2026-02-16 04:59:00Arlan didn’t run. He flew.
His feet pounded against the wet pavement, but the exhaustion he expected never came. Ten minutes ago, a sprint like this would have collapsed his lungs. Now? His breath was steady, his heart beating with the slow, powerful rhythm of a war drum. The energy he had stolen from Julian—that ten years of "Vitality"—wasn't just a number on a screen. It was fuel. High-octane and volatile. He hurdled a trash can without breaking stride, his senses dialed up to eleven. He could hear the hiss of tires on the highway three blocks away. He could smell the ozone from the neon signs buzzing overhead. Mom. The thought was a cold spike in his chest, grounding his newfound power. St. Jude’s Hospital loomed ahead, a monolith of glass and steel that separated the living from the dead based on their credit score. Arlan burst through the automatic doors, ignoring the startled glare of the security guard. The smell hit him instantly. Not medicine. Not cleanliness. It smelled of cheap antiseptic masking the scent of decay. "Room 304," Arlan barked at the receptionist, a woman with tired eyes who looked like she’d seen too many people cry today to care about one more. She didn't look up from her screen. "Visiting hours ended at eight. Come back tomorrow." Arlan slammed his hand on the counter. The marble cracked. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed out from his palm. The receptionist jumped, her coffee splashing onto her keyboard. She looked at the crack, then up at Arlan’s eyes. They weren't the eyes of a desperate boy anymore. They were dark, hollow, and terrifyingly calm. "Room. 304," he repeated, his voice low. "Third... third floor. To the left," she stammered, her face pale. Arlan didn't wait for the elevator. He took the stairs, leaping three steps at a time. Room 304 was quiet. Too quiet. The rhythmic beep... beep... of the heart monitor was the only sound in the dimly lit room. Arlan froze in the doorway. His mother, Sarah, looked smaller than he remembered. Her skin was the color of parchment, stretched tight over fragile bones. The woman who had worked double shifts washing dishes just to buy him school books was now fading away, eaten alive by a disease they couldn't afford to treat. Standing next to the bed was Dr. Evans. He was checking his watch, looking bored. "You're late," Evans said, not even turning around. "I was just about to call security." Arlan walked to the bedside, taking his mother's cold hand. "How is she?" "Critical. Multiple organ failure," Evans replied mechanically, flipping through a clipboard. "And since the payment for the dialysis didn't come through tonight, we have to follow protocol." He reached for the switch on the ventilator. "Protocol?" Arlan asked. The word tasted like ash. "We need the bed, Arlan. There are paying patients waiting. Your mother has been on charity care for three days. It's over." Evans’ hand hovered over the power button. He didn't look sad. He looked annoyed that this was taking so long. Arlan felt the rage again. But this time, it wasn't hot and messy. It was cold. Calculated. PING. The sound echoed in Arlan's skull. The red screen materialized, hovering right next to the doctor's head. [ SCANNING TARGET... ] [ Subject: Dr. Marcus Evans ] [ Profession: Senior Oncologist ] [ Karmic Audit in Progress... ] Text cascaded down the screen, revealing secrets that would have put Evans in prison for a lifetime. [ CRIMES DETECTED: ] [ 1. Negligence leading to patient death (Count: 4) ] [ 2. Embezzlement of hospital funds. ] [ 3. Prioritizing VIP donors over emergency lists. ] [ TOTAL KARMA DEBT: 8,500 POINTS ] [ DEBT COLLECTION: AVAILABLE ] Arlan stared at the doctor. This man wasn't a healer. He was a merchant of death. "Don't touch that switch," Arlan said. Evans scoffed, his finger pressing down. "Or what? You'll sue me? You can't even afford a lawyer, kid. Say goodbye. It's mercy." The machine whirred down. The beep... beep... stopped. A long, flat tone filled the room. Beeeeeeeeeeep. "No!" Arlan screamed. He didn't think. He didn't calculate. He lunged, grabbing Evans by the throat and slamming him against the wall. The clipboard clattered to the floor. "You want mercy?" Arlan hissed, his eyes glowing with a