“Five stars: Floor 72 has the best noodles in Tago.

  Minus two stars: I’m 90% sure one of the stalls was cooking on an exposed power conduit.”

  — Review by an editor at TagoEats, flagged for unsafe dining

  The elevator doors opened on Floor 72, and I stepped into chaos.

  Not incursion chaos. Not the reality-warping wrongness of a chaos shard.

  Just... people. Thousands of them.

  The corridor we’d emerged into wasn’t a corridor at all. It opened after maybe ten meters into a massive space that stretched in every direction, easily the size of three school gyms stacked side-by-side. The ceiling was lost somewhere overhead in a tangle of exposed pipes, flickering neon, and what looked like illegally spliced power lines sagging between support beams.

  The air hit me first; it was hot, thick with grease, synth-spices and something else I couldn’t quite place… maybe sweat, maybe machine oil. It coated the back of my throat with every breath.

  “Welcome to the real SMB11!” Alice announced, grinning widely as she pulled me forward into the crowd.

  Stalls lined every available surface. Not the clean, organized vendor setups you’d normally find in a corporate building, but improvised affairs: sheet metal welded into counters, portable cook-stations belching smoke, display racks made from repurposed shelving. Some had actual roofs, but most didn’t.

  Merchants shouted over each other in a dozen languages, voices layered into an incomprehensible roar.

  “Fresh protein! Real meat, not paste!”

  “Chrome mods! Half-off! No warranties!”

  “Augs! Cheap Najjar knockoff, half price!”

  People milled around everywhere. Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the main walkways, clustered around popular stalls, haggling with aggressive hand gestures. Most wore practical gear, reinforced jackets, cargo pants, boots that had seen actual use. Armed, too. I spotted knives on belts, pistols in shoulder holsters, one guy with what looked like a plasma cutter just... hanging from his hip like it was totally normal. Which, in Tago, it was.

  But it was the chrome that made me stare.

  It wasn’t the subtle kind. Not the sleek, expensive augments the corpo people wore, the kind hidden under synthskin so perfect you couldn’t tell they’d been modded unless they wanted you to know.

  This was obvious chrome. Visible chrome that didn’t pretend to be anything else.

  A woman pushed past me with an entire arm of brushed steel, fingers tipped with retractable claws that clicked softly as she gestured. No synthskin covering. Just raw metal and exposed servo joints.

  A vendor two stalls over had a chrome jaw, the lower half of his face replaced with articulated plating that moved when he talked, pneumatic hinges hissing faintly with each word. I’d met people with chrome today. I was sure I had.

  The registration clerk had something installed somewhere, but I couldn’t tell. Their mods were expensive enough to hide.

  Here, you could tell instantly just by looking and the grime.

  Oh, the grime.

  The floor was stained Yuai-brand permacrete, cracked and patched in a hundred places, dark with decades of spilled oil and gods-knew-what-else. The walls were worse, with scorch marks, graffiti in glowing paint, rust bleeding from exposed bolts. Cleaning drones didn’t come up here. Or if they did, they’d given up years ago.

  This wasn’t the polished, climate-controlled corporate space I’d walked through on Floor 48. This was the Tago I knew. The Tago that existed under all the gloss and neons. Well… upper floor in this case?

  Ugh, MegaBuildings.

  Alice dragged me deeper into the crowd, Cecilia trailing behind us with her usual quiet grace. “Isn’t it preem?” Alice shouted over the noise, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “Way better than those sterile corpo cafeterias!”

  I glanced at her, at her perfectly styled silver hair and pristine Syntavelli jacket that probably cost more than most people here made in a year. She fit in about as well as I would’ve at an Aurelia board meeting, but she didn’t seem to care. Just kept pulling me forward, weaving through the crowd like she’d done this a hundred times.

  “Come on!” she called back. “The noodle stall is this way! You’re gonna love it! Folks at TagoEats gave it five stars!”

  Alice navigated the crowd with ease, dragging me past competing food stalls until she stopped in front of one that looked... actually decent.

  Well, decent by Floor 72 standards.

  The stall was larger than most, with a semi-circular counter wrapped around a central cooking station where three people worked in synchronized chaos. Steam billowed from multiple pots. Flames roared from wok burners, and the sizzle of frying protein filled the air.

  Seating surrounded the stall with mismatched stools and benches, some bolted to the floor, others looking like they’d been scavenged from a dozen different sources. Maybe forty seats total, and almost all of them were occupied. People hunched over bowls, slurping noodles, having conversations that ranged from quiet to shouting.

  “There!” Alice pointed triumphantly at three empty stools near the left side of the counter.

  She pulled me toward them, Cecilia following, and we claimed the seats before anyone else could. I dropped onto the stool with a clank of armor, my rifle catching on the backrest again. The person next to me, chrome hand, facial scars, a pistol visible at his hip, glanced over, gave my gear a once-over, and went back to his noodles without comment.

  Normal day on Floor 72, apparently.

  An older woman appeared in front of us almost immediately, wiping her hands on a grease-stained apron. She had to be in her sixties, gray hair pulled back in a practical bun, one eye replaced with a basic optical implant that glowed faint blue, and her grin was wide.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked, voice overpowering the noise with the ease of someone who’d been doing this for decades.

  “Neurothread Special!” Alice practically bounced on her stool. “Extra synth-pork, double the chili oil, and can you add those crispy shallots? The good ones?”

  The woman’s grin widened. “You got it, sweetheart.” She turned to Cecilia.

  “Just ramen,” Cecilia shrugged. “Standard 8 bowl.”

  The woman nodded and looked at me.

