NANITE

Monica slammed on the brakes, the massive van skidding to a halt with a shriek of tortured metal. The sudden stop threw Ray hard against his seatbelt. One of the pursuing bikes, unable to react in time, collided with the back of the van in a fiery, spectacular crunch, its rider flying through the air like a discarded ragdoll.

"Other one's still up!" Monica barked, her eyes darting between the rearview monitor and the road ahead.

Ray spun in his seat, took aim through the rear viewport, and squeezed the trigger of his Glock. The bullet punched into the remaining bike's front tire. The rider lost control, the bike fishtailing wildly before spinning out and slamming hard into a pile of rusted metal drums with a sickening, final thud.

"Nice shot," Monica said, her voice grudgingly impressed, as she expertly veered the van around a tight corner, her hands calm and steady on the wheel. Ray kept watching the mirror, scanning for more pursuers.

"Almost out of their turf," Monica muttered, her eyes flicking to a GPS overlay on her HUD.

But then the van stuttered. The engine coughed, sputtered, then died with a wheezing gasp.

"No. No. No, you piece of shit!" Monica hissed, pounding her fist on the unresponsive dashboard. The lights on the control panel flickers erratically and then die completely. The powerful engine gave one final, mournful sputter and fell silent. Monica pounded her fist on the dash again in frustration. "They bricked it! Remote disable protocol. Bastards!"

Ray clenched his jaw. "Can you bypass it?"

She was already jacking back in, her golden eyes flashing with streams of complex code as she fought against the lockdown. "Firewall's locked up tight. They must have changed the encryption keys. Someone on their net is watching this van specifically, probably tagged it the moment we breached the garage." She kicked open her door and stepped out into the relative quiet of the deserted street. "We're sitting ducks if we stay in here. We run. Now."

Ray quickly placed his hand on the dead control panel of the van. His nanites surged forward, a silent, invisible current, sinking into the dead circuitry like liquid metal veins seeking a dormant heartbeat. The vehicle responded almost instantly—the engine coughed, sputtered, then roared back to life with a defiant bellow, like a beast pulled from the very brink of death.

Monica spun around, her eyes wide with disbelief, her jaw slack. "What did you just do?"

"Just get in," Ray said sharply, his voice cutting through her astonishment, his eyes flicking to the side mirror. More vehicles—cars, motorcycles, even attack drones—were closing in, their lights flashing in the gloom.

She didn't hesitate. Monica dove back into the driver's seat and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The van surged forward with brutal, untamed force. Ray leaned out of the passenger window, his pistol, the one from the stash, held steady in a two-handed grip. The world narrowed to pure, predatory instinct—Red's ingrained muscle memory, his deadly combat skills, flooding Ray's limbs, his targeting sharp and surgical. He fired. The lead pursuit car's hood erupted into smoke and flames, its engine stalling as it veered wildly out of control and crashed into a lamppost. One down. More incoming.

"They're closing in! Fast!" he shouted, the recoil of the pistol jolting through his arm with each shot. The acrid scent of burnt powder filled his nostrils. His hearing, even with the new enhancement, was swallowed by the deafening roar of engines and the shriek of protesting tires.

"Hold tight!" Monica barked, her voice strained but controlled. She snapped the wheel hard to the left, the massive van skidding with a terrifying shriek of tortured metal. Ray slammed hard into the door, the seat belt digging painfully into his ribs. One of the pursuing vehicles, unable to match their desperate maneuver, overshot the curve and slammed head-on into a concrete barricade with a sickening crunch of metal and plastic. Still, Monica didn't slow. Her face was an unreadable mask of concentration—eyes sharp, every movement precise, economical. She was in control. Terrifyingly so.

The city howled around them—a symphony of wailing sirens, streaks of lurid neon, and the cold, indifferent eyes of surveillance drones tracking their every move from above. But Ray felt no panic. Only a strange, cold clarity, a heightened sense of awareness that was both exhilarating and deeply unsettling.

Monica's driving skills proved their worth as, one by one, their pursuers were lost in the maze of streets.

They reached the industrial fringe of the city, a decaying wasteland of abandoned factories and rusting warehouses. Monica veered the van sharply into a derelict, cavernous garage, its massive steel door groaning in protest before slamming shut behind them with a resounding clang, sealing them in shadow and sudden, echoing silence.

