The Hacker’s Lair
The rain hammered Neo-Shanghai's slums like a fist, a relentless drumbeat against rusted roofs that leaked into the night. Jun Xi stood at the penthouse window, the city's neon smear bleeding through the glass—Midtown's glow a distant promise, the slums a dark sprawl below. 26,172,294 Union Coins. That's where he was, the Money Makes Money System ticking up 1,308,614 UN since midnight, a silent pulse in his skull. Nine days ago, he'd been a nobody, a slum rat with a busted PC and 1,500 UN; now, XiTech's 50-server grid lay fried in the next room, a burned-out husk courtesy of some bastard—NexCorp, maybe—who thought they could kick him back down. His dark eyes narrowed, jaw tight, the coffee mug in his hand cold and forgotten. They'd miscalculated.
He set the mug down—ceramic clinked on steel—and pulled on his faded black hoodie, the one relic of his old life that still fit right. The system hummed, unbidden, its bold voice cutting through: "Funds: 27,480,908 UN. Interest: 1,374,045 UN daily. Alert: XiTech grid offline—cause unknown." "Unknown's bullshit," he muttered, pocketing his phone—Lina's text from an hour ago glowed: "CyberCore run done—meet me at Eighth Street, noon. We'll fix this." It was 10 AM now, and he wasn't waiting. The sabotage wasn't random; it was a message, and he'd trace it to the source.
The slums hit him as he stepped out—wet concrete stung his boots, the air thick with soy grease and rust, a kid's shout slicing through the rain: "Ten UN, holo-chips, best vids!" Jun Xi ducked under a tarp, weaving past a junk pile where a drone's red eye blinked, scanning for scraps. Tara's name had come up last night—Lina's tip, a hacker from the alleys who'd cracked Midtown's black market feeds. If anyone could peel back NexCorp's shadow, it was her. He found her lair off Third Lane, a shack wedged between a noodle stall and a crumbling wall, its door a steel slab tagged with flickering holo-graffiti: "Code or Die."
He knocked—three sharp raps—and the door slid open, smoke curling out like a ghost. Tara leaned in the frame, lanky and sharp-edged—20, maybe, her dark hair buzzed short, a silver stud glinting in her nose. Her grin was all teeth, eyes glinting under a holo-screen's glow. "Lightning kid, huh?" she rasped, voice rough like she smoked too much. "Lina said you're trouble. Come in—don't drip on my rig." The shack was a mess—cables snaked across the floor, holo-screens hummed with scrolling code, a fan whirred against the heat of overclocked drives. It smelled of solder and stale beer, a slum-tech cathedral.
Jun Xi stepped in, boots crunching grit, his calm mask intact but curiosity sparking. "Tara, right? My grid's toast—50 servers, X9 cables, burned out yesterday. Someone's screwing me, and I need it traced." She smirked, flopping into a chair patched with duct tape, her fingers dancing over a holo-pad. "Heard you're loaded—26 mil, slum boy? That's a fairy tale. Gimme specs—grid layout, power draw, everything."
He pulled his quantum PC from his bag—sleek, rain-damp—and synced it to her rig, the sabotage logs flickering up: fried circuits, a power spike at 3 AM. Funds ticked to 28 mil UN—interest didn't sleep. "NexCorp's my guess," he said, voice low, calculative. "Big dogs don't like new pups." Tara's smirk faded, her eyes sharpening as she scrolled. "NexCorp? Shit, you're poking a bear. This spike's no glitch—encrypted signal, routed through Midtown. Can't crack it yet—too deep, too clean."
His gut twisted—not fear, but a cold, flirty thrill. "Clean's their mistake—I'll make it messy. You in? 10,000 UN a month, hack for XiTech." Tara laughed, sharp and wild, leaning closer—her breath smelled of mint and smoke. "Tempting, lightning kid. Deal—10k, and I'll dig 'til it bleeds. You're cute when you're pissed." He grinned, natural charm kicking in. "Wait 'til I win."
The door banged open—Lina, soaked, her jumpsuit clinging, hair plastered to her face. "Jun Xi, you ass— noon, I said!" Her glare softened at Tara, then hardened. "She's the hacker? Grid's my mess—don't cut me out." Jun Xi stepped between them, voice chill but firm. "She's tracing— you're fixing. We're a team, Lina. 28 mil UN now—NexCorp's signal's Midtown. Thoughts?"
Lina's jaw tightened, then eased—her hand brushed his arm, wet and warm. "Midtown's their turf—Northern Towers, maybe. I'll rewire the grid—100 servers by tomorrow, X9s'll hold. Tara, don't screw us." Tara smirked, tossing a cable. "Wouldn't dare, gear queen. Signal's a ghost—give me time." Funds hit 29 mil UN—MarketPulse sales pinged, 500 more users, 5 mil UN added.
Jun Xi exhaled, rain drumming outside, the shack's hum a heartbeat. "System," he thought, and it answered: "Funds: 29,855,953 UN. Interest: 1,492,797 UN. Mission: Secure XiTech—Reward: 5 mil UN, Network Security Knowledge. Progress: 50%." His eyes flicked to Lina—fierce, steady—then Tara, chaotic and sharp. The grid was down, NexCorp loomed, but he felt it—his spark, growing. "Let's burn 'em," he said, voice low, a slum kid's edge cutting through.
By noon, they were back at Orion Tower, Tara's rig hooked to the grid, Lina cursing as she ripped out burned cables—grease streaked her face, her laugh raw when a spark flew. Funds ticked to 30 mil UN—system log glowed: "Funds: 30,348,750 UN." Jun Xi watched, calm mask hiding a storm. NexCorp thought they'd cracked him—but he'd crack them first.