NANITE

He pulled his hood low, shadowing his face, and raised his gaiter, obscuring the rest. Julia had said his skin was tougher than steel now, reinforced like subdermal armor. He hoped he wouldn't have to test that theory tonight—but a small, reckless part of him, the part that was still reeling from his transformation, almost wanted to.

He paused, a flicker of his old self, the pragmatic survivor, warring with this new, emerging impulse. This wasn't his problem. He could keep walking. Call it in anonymously and let the VPD crawl out of their hole an hour later, after the bodies were cold and the credits were gone.

But what if it were Julia inside that shop, her life threatened by these thugs? What if it were his mom? That thought alone made his fists clench, his knuckles white. No one else was coming. In Virelia, you were your own savior. Or you were dead.

One of the outside thugs, the one with the dragon tattoo, turned his back for a moment to adjust his belt, his attention momentarily diverted.

Ray moved. Like a ghost. Like a whisper of violence.

His punch landed square against the thug's jaw—fast, brutal, efficient. The man collapsed without a sound, a puppet with its strings cut, before he even registered the hit. Ray blinked, staring at his own fist, a flicker of surprise at the sheer, effortless power. It was more than he expected.

Then—more gunfire. Screams from inside the shop. Shouts from the street.

Ray dove behind a parked, heavily customized motorcycle, bullets chewing into the air around him, whining past his head. Metal pinged and sparked off the bike's frame.

"Think, Ray. Think," he hissed to himself, his mind racing, assessing the situation, calculating the odds.

Inside the store, someone shouted in rapid-fire Japanese. Urgent. Commanding. The one with the Oni mask, no doubt.

Ray's eyes flicked to the rooftops. No spotters. No visible backup. Just amateurs with live rounds, bad ideas, and a misplaced sense of invincibility.

His hand stretched out, touching the cold metal of the motorcycle beside him.

Move.

The nanites surged forward, a silent command, flowing into the bike's ignition system. The electric engine coughed once, then roared to life with a surprising surge of power.

The motorcycle shot forward like a missile, smashing into one of the remaining gunmen and sending him sprawling onto the concrete with a sickening crunch.

Ray sprinted for the storefront and crashed through the remains of the shattered door, glass exploding outwards.

The man inside, the one holding the gun to the shopkeeper's head, turned, his weapon rising—too late.

Ray lifted his arm, a shield of nanite-reinforced flesh. The bullet struck him square in the chest. It hit like a sledgehammer, the impact staggering him, but it didn't pierce. He felt the nanites ripple through the impact site, a warm, tingling sensation as they devoured the projectile, knitting his skin, his fused clothing, back together even as the pain, a dull, informative throb, buzzed like a hot warning through his system.

It didn't hurt, not in the way it should have. It just informed. Damage sustained. Damage repaired.

Ray charged. He slammed the shooter to the ground, the man's pistol clattering away across the grimy floor. The thug groaned, dazed, but tried to raise his hands, to fight back. Ray was faster. He snatched the fallen pistol-a pre-collapse model, leveling it at the guy's terrified face.

"Wait—wait! Don't shoot!" the man begged, his voice cracking, his bravado evaporating in a cloud of fear.

Ray's breath came heavy, his eyes narrowed, cold and hard. "You're not Yasha," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

The thug froze, his eyes wide with terror. "We're not! We were just… using the name! For rep! We're nobodies!"

The truth hit Ray like a splash of cold, dirty rain. Wannabes. Posers. Kids playing gangster, in way over their heads. His jaw tightened. Disgust, sharp and bitter, curled in his gut. He knocked the guy out with a single, clean punch to the temple. The thug sagged to the floor, unconscious.

Ray stood up and turned toward the trembling shopkeeper. The old man looked up at him with wide, watery eyes, his face a mask of terror and dawning relief.

Ray nodded once, a curt, almost imperceptible gesture. "You're safe now."

The VPD would show up soon. Eventually. Probably after stopping for synth-coffee and donuts. Or to fill out the requisite paperwork. Or maybe just for a nap. He rolled his eyes and stepped outside into the alley.

Two thugs lay on the wet pavement, groaning faintly. Ray crouched and began methodically rifling through their pockets. He pulled out a few data shards, two more beat-up pistols, and, to his surprise, a key fob to the motorcycle he'd launched into one of them.

"Thanks for the ride," Ray muttered.

Then he stood. A little angry. A little disgusted. But more alive, more powerful, than he had ever felt before. He glanced at the bike, now lying on its side, its engine still sputtering.