Inside, the quiet hit like a physical blow after the chaos of the chase. Steam hissed from the van's overworked engine as they stepped out onto the oil-stained concrete floor. Monica wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her breathing still ragged, her chest heaving. Her golden eyes flickered as she sent a brief, encrypted call through her neural interface. A curt nod. Transmission cut.

"Good. Gig's closed," she said, a hint of relief in her voice as she brushed down her jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Payment incoming."

Ray's interface blinked.

INCOMING TRANSFER REQUEST: MONICA K. – 780 CREDITS. He accepted it with a mental acknowledgement.

"Thanks," he said simply, already turning to leave. He had calls to make, a mother to return to, and far too much impossible weight in his bones.

But Monica's voice, sharp and unexpected, cut through the stillness. "Wait."

He turned. Her expression was unreadable—a carefully constructed mask of neutrality—but something flickered in her golden gaze. Calculation. Curiosity. And, surprisingly, a grudging respect.

"You kept your shit together back there," she said, her voice losing some of its earlier harshness. "Fixed the van like it was nothing. Most mercs I know would have bailed. You didn't." She paused, then added, "If you ever want in on another run, a real one, say the word."

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Ray considered it for a moment. The pay was solid, undeniably. The adrenaline, he had to admit, was addictive, a dangerous, seductive poison. But the blood? The constant, gnawing chaos? No. Not worth it. Not anymore. He had other priorities now. A different path to walk.

"It was… interesting," he said, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. "But not really my thing."

Monica's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement in their depths. ID RECEIVED: MONICA K. his interface confirmed with a soft, internal ping. She'd shared her secure contact. A gesture of trust? Or a calculated investment? With someone like Monica, it was probably both.

She turned and walked away, her coat slicing the air behind her, disappearing into the shadows without a backward glance.

Ray stood still for a moment, the silence of the garage pressing in on him.

Then he pulled his hood up, the familiar gesture a small comfort, and walked away, back into the unforgiving embrace of the Virelia.

The first thing Ray did was to contact Johnny again. Still no answer. Red hadn't been lying when he said Johnny would be off-grid for a while. Maybe by tomorrow morning, Ray could try again. He needed Johnny's help, his connections, to register his new bike, to make it legitimate, or at least, less conspicuously illegal.

On the way home, he'd stopped by one of the high-end, automated food stalls near the inner city arcades. The kind with gleaming chrome-lit menus, gene-spliced, lab-grown ingredients, and sophisticated scent projectors that made your mouth water before you even placed an order. It was against his usual, deeply ingrained instincts to spend so much on food. Survival always came first. Not comfort. Not luxury.

But… he'd earned a little extra recently. And the thought of his mother, of her constant pain, her quiet suffering, had been a heavy weight on his mind. Of her recent, brutal flare-up. Of the prohibitively expensive treatment they could never, ever afford. Even if he sold every piece of Red's gear, scraping together every last credit he had owed, he wouldn't even break 100,000 NEX—a pathetic drop in the ocean compared to the 700,000 needed, to give her a chance at a life free from constant agony.

Ray sent the credits, and the hatch of the stall opened, revealing the packed food already sealed in a plastic bag. He grabbed it and moved on.

He stepped through the door to their small, cramped apartment. On the stained, sagging old couch, his mother lay resting, her features paler, more drawn, than even yesterday. Julia was seated beside her, one hand gently resting over Lina's fragile, trembling fingers, her presence a quiet comfort in the dim, oppressive room.

Ray offered a weary wave as he entered, setting the steaming, insulated meal boxes on the table. "Sorry. I only grabbed two portions," he said quietly, his voice rough with fatigue.

"It's alright, Ray," Julia replied, giving him a small, understanding smile and waving him off. "I didn't come to eat. Just wanted to check in on Lina. See how she was doing after last night."

He moved beside his mother and crouched slightly, his voice softening, concerned etching lines on his young face. "How are you feeling, Mom?"

"I'm fine. Just a little tired." But her voice was thin—like old, brittle paper stretched too far—and her hand trembled slightly as she tried to adjust her worn blanket. Ray didn't flinch, didn't frown, didn't let his own turmoil show. But it pierced something deep inside him every time he saw her like this, so fragile, so vulnerable.

