5 Million Credits

I stared at the laptop on the workbench. A real one. Haven't seen one of these in a while. The screen flickered with static, OS fried to hell.

In front of me stood a heavy guy, arms like steel beams, full-body cybernetics humming under his coat. His jaw was reinforced, eyes replaced with industrial-grade optics. A walking tank.

"Looks like the core system's shot. Memory looped into a junk cycle," I said, tapping through the code. "Probably cooked itself trying to boot."

"Can you fix it?" he asked, voice deep, modulated.

"Yeah. Gimme a sec."

I cracked my knuckles and started typing. A few lines of code, a bypass patch, reformat the bootloader, reroute the power sequence. It didn't take long.

"Done. Good as new," I said, pushing it back across the table.

The man raised a brow, impressed. "You're fast. Heard EX Enterprise is looking for someone like you."

I looked up. "EX?"

"They found some old AI lab out in the outside. Pre-collapse stuff. It's locked behind analog tech. They can't get through it. Need someone who knows their way around that kind of system."

"I don't take corp work," I said, leaning back. "Getting tied to megacorps is asking for trouble."

"They're offering ten million credits."

My hand froze.

"…What?"

"Ten million," he repeated.

I'd made 56,192 credits in a year working this shop. Barely enough to stay alive.

"We've got a team already lined up to hit the lab. Just missing someone who can crack the analog systems," he continued. "You join us, we'll cut you five million."

"Five million?" I repeated, almost laughing.

He nodded. "Yeah. Five."

I stared at him for a moment.

Five million credits.

The guy slid a chipped card across the table. "Call that number when you've made your choice," he said, then turned and walked out, heavy footsteps echoing into the street.

I stared at the card.

EX Enterprise wasn't some back alley gang. They'd do background checks. Deep ones. Especially on a nobody like me.

But five million credits…

I leaned back in the chair, card spinning between my fingers.

"…Old man!!"

From the back, a voice growled, "What now?"

"You said you knew someone who forges IDs, right?"

A pause. Then Duran stepped out, wiping oil off his hands. "Yeah. Why?"

"Where can I find him?"

He squinted. "Trying to skip work?"

"No. Just gotta handle something. I'll be back."

Duran sighed. "Black market in Zone Y. You know the place?"

"Yeah," I said, grabbing my jacket off the hook. "I'll be back soon."

He muttered something under his breath as I stepped out. But I didn't care.

I needed that ID. I wasn't gonna let five million slip by.

The streets buzzed with noise the second I stepped out. Neon lights bathed everything in that synthetic pink-blue glow. Ads danced across massive holo-screens on the sides of skyscrapers—new drugs, cyberware deals, even romantic AI subscriptions.

Hovercrafts zipped overhead, some low enough to rattle the windows. Street vendors yelled over each other, selling everything from fried synth-meat to "genuine" vintage tech. Junkies slumped in alleys, jacked into trash-tier VR. The stench of oil, smoke, and something burning clung to everything.

I made my way to Zone Y.

Zone Y. Technically "black market," but everyone knew EX Enterprise ran this place behind the scenes. Government couldn't touch it. Not that it mattered—government had no teeth in this city anymore.

You could find anything here. Illegal mods. Identity scramblers. Black-grade weapons. Human upgrades fresh off the black clinic tables. Everything had a price, and everything was for sale.

"New neural reflex chip, fresh outta Korea—only 80k!"

"Need a new face? Quick-swap mask tech, ten minutes, no questions!"

"Three bullets for a thousand credits, make 'em count!"

I ignored the chaos and kept walking until I found it—small shack, no sign, just a flickering screen above the door with a distorted fingerprint logo.

I stepped inside.

Behind the desk was a thin man with glowing eyes and half his face replaced with cheap metal plating. "What do you need?" he asked, monotone.

"ID."

He scratched something into a datapad. "I can only do yellow. That fine?"

I clicked my tongue. "Ugh… yeah."

I figured I wouldn't get red or purple, obviously. But I was hoping for at least green. Guess that was asking too much.

"10,000 credits."

I exhaled through my nose. "Fine."

"Name?"

"Sam. Sam Shullimen."

He typed it in without blinking. "Come back in an hour. It'll be ready."