The machine crouched like a wounded predator on the curb, its sleek frame coated in a sharp, almost luminous gold-metallic finish, streaked with aggressive matte black and carbon fiber veins. Custom kanji decals—some stylized in vibrant neon ink, others faded and worn from hard road use—ran along its side fairings. The largest, emblazoned across the fuel tank, read "天撃 - Tengeki" (Heaven Strike), framed by layered shuriken emblems and artfully rendered blood-red drips, like a frozen mid-spatter of stylized violence.

Its front visor was smoked midnight black—HUD-compatible and, according to the specs now flooding Ray's mind as his nanites subtly interfaced with it, synced through encrypted BLE directly to a neural interface. Twin eye-shaped headlights emitted a pale, pulsing white light, as if the machine were alive and breathing. Slotted under the seat, a compact energy cell array had been heavily modified from standard combustion to a hybrid e-pulse injection system. The exhaust system was cunningly hidden—bleeding heat almost invisibly beneath the chassis like a stealth bomber. A reactive suspension module hugged its wide, synth-rubber wheels tight, fine-tuned for Virelia's fractured, treacherous streets and sudden, bone-jarring vertical drops. On the lower panel, an etched barcode and serial number had been violently, crudely scratched out, replaced with a freshly stamped label in blood-red ink: "零式 // Zeroshiki." Zero Model.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Black katakana script, sharp and angular, lined the rear spoiler: "速死 / Speed Death."

It wasn't just built for speed. It looked like it wanted to outrun death itself.

Ray had always wanted a bike like this, a sleek, powerful machine that promised freedom and escape. But now? Now, he needed this one. He glanced back at the shop—still no alarms, no curious witnesses. Just silence and a kill-worthy machine waiting for him in the dark. The bike screamed money, trouble, and a long list of very serious consequences.

He hesitated.

This could get me flagged. Seriously flagged, he thought.

This wasn't some street-level junker. This was high-end. Probably stolen. Definitely illegal.

Then again... I live like a rat in this city already. What's one more risk?

Ray wheeled the bike into a darker corner of the alley and placed his hand on its cold, metallic frame. Instantly, the nanites surged forward, a silent, invisible invasion, infiltrating its complex systems. The custom decals peeled off as if shedding an old skin. The GPS blinked out, its signal scrambled and erased. Locks disengaged with soft clicks, and its core systems reinitialized—bound now, irrevocably, to him.

His HUD lit up with the name of the model: KAMIGAMI STRIKE-Z. A god-machine. Even the name sent a cold, exhilarating thrill up his spine. This wasn't just a vehicle. It was a demon with wheels.

He swung a leg over the saddle, the synth-leather seat molding perfectly to his frame, as if it had been custom-made for him. His newly restored interface synced seamlessly with the bike's advanced operating system.

Ray revved the engine once. It didn't purr. It growled, a low, guttural rumble that promised raw, untamed power. He let out a dry, breathless laugh—half awe, half disbelief. He wasn't going to be late for Red's meeting after all. He might even show up early.

He didn't know how to ride a machine like this. Not really. But the bike's sophisticated onboard computer, now slaved to his nanites, translated every impulse, every flicker of his intention, into seamless, fluid action. It was like the bike anticipated his movements before he even made them, a perfect symbiosis of man and machine. Or, more accurately, of nanite-infused post-human and cutting-edge technology.

He leaned forward, gripping the handlebars. "Let's fly."

The Strike-Z launched from the alley like a shot from a high-velocity coilgun, its electric motor whining like a banshee. Virelia blurred around him—a dizzying kaleidoscope of neon skyscrapers that stretched like fractured glass spires towards the polluted sky, while the streets below became ribbons of speed and shadow. The bike roared down elevated rails and auxiliary lanes, weaving with impossible grace between forgotten, decaying construction zones and the lurid, flickering glow of massive holographic billboards.

Wind ripped at his hood, threatening to tear it away. It pulled his jacket taut against his body. But it felt real.

Alive.

Exhilarating.

The bike thrummed beneath him like a second, powerful heart.

He threaded between lumbering cargo vehicles, shot through red lights that were mere suggestions in this part of the city, skimmed precariously close to bridge rails with drops of hundreds of feet, and ducked under the sweeping, indifferent gaze of traffic cams.

For the first time in years, perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt it: Freedom. Not hunted. Not trapped. Not broken. Just him and the road, and the roaring promise of escape.