They chatted for a while, the conversation stilted, filled with unspoken anxieties. Julia eventually stood, said her goodbyes with a reassuring squeeze of Lina's hand, and left. As she stepped into the hallway, Ray sent her a private message through his newly restored interface.

Ray: Can we talk later?

Julia: Is it urgent?

Ray: No. Not urgent. Just… a business proposal.

A moment later, her reply came back, a single, succinct thumbs-up emoji.

Julia: Meet me at the clinic after 19:00.

After she was gone, Ray moved his mom to the table and opened the food containers. The rich, complex aroma filled the small room—sweet, savory, electric with exotic spices. Inside were twin servings of Neo-Yakitori, grilled to perfection over synthetic ember-rice, with flash-grilled, lab-grown synth-eel drizzled in a tangy plum-spice glaze. A side of golden-brown tempura greens crackled softly in their light, crispy fry wrap, still radiating a gentle heat.

His mother blinked in surprise, her tired eyes widening slightly as she took in the sight and smell of the food. "Ray… this looks… this smells expensive."

"It is," he said, pulling a rickety chair beside her, his own appetite non-existent. "But I figured you deserve better than nutrient paste today."

She looked at him for a long moment, her expression a mixture of gratitude and a familiar, maternal worry. Then she reached for the food slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid it might vanish if she moved too quickly. "You always do too much for me, Ray." Her voice trembled more now than her hands. "You shouldn't have wasted money like this…"

"It's not a waste," Ray said gently, handing her a pair of disposable chopsticks. "Not when it's for you."

Her lips pressed together, caught between a watery smile and unshed tears. She nodded once, a small, jerky movement, then took a bite—and for a moment, her eyes fluttered shut, a look of pure, unadulterated pleasure smoothing the lines of pain on her face. "That's… that's really good." It came out choked, thick with emotion.

Ray didn't respond right away. He just sat with her in comfortable silence, watching her eat, trying not to think about how short these precious, peaceful moments might become. Trying not to think about the crushing weight of their reality.

Then, as the warmth of the food settled in, as a touch of color returned to her pale cheeks, she spoke again—quietly, almost ashamed, her gaze fixed on the half-empty food container. "I dreamed last night... I dreamed I was standing. Walking. There was no pain. Just… light. All around me."

Ray paused, his chopsticks hovering over his meal.

"I couldn't see where the light came from," she continued, her voice distant, wistful, her eyes focused on something far beyond the confines of their small, decaying apartment, "but it felt… safe, warm and, without the pain."

Ray didn't know what to say. His throat tightened, a familiar ache. Part of him, the desperate, hopeful part, wanted to tell her she'd get there, that they'd find a way, make it happen somehow. Another part, the pragmatic, cynical part that had seen too many broken promises and too few miracles in this cold, indifferent city, just wanted to hold onto this moment, this fragile peace, for as long as possible.

"I'm not ready to lose you, Mom," he said finally, his voice raw, stripped bare of all pretense.

She reached out, her frail, trembling hand covering his. Her grip was weak, almost non-existent, but her eyes, when they met his, held a surprising, indomitable strength. They ate the rest of their meal in silence, hand in hand, a silent communion in the face of an uncertain future.

Ray spent the rest of the afternoon with his mother, the quiet moments passing between them like fragile, sunlit diamonds, precious and easily shattered. She dozed off halfway through showing him a silly, pirated video on her tablet—something with crudely animated cats spouting sarcastic, anti-corporate slogans. It made her laugh, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that echoed briefly in their small, grim apartment, and that sound alone, so rare and precious, made the exorbitant cost of the earlier meal feel entirely worth it.

He stayed beside her long after her breathing evened out into the shallow rhythm of sleep, his gaze fixed on the cracked, water-stained ceiling, a familiar, depressing landscape. So much had changed in just two days. His body, his abilities, his understanding of the world—all of it irrevocably altered. And somehow, even with the crushing weight of his mother's illness and the terrifying uncertainty of his own future still hanging over him, it felt… bearable. Tonight, at least. He promised himself again, a silent, fervent vow in the dim quiet of the room—he would make their lives better. No matter what it took. No matter the cost to himself.