Chapter 3

The first thing Ethan Cross noticed when he woke was the stillness. The second was the throbbing ache in his temples. His muscles felt heavy, his body sluggish, but he forced himself upright. Faint beams of light filtered through the cracked windows of the warehouse, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air.

"System," he croaked, his throat dry. "Are you still… online?"

"Online. User recovery at 64%. Current status: Fugitive. High-priority alert: Multiple hostile forces detected within the city. Immediate action recommended."

Ethan groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You don't waste time, do you? Fine. What's next?"

"Next Objective: Establish a sustainable safe zone. Resources are insufficient for long-term survival. Recommendation: Obtain currency and fake identification."

"Sure," Ethan muttered. "Because I just happen to have a bank account full of money to withdraw."

"Directive: Locate underground market. Access barter system for immediate needs."

"Underground market?" Ethan shook his head. "I've spent my life patching up people in the slums, not dealing with criminals. Do I look like someone who knows how to find an underground market?"

"Accessing local knowledge… New route calculated. Guidance available upon request."

Ethan exhaled sharply, his mind still struggling to keep pace with the system's rapid responses. He glanced at his stolen motorcycle parked near the broken door. At least he still had transportation, even if it came with a side of guilt.

"Fine," he said, standing and stretching his stiff limbs. "Let's get moving before someone decides to turn this place into my tomb."

The system guided him through the maze of streets, avoiding major roads and known patrol zones. Ethan kept his head down, his mind racing with paranoia. Every passerby felt like a potential threat. Every glint of a window could be a sniper's scope.

It wasn't long before he found himself in the heart of Sector D—a part of the city he rarely visited, even during his most desperate days. The streets were lined with graffiti and broken streetlights, and the air carried the faint tang of oil and rust. This was a place where law didn't exist, where survival came at a price.

The system's voice broke the silence.

"Destination reached. Underground market located beneath Atlas Garage."

Ethan slowed the bike as he approached the dilapidated building. The garage's sign hung by a single chain, its paint chipped and weathered. The large bay doors were closed, but faint voices echoed from inside. A small side door stood ajar, a single flickering lightbulb illuminating the entryway.

He hesitated, gripping the handlebars tightly. "And what happens if they decide I'm worth more dead than alive?"

"Probability of hostility: 48%. Recommended strategy: Non-aggressive entry. Use medical expertise to barter."

"Medical expertise?" Ethan muttered. "I'm supposed to play doctor for criminals now?"

But the truth was, he didn't have a choice. He killed the engine and dismounted, taking a deep breath before stepping into the dimly lit garage.

The underground market was a stark contrast to the crumbling exterior of the garage. Rows of makeshift stalls lined the space, each lit by hanging bulbs. Vendors sold everything from counterfeit passports to black-market weapons. The air buzzed with hushed conversations and the occasional burst of laughter.

Ethan kept his head low, his heart pounding as he weaved through the crowd. He wasn't sure where to start, but the system guided him with cold precision.

"Target identified: Stall 14. Operative specializes in documentation and anonymity tools."

As Ethan approached the stall, a wiry man with a sly grin looked up from behind a counter cluttered with fake IDs and blank passports.

"New face," the man said, his voice smooth and taunting. "What brings you to our humble little market? Don't tell me you're here to buy a vacation package."

Ethan forced a weak smile. "I need fake IDs. And I need them fast."

The man leaned forward, his grin widening. "Well, aren't you direct? I like that. But nothing comes free down here, friend. You got money? Or something worth trading?"

Ethan hesitated. "I'm a doctor. I can—"

"A doctor?" The man's eyebrows shot up. "Now that's interesting. What kind of doctor? The kind that writes prescriptions or the kind that pulls bullets out of people?"

"Both," Ethan said quickly, sensing an opportunity. "And I'm good at what I do."

The man rubbed his chin, his grin fading into something more calculating. "There's a guy in the back who's been bleeding all over the place for the last hour. Cops roughed him up pretty bad. You fix him, and we'll talk IDs."

Ethan's stomach churned. The idea of treating a criminal in a place like this made his skin crawl, but the system's voice cut through his hesitation.

"Objective update: Treat patient to secure resources. Probability of success: 79%."

"Fine," Ethan said, his voice steady. "Where is he?"

The man pointed toward a narrow hallway at the back of the market. "Room 3. You save his life, and I'll give you what you need."

The room smelled of iron and sweat. A man lay sprawled on a makeshift cot, his shirt soaked with blood. A nasty gash stretched across his abdomen, and his breathing was shallow. Two other men stood nearby, their faces tense as they watched Ethan enter.

"You the doctor?" one of them asked, his tone skeptical.

"Yeah," Ethan said, pulling on gloves. "Move back and give me space."

The men hesitated but stepped aside. Ethan knelt beside the patient, his hands moving instinctively. The wound was deep but manageable. He needed to act fast.

"System," he muttered under his breath. "I need help with this."

"Activating Medical Aid: Wound Stabilization Level 1."

A familiar surge of pain hit Ethan's head, but he pushed through it. Techniques and knowledge flooded his mind, and he worked with precision, stitching the wound and stopping the bleeding with materials scavenged from the room.

Minutes passed like hours, but finally, the man's breathing steadied. Ethan leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow.

"He'll live," he said, looking up at the others.

The men exchanged glances, their expressions softening. "You just saved his life," one of them said. "Thanks, Doc."

Back at the stall, the wiry man greeted Ethan with a slow clap. "Well, well. Looks like you're the real deal after all. I like that."

"Do we have a deal?" Ethan asked, his voice firm.

The man nodded. "IDs will take an hour. Sit tight."

Ethan exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening. For the first time in what felt like days, he'd managed to stay one step ahead of the chaos.