faint, crimson light that only he could see. "I'll show you mercy." [ SYSTEM ALERT: Host is initiating Forceful Collection. ] [ Target: Dr. Marcus Evans. ] [ ACTION: DRAIN 'MEDICAL PROFICIENCY' & 'LIFESPAN'. ] [ TRANSFER TARGET: Sarah Mahendra. ] [ Do you wish to proceed? ] "Do it!" Arlan roared in his mind. Evans gagged, clawing at Arlan's hand. But then, the doctor's eyes rolled back. His skin went grey instantly, wrinkles deepening around his eyes as if he had aged ten years in ten seconds. His hands shook violently—the tremors of a man who would never hold a scalpel again. Arlan felt the energy rush through him—not to stay, but to pass through. He acted as a conduit. He placed his other hand on his mother’s chest. Live. Please, live. The energy poured out of him. Warm. Golden. It flowed into Sarah’s frail body. The flatline tone wavered. Beeeeeeep... b-b-beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The rhythm returned. Stronger. Faster. Color flooded back into Sarah’s cheeks. Her breathing deepened, no longer raspy, but smooth. Arlan let go of the doctor. Evans crumbled to the floor, gasping, looking at his own hands with horror. "My hands... I... I can't feel my fingers. What did you do?" Arlan stood over him, the System screen glowing triumphantly. [ TRANSACTION COMPLETE. ] [ 15 Years of Lifespan transferred from Marcus Evans to Sarah Mahendra. ] [ 'Expert Medical Knowledge' extracted from Marcus Evans (stored in Host Memory). ] [ Host Karma Points: 100 -> 350 ] Arlan adjusted his jacket, looking down at the heap of a man who used to be a top surgeon. "I just collected the bill," Arlan said coldly. He turned to his mother. She was sleeping peacefully now, looking better than she had in years. But Arlan knew this was just a temporary fix. He needed money to keep her here. He needed power to protect her from the Mahendras who would surely come for him after what he did to Julian. He looked at the System screen again. A new notification blinked. [ NEW QUEST AVAILABLE: The Capitalist’s Nightmare. ] [ Objective: Acquire 1 Million Dollars within 48 Hours. ] [ Reward: Unlock 'Combat Arts' & 'System Store'. ] [ Failure Penalty: Host Heart Failure. ] Arlan walked to the window, looking out at the city lights. The rain had stopped, but the storm was just beginning. "Money," Arlan muttered. "You want me to get money? Fine." He remembered the 'Luck Fragment' he had stolen from Julian. "Let's go to the casino.
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The Butcher's Bill
The Los Muertos Cartel didn’t hide their money in a bank. They hid it in a slaughterhouse on the edge of the Narrows. It made sense. The smell of rotting pork and bleach was strong enough to mask the scent of cocaine, and the sound of industrial meat saws drowned out the screams of anyone stupid enough to steal from them. Arlan crouched on the rusted fire escape of the building across the alley. The freezing rain whipped against his tactical jacket. His left shoulder—the one with the bullet graze—burned with a dull, rhythmic ache. Every time he shivered, it felt like a hot needle threading through his muscle. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and watched. Two guards at the loading dock. They were smoking, huddled under a flickering yellow bulb. They didn't look like professional mercenaries. They wore oversized hoodies and carried cheap, unregistered submachine guns slung loosely over their shoulders. Sloppy. Arlan reached into t
A Diet of Sins
The handshake was brief. Her skin was freezing, like marble left out in the snow."Don't look so grim, Arlan," Viper said, pulling her hand back and sliding it into the pocket of her crimson coat. "You just survived a forty-story drop and made the untouchable Julian Mahendra cry on national television. You should be celebrating."Arlan didn't feel like celebrating. He felt like he had been chewed up and spat out by a garbage truck. His shoulder throbbed with a sickening, hot pulse where the bullet had grazed him."The envelope," Arlan grunted, nodding at the white paper lying on the dusty concrete."Ah, yes. Your signing bonus." Viper tapped her cigarette, the ash falling onto the tip of her designer boot. "Inside is a keycard to a safehouse in the Narrows. Untraceable. Stocked with medical supplies and enough calories to keep you standing. There’s also a burner phone. Keep it on."Arlan bent down to pick it up. The simple motion sent a shockwave of agony through
