Jace Varn slipped through the neon-soaked streets of New Cascadia’s slums, the buzz of drones and flicker of holo-ads a constant hum in the background. The data stick from the Docks job was still in his jacket, heavy as a bad bet, and the credits from his recent gigs—lookout, courier, data runner—were already thinning out. The player talk was piling up like trash in an alley, from drifters to Milo to street gossip, and those glitches—flashes of code in the air—were messing with his head. He’d seen another one this morning, sharp numbers flickering like a glitch in reality itself. Jace needed a break, a drink, and maybe some answers, so he was headed to the Rusty Nail, the dive bar where Lena slung drinks and sharper words.The slums were alive with their usual chaos—vendors barking about cheap tech, kids running scams, techheads lost in their feeds. The air smelled like burnt wiring and stale beer, and the neon glow painted everything in sickly pinks and blues. Jace kept his hood low,

Jace Varn hit the bayfront streets at a dead sprint, the salty wind whipping his face like it was pissed he was still breathing. His neck burned where that busted drone had jammed the chip in, a dull throb pulsing in time with his heartbeat. But the real mindfuck was the HUD overlaying everything—blue text boxes tagging crates as "Salvage: Low Value," distant drones as "Threat Level: Medium." New Cascadia hadn't changed; he had. The System, or whatever this crap was, turned the world into a goddamn video game. Stats, quests, death penalties. Players. It was all real, and he'd just gotten drafted.He ducked into a narrow alley between rusting shipping containers, chest heaving. The HUD's map pulsed in his vision, highlighting Pier 5 a half-mile east—NeoTech Corp outpost, crawling with security. 23:45:23 on the quest timer. "Data Heist," it mocked. Steal a server core, or neural shutdown. Boom, lights out. Jace leaned against a graffiti-smeared wall, rubbing his eyes like he could swipe

Jace Varn slumped against the shielded wall of the Rusty Nail's backroom, the stun baton's afterglow still humming in his veins. Lena patched a fresh scrape on his arm from the vent crawl, her touch steady but her eyes sharp as knives. "You attract trouble like a magnet, Varn," she muttered, tying off the bandage. The air was thick with the bar's stale beer stink seeping through the walls, mixed with the faint ozone buzz from Jace's new hacking skill frying that rival's lock. Two players down in two days—Level 5 at the pier, now this Level 3 punk and his buddy. The System wasn't playing nice; it was stacking the deck."Blame the chip," Jace said, flexing his hand. HP at 110/140 after the level boosts, armor mod soaking minor hits. The HUD flickered soft in the dim light: Safe House Active - Drone Jamming 80% Effective. Lena's setup was gold—scrap foil and black-market freq blockers keeping the city's eyes blind. But rivals finding him fast? That screamed tracking. "They knew I was her