The First Crack

The holo-screen flickered once, then died, plunging the penthouse into a silence so sharp it felt like a scream. Jun Xi stood frozen by the server room door, the hum of XiTech's 50 racks gone quiet, his coffee mug—still warm with dark roast—slipping from his hand to shatter on the hardwood. Nine days ago, he'd been nothing, a slum ghost with 1,500 Union Coins and a busted PC. Now, at 11,618,376 UN, he was a 21-year-old founder, XiTech's grid live, MarketPulse raking in millions—until this. His dark eyes narrowed, tracing the dead servers, the air thick with the tang of burned circuits. Something was wrong, and it wasn't an accident.

He crouched, shards crunching under his boots, and sniffed—ozone, sharp and bitter, like the slums after a storm. The system chimed in his skull, unbidden, voice cold: "Major Mission: Build a business empire worth 10 billion UN or above. Funds: 11,618,376 UN. Progress: 0.1162%. Alert: XiTech grid offline—cause unknown." His jaw tightened, a flicker of dread twisting into anger. "Unknown, my ass," he muttered, standing, his blazer creaking as he moved. 11.6 million UN at 5% was 580,918 UN daily—cash still flowing from MarketPulse sales—but the grid was his spine, and someone had just kicked it.

The clock blinked 9 AM, Midtown's morning roar filtering through the windows—hovercars whining, vendors shouting, the city's pulse a dull throb against the glass. Lina was due at noon, Kai trailing her with tools, but this couldn't wait. He grabbed his phone, texting her: "Grid's down—burned out. CyberCore, now. Bring Kai." Her reply pinged back fast, raw: "Shit. On it—there in 20." He swapped his jacket for a worn hoodie—black, faded, a relic of the slums—and hit the streets, the smart key to Orion Tower's 15th-floor office heavy in his pocket.

Neo-Shanghai hit him like a wave: the air thick with soy and exhaust, a kid in a patched coat hawking pirated holo-chips from a crate, his voice high and desperate—"Ten UN, best vids, c'mon!"—while a drone buzzed low, its red eye scanning the crowd. Jun Xi weaved through, boots splashing puddles, the slums' grit still in his bones despite the penthouse shine. CyberCore loomed ahead, a squat warehouse of steel and flickering neon, its doors rattling as workers hauled crates in the haze.

Inside, the air buzzed—oil, static, shouts—and Kai was already there, arguing with a stocky woman at the counter, her apron stained, voice like gravel. "I said no refunds, dock rat—X7 cables don't fry unless you're an idiot!" Kai slammed a fist on the desk, tattoos flexing, his buzzed hair damp with sweat. "They fried, Mei—grid's dead, and I ain't the idiot here!" Jun Xi stepped up, cutting through, voice low but hard. "Mei, right? Jun Xi—XiTech. 50 servers, X7s, all toast. What happened?"

Mei turned, her eyes—sharp, brown, lined with fatigue—sizing him up, her lips curling sour. "You're the slum kid—millionaire now, huh? Cables don't burn unless you overload 'em. Your setup's the problem, not my stock." Lina burst in then, breathless, jumpsuit smudged, her hair wild. "Bullshit, Mei—those servers were perfect yesterday. I wired 'em myself. Something's off."

Mei crossed her arms, voice dropping, a flicker of something—fear?—behind her glare. "Off's right. Heard rumors—NexCorp's sniffing around newbies. Sabotage ain't their style, but… watch your back, kids. I've seen shops vanish—my cousin's did, three years back. No proof, just gone." Jun Xi's gut twisted, Rhea's warning echoing—NexCorp eats dreamers—and a shadow crept into his mind. Mystery, conflict, a crack in his grid.

Kai kicked a crate, voice raw. "Screw rumors—my sister Jia's counting on this gig. Grid's down, we're screwed!" Lina grabbed his arm, sharp but steady. "Chill, Kai—we'll fix it. Jun Xi, what's the play?" He exhaled, mind racing—AI Optimization Knowledge mapping fixes, costs, risks. "New cables, double-check the grid—50,000 UN, CyberCore stock. Office at Orion's live—move MarketPulse there, keep sales rolling. We dig—NexCorp or not, I want answers."

Mei snorted, tossing a crate of X9 cables—thicker, pricier—onto the counter. "50k, take it. X9s won't fry unless you're bombing 'em. Don't die, slum kid—kinda like your guts." He wired it—funds dipping to 11,568,376—and Kai hauled the crate, muttering, "Jia'd better thank me." Lina smirked, tired, her hand brushing Jun Xi's. "You're a magnet for trouble—let's move."

Orion Tower gleamed in Midtown's heart, its 15th floor a blank slate—bare concrete, pre-wired ports, a view of the city's sprawl. They hauled the servers up, Jun Xi's hoodie soaked, Lina cursing as she rewired, Kai grumbling but fast. By 4 PM, the grid hummed again—X9s glowing, MarketPulse back online, sales ticking to 1,500—15 million UN banked. Jun Xi leaned against a wall, catching his breath, the city's hum beyond the glass a steady beat. "11.5 mil left, 15 mil in sales—26 mil total. We're alive."

Lina slumped beside him, her shoulder warm against his, voice soft but fierce. "Barely. NexCorp's a ghost—my old shop felt this too, pressure outta nowhere. You okay?" He nodded, his hand finding hers, rough and real. "Yeah—pissed, not scared. Slum taught me worse. You?" She squeezed back, her laugh shaky. "Same—grew up dodging bigger knives. We'll fight this."

Kai sprawled on the floor, wiping grease, voice rough. "Jia's gonna freak—26 mil? Told her I'd make it someday. NexCorp can suck it—docks don't break easy." Jun Xi grinned, raw, tossing him a water. "Good—need that fire. Office is home now—XiTech's standing."

Night fell, and they hit Neon Bite—ribs, beer, 2,000 UN—cramped in a booth, the city's glow filtering through steamed windows. A new face joined—Jia, Kai's sister, 19, lanky with a comp sci holo-pad, her voice bright but nervous. "Kai said you're Jun Xi—XiTech's real? I'm in uni—AI's my life. Can I… help?" Her eyes shone, a dreamer's edge, and Jun Xi nodded, voice warm. "Yeah—intern, 5,000 UN a month. Grid's yours to learn." She beamed, Kai ruffling her hair, gruff but proud. "Told ya—slum king's legit."

Lina leaned on Jun Xi, her voice low, real. "You're building fast—family now, huh? Watch it—NexCorp's shadow's long." He met her gaze, the noise fading, his hand tight on hers. "Let 'em come—slum kids don't crack. You're my spine, Lina." She smirked, tired, fierce, kissing him quick—messy, alive—before pulling back. "Good—keep burning."

Midnight chimed as he stood on Orion's 15th, alone, the grid humming, city lights flickering. "Funds: 26,172,294 UN." Interest added 553,918 UN, sales pouring in. A crack had split his start—NexCorp's shadow loomed, a mystery whispering sabotage—but XiTech stood, its roots sinking deep, and Jun Xi felt it: the game was just beginning.