A VPD patrol drone, alerted by his reckless speed, zipped overhead. Its warning lights flashed. It tried to scan him, to get a lock. Too slow. Ray laughed, the sound raw and unrestrained, wind shredding it from his throat before it could fully form.

He didn't even have a license plate.

But if he was going to keep this bike—really keep it—he'd need help. And there was only one person in this godforsaken city he trusted enough for that. Johnny.

As the Strike-Z banked hard through a tight curve, its tires gripping the slick pavement, and onto the wide, empty expanse of the road, Ray's HUD flared a soft, reassuring blue. The city, for this one fleeting moment, didn't own him. Not tonight.

But as the initial rush of adrenaline began to fade and the incredible speed evened out into a controlled, predatory cruise, a cold whisper of doubt crept into his gut, a familiar unease he couldn't ignore.

What if someone saw my face? What if this thing's got a hidden failsafe I missed, some kill switch? Ray's fingers tightened on the grips, his knuckles white. No turning back now. He was all in.

After parking his new, gloriously illegal bike in one of those overpriced, timed parking lots in a slightly more reputable sector—and paying with the stolen, untraceable creds he'd lifted off the wannabe Yasha punks earlier—Ray adjusted his hood and made his way through the shimmering neon haze toward Red's designated meeting place.

A large, rundown automotive garage, its corrugated metal walls scorched and tagged with layers of gang graffiti, its flickering security cams mostly blind or broken, loomed ahead like a half-dead, rusting beast. Its main roll-up door sat slightly ajar, the sickly yellow glow of old, failing fluorescents leaking through like toxic light.

Ray slipped inside.

Red was sprawled on a beat-up, stained leather couch, his scuffed boots thrown carelessly over one armrest, looking like he owned the damn world. Two other guys, strangers to Ray, sat nearby, their postures tense and watchful. Both wore patched-up, utilitarian streetwear reinforced with scavenged, mismatched armor plating. One was absentmindedly field-stripping and cleaning a heavy-caliber sidearm, the other tapped away on a scuffed, outdated datapad, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Their low, muttered conversation died the instant Ray entered. All eyes snapped towards him.

Red, however, didn't miss a beat. He grinned, a wide, predatory smile like a devil who'd just successfully cashed in a particularly valuable soul, and waved Ray over with a lazy, dismissive gesture. "Look who finally decided to arrive." He made it sound like Ray was late, despite him being a good ten minutes early. Classic Red.

Ray didn't bite. He slid his hands into his coat pockets, walked forward with a steady, unhurried pace, and stood silently in front of the trio. His eyes locked on Red's, flat, cold, and unreadable.

It was already past midnight. The city had dipped into its quieter, more insidious brand of chaos—sirens wailed in the far distance, the faint, high-pitched hiss of private air skiffs whispered overhead, and an occasional, sharp shatter of glass echoed from somewhere deep in the concrete canyons.

Ray sat in the cramped, uncomfortable backseat of a weathered, unmarked sedan, its interior thick with the cloying, stale smell of old energy drinks, spent gun oil, and a faint, unpleasant undertone of unwashed sweat. Parked in the deep shadow of a crumbling overpass, across from a low-lit, disreputable-looking gambling house, they watched.

The building itself looked like a concrete block with misplaced aspirations of grandeur. One blinking, unreliable neon sign, advertising cheap synth-booze and even cheaper thrills, flickered in and out, casting a ghostly, intermittent light on the cracked, stained pavement. But the air around it, despite its dilapidated appearance, was heavier than it looked, charged with a palpable sense of menace.

Ray didn't need enhanced optics to spot the muscle drifting casually around the perimeter. The guards, bulky and heavily armed, didn't look particularly tense—but they moved with a practiced, predatory casualness that was far more unnerving. Relaxed shoulders. Sharp, constantly scanning eyes. Hands always hovering near their weapons. A pack of well-fed wolves, confidently guarding their territory.

He leaned forward in the cramped, stale-smelling backseat of the sedan. "What's the plan, Red?" he asked, his voice low and clipped, an edge of impatience he didn't bother to hide. The gambling house across the street pulsed with a deceptive, low-lit calm, but the air around it was thick with unseen watchers and unspoken threats.

Red, lounging in the passenger seat, was a silhouette cut by the soft green glow of his night-vision optics. He didn't bother to look back. "We sneak in and take the package. Obviously," he said, his tone laced with a familiar, condescending exasperation, as if Ray had asked how to breathe.