SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The 24-hour diner was an island of light in the dark suburbs.

It smelled of stale coffee, burnt bacon, and the kind of quiet desperation that only exists at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night.

Miles slid into a booth, the red vinyl sticking to the back of his legs.

He felt a strange, jittery energy buzzing just under his skin.

It wasn't just his own nervousness.

It was the clone's.

He could feel it, a faint, second-hand echo of adrenaline.

He closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the clone's senses.

He saw the city lights streaking by, a blur of neon and concrete as the clone leaped from one rooftop to another, closing in on The Gilded Cage.

He could feel the cold night wind on its face.

He could feel the solid impact of its feet landing silently on roofs.

Then, a voice cut through his concentration, pulling him back to the sticky, coffee-scented reality of the diner.

"If you fall asleep on me, I'm drawing a mustache on your face."

He opened his eyes.

Clara was sliding into the booth opposite him, a small, amused smile on her face.

She looked… normal.

She was wearing a simple sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back in a casual ponytail.

She looked like a student getting ready to study, not a co-conspirator in a war against a corrupt billionaire.

The contrast was jarring.

"Sorry," he said, his voice a little rough.

"Long day."

"Long week, it looks like," she replied, her perceptive eyes scanning his face.

She didn't press.

She just opened her history textbook.

"Okay," she said, her voice all business.

"Let's talk about the socio-economic ramifications of the Marshall Plan."

And just like that, he was pulled into her world.

A world of facts and figures, of historical analysis and debate.

A normal world.

He tried to focus.

He really did.

But his mind was fractured, split between two realities.

He was listening to Clara explain the nuances of post-war European recovery.

At the same time, he was seeing through his clone's eyes as it landed on the roof of the building across from The Gilded Cage.

The nightclub was an imposing structure of black glass and chrome, pulsating with a low, rhythmic bass that he could almost feel in his own chest.

A line of ridiculously expensive cars was parked out front.

Two massive bouncers stood by the door, their suits barely containing their ridiculously large muscles.

They looked like they ate people for breakfast.

"Miles?" Clara's voice cut through the noise.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He blinked, snapping back to the diner.

"Yeah," he said, a little too quickly.

"The Marshall Plan."

"Lots of… planning."

"Good stuff."

She sighed, a sound of fond exasperation.

"You're a terrible study partner," she said, but there was no heat in her words.

He watched as his clone dropped silently into the alley behind the club.

It walked up to the velvet rope, right past the line of impatient, wealthy-looking patrons.

One of the bouncers put out a hand the size of a dinner plate to stop him.

"Invitation only," the man grunted, his voice a low rumble.

The clone just looked at him.

It didn't say a word.

It just held up ScrapHead's phone, showing the invitation from Julian in the group chat.

The bouncer squinted at the screen, then at the clone's simple, nondescript clothes.

He shrugged.

"Whatever," he grunted.

"Go on in."

The clone walked past him and through the heavy doors.

It was in.

The sensory input was a tidal wave.

The music was a physical force, a deep, pounding rhythm that vibrated through the floor.

The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and even more expensive alcohol.

The place was packed with the city's elite.

Corporate executives with cold, dead eyes.

Politicians with fake, practiced smiles.

And system users.

Dozens of them.

He could feel their power, a low, constant hum in the air.

This was a den of predators, all dressed in their finest clothes.

Back in the diner, Miles flinched, the sudden sensory overload making his head spin.

"Are you okay?" Clara asked, her brow furrowing with concern.

"You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Something like that," he muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Just a headache."

He watched as his clone began to move through the crowd.

It was a ghost, a shadow in a room full of peacocks.

It kept to the edges of the room, its head down, observing.

The system was in overdrive, its tactical overlay painting the world in a dizzying array of data.

It was scanning faces, cross-referencing them with the bounty hunter list from the Echo Chamber.

[TARGET IDENTIFIED: VOIDRIPPER. SEATED AT BAR.]

[TARGET IDENTIFIED: NIGHTHAWK. VIP SECTION.]

They were all here.

A whole convention of people who wanted him dead.

This was either the smartest or the stupidest thing he had ever done.

The jury was still out.

He felt the clone's gaze sweep the room.

And then it found him.

Julian Cross.

He was holding court in the center of the largest VIP booth, a smug, self-satisfied smirk on his face.

He was surrounded by a group of his usual sycophantic friends and a few of the bounty hunters, including a nervous-looking ScrapHead who was nursing a drink and a very bruised ego.

Julian was laughing, his voice loud and arrogant, easily carrying over the music.

"I'm telling you," he was boasting, "the little freak is obsessed with me."

"He follows my every move."

"There's no way he could resist showing up tonight."

"He's probably hiding in a corner right now, watching me, wishing he could be me."

Miles felt a surge of pure, unadulterated rage, a shared emotion that flared in both his own chest and the clone's.

The urge to walk over there and introduce Julian's face to a wall was almost overwhelming.

But he had a mission.

Information.

Not a brawl.

He took a deep, calming breath, both in the diner and in the club.

He watched the clone.

It ignored Julian's taunts.

It began to circle the booth, a silent predator stalking its prey.

It needed to get closer.

It needed to listen.

Back in the diner, Clara closed her book with a soft thud.

"Okay," she said.

"I think my brain is officially full of post-war economics for one night."

"You look like you're about to fall over."

"Let's call it a night."

Miles nodded, a wave of relief washing over him.

He was exhausted, his mind stretched to the breaking point by the dual consciousness.

They paid their bill and walked out into the cool night air.

The silence was a welcome relief after the noise of the club.

"Thanks," he said as they walked across the school grounds.

"For… you know."

"Forcing you to do your homework so you don't fail out of school?" she asked, a teasing smile in her voice.

"Yeah," he said.

"That."

They reached the spot where they had met the other night, the quiet, dark athletic field.

They stopped, a comfortable silence settling between them.

This was the part of his life that felt real.

The part he was fighting for.

At the same time, a thousand miles away in a world of noise and danger, his other self was closing in.

The clone saw its opening.

It picked up a tray of drinks from a passing waitress.

It turned toward Julian's booth.

It began to walk.

Its steps were slow, deliberate, and full of a cold, dangerous purpose.

The hunt was on.