiet, and that was all Ethan cared about. He collapsed onto a pile of crates, his chest heaving.

"You're really pushing me to the edge here, System," he muttered.

"Stress levels elevated. Recommended action: Rest and recovery."

Ethan let out a bitter laugh. "Sure, I'll just take a nap while the city tries to kill me."

But even as he spoke, exhaustion dragged at his body. His adrenaline had burned out, leaving him drained and vulnerable. He leaned back against the crates, closing his eyes for just a moment.

As the darkness closed in, one thought echoed in his mind: This was only the beginning. If he didn't find answers soon, he wouldn't live to see the end of the week.