SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The phone felt heavy in his hand.

It was cheap plastic, but it weighed more than a block of concrete.

It was ScrapHead's phone, a direct link to the grimy, violent world that was now hunting him.

Miles sat at his desk, at the front of his laptop.

His clone had dissolved back into him, the experience leaving a strange, buzzing echo in his mind.

He was whole again, but the memory of being in two places at once lingered.

It was a power that felt less like a skill and more like a tear in the fabric of reality.

"Okay, system," he said to the empty room, his voice a low whisper.

"Let's see what our loud, bearded friend was hiding."

[INITIATING DATA EXTRACTION FROM HOSTILE'S DEVICE,] the system replied, its text scrolling calmly across his vision.

[BYPASSING BIOMETRIC AND PASSWORD SECURITY… COMPLETE.]

That was fast.

He was pretty sure his own phone had better security than this guy's.

It just went to show that having skin that could turn into steel didn't make you a genius.

The phone's contents spilled onto his laptop screen.

It was a mess.

There were a dozen messages from other bounty hunters, all asking the same thing.

"Any sign of the ghost?"

"Heard he's just a kid."

"Let's corner him and split the cash."

They were like a pack of wolves, sniffing the air, getting ready for the hunt.

Then he saw it.

A group chat.

The name of the chat was "Ghost Busters," which was so stupid it almost made him laugh.

Inside were messages from Julian Cross.

His fingers tightened on his mouse.

Of course, Julian was involved.

The guy was like a bad smell you just couldn't get rid of.

Julian's messages were full of his usual brand of arrogant, entitled nonsense.

[Julian Cross: Don't worry about finding him. I'll bring him to you.]

[Julian Cross: I'm hosting a little get-together tonight. My own private party.]

[Julian Cross: The Gilded Cage. Midnight. Invitation only.]

[Julian Cross: The ghost won't be able to resist showing up. He's obsessed with me. It's pathetic, really.]

Miles had to stop reading.

He was going to throw up.

Obsessed with him?

The level of delusion was staggering.

But the message contained a critical piece of intel.

The Gilded Cage.

He'd heard of it.

He'd seen it mentioned in the dark corners of the Echo Chamber forums.

It was a nightclub, an exclusive, high-end place.

It was also a neutral ground for the city's elite system users.

A place where corporate killers could have a drink next to government agents, and no one would pull a weapon.

As long as you were on the guest list.

And Julian was throwing a party there.

For bounty hunters.

It was a trap.

A very obvious, very Julian-esque trap.

He was using himself as bait to lure Miles in.

The arrogance was breathtaking.

He honestly believed Miles would be stupid enough to walk right into a nightclub full of assassins just for a chance to see him.

The truly infuriating part?

He was right.

Not because Miles was obsessed with him.

But because it was the perfect opportunity.

All his targets, all the hunters, gathered in one place.

It was a chance to gather information, to identify his enemies, to turn their own trap back on them.

But walking in there himself was suicide.

Even with his skills, a dozen-to-one fight was not a fight he could win.

The system seemed to agree.

[ANALYZING PROPOSED SCENARIO: INFILTRATION OF 'THE GILDED CAGE'.]

[RISK ASSESSMENT: HIGH.]

[PROBABILITY OF HOST SURVIVAL: 12.4%.]

"Wow, that high?" Miles muttered.

"You're really starting to believe in me."

"That's nice."

"It's also completely insane."

"I'm not going."

[POTENTIAL REWARD: HIGH,] the system continued, ignoring him.

[ACCESS TO MULTIPLE HIGH-VALUE TARGETS AND PRIORITY INTELLIGENCE IS PROBABLE.]

[ACQUIRING DIRECT INTEL ON THE BOUNTY HUNTER NETWORK COULD NEUTRALIZE THE IMMEDIATE THREAT TO HOST'S SURVIVAL.]

The system was making a good point.

It was a stupidly dangerous, high-risk gamble.

But the potential payoff was huge.

If he could figure out who these hunters were, how they operated, he could stop looking over his shoulder every second of the day.

He could go back on the offensive.

He looked at the empty space in his living room where his clone had stood just an hour ago.

A slow, cold, and deeply dangerous idea began to form in his mind.

"Okay, system," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"The odds of *me* surviving are 12.4 percent."

"What are the odds if I send a disposable, semi-sentient photocopy of myself instead?"

There was a pause.

He could almost feel the system's digital brain churning through the new calculations.

[NEW VARIABLE INTRODUCED: [CLONE DISPATCH].]

[RE-CALCULATING RISK ASSESSMENT.]

[PROBABILITY OF CLONE SURVIVAL: 38.7%.]

"Still not great," Miles admitted.

"But definitely better."

[PROBABILITY OF HOST SURVIVAL (MAINTAINING ALIBI): 99.8%.]

And there it was.

The perfect plan.

He could be in two places at once.

He could be the hunter and the alibi.

The risk was all on the clone.

If it got destroyed, he would feel it.

The sensory feedback would probably be excruciating.

But he would be safe.

He would survive.

It was a cold, calculating, and slightly monstrous decision.

Using a piece of himself as a sacrificial pawn.

He was starting to think like his parents.

Like the people who had turned their own son into a weapon to ensure their legacy would survive.

The thought was deeply unsettling.

And absolutely necessary.

"Okay," he said, his voice firm.

"We're going to a party."

He stood up and walked to his closet.

The clone would need to look the part.

A black hoodie and a face mask weren't going to get him past the bouncer at a high-class nightclub.

He pulled out the only nice thing he owned.

A simple, dark gray button-down shirt and a pair of black pants he'd bought for a school awards ceremony two years ago and never worn since.

It wasn't a suit, but it was clean.

It was respectable.

It would have to do.

He laid the clothes out on his bed.

"Now for the hard part," he said to himself.

He needed an alibi.

A real one.

Something solid and verifiable, with witnesses.

He thought of the one person in the world he could trust.

The one person who had seen the impossible and hadn't run away.

Clara.

His hand hesitated as he reached for his own phone.

This was crossing a line.

Asking her to be his alibi, even an unwitting one, was putting her in danger.

It was using her.

But what other choice did he have?

He needed this.

He needed her.

He took a deep breath and sent the text.

[Miles: Hey. Are you busy tonight? There's that history project…]

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

The message sat there, a single blue bubble in a sea of white.

He waited.

Each second felt like an hour.

Then, three dots appeared.

She was typing.

[Clara: I thought you didn't want a partner.]

His heart sank.

He deserved that.

He had been cold to her.

He had pushed her away.

He quickly typed a reply.

[Miles: I changed my mind. I could use the help. We could meet at that 24-hour diner near the school? Study for a few hours?]

It was the perfect alibi.

Public.

Normal.

Boring.

He waited again, his fate hanging on her response.

The three dots appeared again.

[Clara: Okay, furnace-wrestler. I'll be your partner. See you there at 11.]

He let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

Relief washed over him, so potent it almost made him dizzy.

She had said yes.

The plan was in motion.

He looked at the clothes laid out on his bed.

He closed his eyes and focused.

"Dispatch," he commanded.

The air shimmered.

The shadows gathered.

And his other self materialized in the room, silent and ready.

It looked at the clothes, then at Miles, a question in its shared eyes.

Miles gave a tired, grim smile.

"You," he said to his clone, "are going to crash a party."

"I," he said to himself, "have a date with the Truman Doctrine."

"Let's try not to get killed."