The Broker of Sins
The adrenaline didn't just fade; it crashed.It felt like his blood had turned into lead. Arlan’s hands shook so violently he could barely keep the stolen van on the road. His vision blurred, the neon lights of the port district smearing into long, headache-inducing streaks.[ SYSTEM WARNING: ADRENALINE WITHDRAWAL. ][ Status: Critical Exhaustion. ][ Penalty: -50% Mobility for 4 hours. ]"Shut up," Arlan groaned, leaning his head against the steering wheel.He pulled up to the rusted gates of the Old Docks. The rain here smelled different—salt, diesel, and rotting fish. It was the smell of the city’s underbelly, where things went to disappear.Warehouse 9 was a skeletal beast of corrugated metal and broken windows. No lights. No guards. Just a gaping maw of darkness waiting for him.Arlan checked his pockets.The plastic spoon-shank.The stolen phone.And the memory of Julian’s terrified face.He stepped out of the van. His knees buckled, sending a jolt of agony up his spine. He grit
The Icarus Protocol
Pandemonium didn't happen all at once. It rippled.First, the silence. Then, the gasp. And finally, the scream."He's got a gun!" someone shrieked. Arlan didn't have a gun. He had a champagne flute stem and a terrifying smile, but in a room full of paranoid billionaires, fear filled in the blanks.The ballroom exploded into motion. Hundreds of bodies in silk and velvet scrambled for the exits. Tables overturned. expensive caviar was trampled into the plush carpet. A woman in a red dress tripped over her own heels, sobbing as the crowd surged around her like a terrified river.Arlan stood in the eye of the storm.Four M-SEC guards were closing in. They weren't moving like bouncers. They moved like wolves. Tactical. Silent. Hands reaching inside their jackets for suppressed pistols.Four targets. Distance: 10 meters. Closing speed: Fast.Arlan felt the hum of the System in his skull. It was buzzing angrily, feeding off the chaotic energy of the room.[ ALERT: High-Level Threat Detected.
The Art of Crashing
The Zenith Tower pierced the clouds like a needle of glass and arrogance.Arlan parked the stolen van three blocks away, in a shadowy loading zone meant for garbage trucks. It was fitting. He was about to take out the trash.He watched the entrance through the rain-streaked windshield.Limousines. Bentleys. Hover-cars that cost more than a small country’s GDP. Men in tuxedos that cost more than Arlan’s life. Women in dresses that sparkled like diamonds.Target selection.He didn't need a System for this. He needed common sense.He couldn't take a fat man's suit—it would hang off him like a tent. He couldn't take an old man's suit—too vintage, he’d stand out.He needed someone... his size.There.A young man, maybe twenty-five. Blonde. Drunk. Stumbling out of a red sports car, yelling at his valet. He waved a gold-embossed envelope in the air like a flag."Don't scratch it, you peasant! Do you know who my father is?"Arlan smiled. Perfect.He pulled up his hood. He slid the plastic spo
Meat, Bone, and Mathematics
The hallway of the SleepWalker Hotel smelled of mildew and stale ramen. The fluorescent lights buzzed—a dying, flickering sound that matched the headache throbbing behind Arlan’s eyes.He stepped out of Room 404.He didn't walk like Arlan anymore. The slouch was gone. His shoulders were squared, his chin tucked. His footsteps were silent, rolling from heel to toe on the dirty carpet.It felt... alien.His brain knew things he hadn't learned. He looked at the fire extinguisher on the wall and didn't see a safety device. He saw a blunt force trauma weapon, effective range: 2 meters. He looked at the plastic spoon in his pocket and saw a jugular piercer.Download complete, he thought. Now for the stress test.He didn't have to wait long.As he reached the elevator, the doors pinged. They slid open with a metallic groan.Three men stood inside.They weren't police. Police wore blue and looked tired. These men wore tactical black vests, earpieces, and the distinct, arrogant posture of priv
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