GANGSTA - LEVEL UP : THE HUSTLER’S BLUEPRINT

Chapter 3 — The Drop

The arrow didn’t point him back toward anything familiar. It led LeRoy deeper into the dead zones, away from the city blocks where people still argued over territory. Streetlights disappeared one by one until the last working lamp fizzled out, leaving only the dull, tired glow of distant towers in the background.

The buildings here sagged like they were ready to give up. Roller shutters were jammed; shop signs hung crooked with names no one remembered. The rain had calmed into a thin mist that soaked through LeRoy’s collar, but every step sent a faint jolt up his spine.

The feral’s body felt heavier with every block. Not because the mass had changed—the chip helped him manage the strain, balancing his steps—but because of the weight of the act itself. The corpse was tied with cable ties, the head lolling lifelessly over his shoulder. The eyes no longer glowed.

In the corner of his vision, the HUD pulsed.

[DROP-OFF POINT: 14 METERS]

LeRoy slowed. The building was two stories of old brick, darkened by smoke and years of acid rain. The windows were boarded from the inside. No bikes, no cars, no trash. Just a quiet that felt intentional.

“Don’t move.”

The voice came from his left. A man stepped out from behind a rusted fence—tall, broad, with a build earned from lifting iron, not from a gym. Tattoos traced down his pale arms to his wrists. His gaze was steady, his stance relaxed in a way that said he didn’t need to try hard to be dangerous.

The bouncer’s eyes scanned LeRoy, then shifted to the body. “You lost, kid?”

LeRoy’s mind stalled. The chip offered no tutorial for this. He shifted his posture, letting the cold, stiff arms of the feral swing into view. “I’ve got a delivery,” he said. “Reference ID: FKA-772.”

The bouncer’s eyes sharpened. Recognition. He stepped closer, a compact scanner embedded in his glove blinking to life. A pale green light washed over the corpse.

Beep.

“Yeah,” the bouncer muttered. “That’s one of ours. Get inside.”

The interior of the house was a mask. Dust lay thick over furniture sagging under white shrouds. But the smell wasn't decay—it was ozone, electricity, and high-end cooling fans. The bouncer led him to a cellar door hidden behind a toppled shelf.

Downstairs, the basement was a sprawling tech-hub built into the bones of the city.

Bright white lights hummed over concrete walls lined with server cables. People moved with purpose—some in jackets with the Tech Husk insignia, others with implants glowing faintly at their temples. There was a medical bay and a workshop where holographic displays hovered over disassembled weapons.

This wasn’t a gang hideout. It was infrastructure.

They stopped at a reinforced door. The bouncer knocked. “Delivery.”

“Send him in,” a smooth, amused voice answered.

Inside sat a man leaning against a metal desk. He wore a sharp dark coat and boots that hadn't seen mud in years. When he smiled, a gold tooth caught the light.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the man said. “You actually brought me the body.”

LeRoy let the corpse slide off his back. It hit the floor with a dull thud. “Just doing my job.”

The man chuckled. “And you did it well. I'm Kane Green. One of the elites of the Tech Husk Gang.”

He circled LeRoy, examining his stance like a buyer appraising hardware. “I believe someone with your natural talent shouldn’t be working alone for long. You hauled a corrupted target out of Floodline on your first run. That’s not luck.”

LeRoy met his gaze. “Flattering. But I want to go solo for now.”

Kane stopped, studying him. No anger, just interest. “Fair enough. Independence has its charm. If you change your mind, come back here. We’ll talk properly.”

Later that night, LeRoy lay on his mattress, staring at a stained ceiling. His body ached—a reminder of how close things had gotten. He raised his hand. “Show me,” he murmured.

The HUD bloomed into view, the numbers reflecting his hard-earned growth.

[CURRENT STATUS]

User: LeRoy Annan

Level: 1 (Unranked)

VITALITY: 72/100 (Self-Repair Active)

ENERGY: 18/40

STR: 10

AGI: 13

INT: 14

PER: 11

Credits: 20

Reputation: 1 (Tech Husk - Acknowledged)

Techniques:

Dash (Lvl 1 - Progress: 47%)

Viral Exposure: Low (0.02%)

Proof. It was proof that he could survive. But as he thought of the feral—a man who once had a name and a life—he realized the only difference between them was that LeRoy had walked away. For now.

He was hovering between sleep and wakefulness the next morning when a clean, digital chime cut through the room.

[INCOMING COMMUNICATION]

Source: LEVAN K.

LeRoy accepted the call. “How the hell do you have my ID?”

A quiet chuckle came through. “Rookie mistake. You didn’t lock your profile. QUANTUM sets it to public by default. Anyone can see your name, status, and last job.”

LeRoy cursed, navigating his HUD to switch his visibility to PRIVATE.

“Better,” Levan said. “You don’t want every fixer in the city knowing where you sleep. Anyway, we need a driver. Today. Sector Fourteen, old highway strip. Meet at fifteen-hundred.”

“The payout?”

“Hefty. Enough to keep you comfortable for a bit. You’re just driving, LeRoy. I need someone who won't panic when things get loud.”

By 14:45, LeRoy was in place. He leaned against the hood of a low-slung, reinforced vehicle, its engine tuned to a low growl.

15:00 came and went. 15:20. 15:30.

“Figures,” LeRoy muttered.

Then the world changed.

Gunfire cracked from inside the warehouse. An explosion thundered, blowing out a side entrance in a cloud of debris. People burst out, shouting and bleeding.

In the chaos, he spotted Levan and three others sprinting flat-out toward the car.

“Move!” Levan shouted.

They piled in, slamming the doors hard enough to rattle the frame. LeRoy didn’t ask what went wrong. He turned the key. The engine roared.

“Go!”

LeRoy floored it. The tires screamed against the asphalt as bursts of gunfire erupted behind them. The highway rose to meet them, and the city swallowed them whole.