THE CRIMSON WHISPER

The Crimson Whisper was not just a dive bar; it was an open wound in the heart of the city, a place where decadence and despair intertwined with pleasure and violence. Inside, the air was thick with a pungent stench—stale sweat, cheap perfume, and the metallic trace of dried blood clinging to the walls. The music, a deep, distorted industrial rhythm, vibrated through the bones of those present, resonating with every heartbeat accelerated by questionable drugs.

The red neon lights flickered intermittently, casting elongated shadows on the grimy walls. The lighting painted everything in a sickly crimson hue—the hardened faces of the patrons, the sticky puddles on the floor, and the cheap glasses reflecting a bloody glow. In one corner, a bloodshot-eyed dealer negotiated with a woman whose cracked lips and trembling fingers betrayed her desperation. On the dance floor, a young woman with cybernetic implants moved hypnotically, her reflective skin shimmering under the artificial lights.

Near the bar, Hektor "The Butcher" watched his customers with a predator's half-smile. His eyes, glowing with the neon red, looked like burning embers.

At a secluded table, three battered and furious figures drank and spoke, indifferent to their surroundings. They were the thugs who, just hours earlier, had been humiliated by a single man. "The Poor Programmer," as they mockingly called him. But now, they weren't laughing anymore.

—It's impossible! —Bork, the trio's leader, growled, spitting on the floor. His face still bore the marks of the beating.— That bastard was nothing… until today.—How did he do it? —Drek asked, rubbing his dislocated jaw.— I saw him move. He was too fast. Too strong.—He must have taken something! —Luko interrupted, his eye swollen shut.— There are enhancement drugs, combat serums… it had to be something like that.—Or maybe… —Bork glanced around warily before whispering— ...maybe the System favored him.

The other two shuddered.

The System never granted anything without reason. And if "The Poor Programmer" had received a gift, it meant he was someone special… or someone dangerous.

—We need to find out who the hell he really is, —Bork declared.— And there's someone who can help us with that.

Their heads turned toward the hulking figure of Hektor "The Butcher," owner of The Crimson Whisper and one of the biggest crime bosses in the district. He was watching them with a malicious glint in his cybernetic eyes. He barely smiled, waiting for them to approach with their request.

At the bar, a man drank in silence, his gaze fixed on the thugs' reflection in the mirror behind the bartender. He was a thin young man, with messy hair and sharp eyes hidden behind interface glasses. His name was Dante, an old friend of Kael. His job was simple: hack minor systems, sell information, and most importantly—stay alive. But what he had just overheard made him swallow nervously.

The description of the guy who had beaten up those thugs, the clothes he wore, the "poor programmer" nickname… everything matched his friend's image. He shook his head, trying to convince himself it was impossible. Kael commanded respect, sure, but not at that level. Not as someone capable of humiliating three enforcers and walking away unscathed.

—No way… —he murmured to himself.

He connected his communication implant, and in an instant, his visor projected a holographic image of Kael, who appeared with a puzzled expression.

—Dante, what's wrong? —Kael asked, noticing his friend's uneasy look.

Dante stole a quick glance at the thugs before lowering his voice.

—Kael… tell me you're not the guy these idiots are talking about.

Kael frowned.

—What are you talking about?

—I'm at The Crimson Whisper. Marek and his goons are here, licking their wounds and trying to figure out how the hell a "simple programmer" beat the shit out of them… and on top of that, robbed them. I don't want to believe it was you, man, but the description matches too well. And now they've gone to The Butcher… probably to ask for backup.

A chill ran down Kael's spine. His mistake at the junkyard was coming back to haunt him far sooner than he had expected.

—Shit… —he whispered.

Dante nodded grimly.

—I don't know what happened, and I won't ask. But watch your back, and more importantly, protect Lira. If they find you, and they think you're the guy they're after… they're going to tear you apart.

Kael clenched his teeth.

—Thanks for the warning.