  I hesitated, glancing at the menu board mounted behind the cooking station. It was written in three languages, half the characters flickering from a failing holo-projector, prices scrawled in what looked like permanent marker over older, crossed-out numbers.

  [Authentic Bhavsar synth-meat!]

  “Uh, ramen for me too,” I said. “Standard 10.”

  “Two standard, one Neurothread. Got it.” The woman’s optical implant flickered as she blinked, probably logging the order through some internal system. She turned and barked something in rapid-fire Mandarin at one cook, who nodded and started pulling ingredients.

  [Paid: ￠10]

  Alice leaned back on her stool, looking far too pleased with herself. “Told you this place was preem.”

  “We haven’t eaten yet,” I pointed out.

  “Trust me. You’ll see.”

  The food arrived faster than I expected.

  Three steaming bowls, ceramic chipped at the edges but clean enough. The broth was dark, rich, and smelled like it had been simmering for hours. Noodles coiled beneath the surface, topped with sliced synth-pork, green onions, and a perfectly soft-boiled egg split in half.

  Alice’s bowl looked insane. Triple the portion size, piled high with extra toppings, the chili oil forming an angry red slick across the surface with crispy shallots sitting on top like a crown.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  She didn’t waste time. Chopsticks in one hand, spoon in the other, diving in with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been thinking about this meal for years.

  I picked up my own chopsticks and took a bite.

  Damn.

  The noodles had a perfect texture, springy, chewy, not overcooked. The broth was salty and complex, layers of flavor that hit differently with each sip. The synth-pork was... actually good? Better than the Jeup Protein-Rich Paste? I’d been choking down regularly, that was for sure.

  Cecilia ate slowly, occasionally glancing at her sister, who was demolishing her bowl with zero regard for table manners.

  For a while, we just ate.

  The noise of the bazaar washed over us, with merchants shouting, people arguing, and the sizzle and clang of a dozen cooking stations. It was loud.

  And somehow... comfortable.

  Alice eventually came up for air, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “So, Dash,” she said, grinning. “You from Tago originally, or are you one of those off-world transplants?”

  “Born on Mars,” I said between bites. “Moved here a few years back.”

  “Mars!” Alice’s eyes lit up. “That’s preem! What was it like? I’ve only seen vids. Red dust, domed cities, all that?”

  I shrugged. “Pretty much. Cold and everything was regulated by corp schedules. My dad worked as a diver after... eh, got fired from his previous work.” I paused, then added, “He died there.”

  Alice’s expression shifted, just slightly. Less enthusiastic, more careful. “Shit. Sorry, Dash.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, and meant it. “It was years ago.”

  Cecilia spoke up. “We’re from Luna. Born in one of the Aurelia districts.”

  “Luna,” I repeated, trying to picture it. “That’s... what, all corpo housing? Executive quarters?”

  “Mostly,” Alice said with a shrug. “Boring as hell, honestly. Everything’s sterile. Climate-controlled. No street vendors, no—” she gestured vaguely at the surrounding bazaar, “—this. That’s why we love coming here. Feels real, you know?”

  I glanced at her Syntavelli jacket, at Cecilia’s matching one. “You two slumming it?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

  Alice laughed. “Maybe a little. But hey, we’re licensed hunters now! Gotta get used to the real world, right? Can’t live in corpo bubbles forever.”

  “Our parents would prefer we did,” Cecilia murmured.

  “Yeah, well.” Alice stabbed a piece of synth-pork with unnecessary aggression. “Parents can deal. For an hour, at least.”

  I took another bite of noodles, letting the moment settle. Around us, the bazaar continued its chaotic rhythm. Someone dropped a tray of dishes with a spectacular crash. A vendor three stalls over started yelling about counterfeit augs.

  “So,” Alice said, leaning forward with renewed energy. “What’s your plan now? You gonna dive more shards? Hunt incursions?”

  I hesitated, chopsticks hovering over my bowl.

  Honestly? I didn’t know.

  I had the predictor plugin for incursions and the Scavantis dive tool for shards with a broken system that barely functioned. And a list of impossible materials I needed to gather if I ever wanted to open great-grandpa’s door and maybe, just maybe, figure out who’d been draining my compatibility.

  “Both, probably,” I said finally. “Need the credits.”

  “Don’t we all?” Alice said with a grin. She raised her bowl in a mock toast. “To being licensed! And not dying!”

  Cecilia raised hers with a small smile. “To not dying.”

  I clinked my bowl against theirs.

  “To not dying,” I agreed.

  Cecilia set down her chopsticks carefully, tilting her head at me. “How did you fight in the shard?” She asked, voice quiet but curious. “Your approach?”

  I blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden question. “Uh... I shot at them?” I gestured vaguely at the rifle still strapped to my back. “And when they got close, I...” I mimed a swinging motion with my hands. “Swung my sword around until they died?”

  Alice snorted into her noodles.

  But Cecilia perked up, eyes brightening. “Melee sword?” She set down her bowl entirely now, giving me her full attention. “What type?”

  “Just... a sword?” I said uncertainly. “Straight blade. Family heirloom. My great-grandpa made it.” I patted the scabbard.

  “Show me?”

  I hesitated, glancing around the crowded bazaar. Half the people here were armed, sure, but pulling out a weapon at a food stall felt like a sure way that could go sideways fast.

  Cecilia seemed to read my hesitation. “It’s okay. I’ll show you mine first.”

  She stood slightly, pulling back her Syntavelli jacket just enough to reveal... nothing. Just the inside lining of the jacket. Clean, pristine fabric.

  Then she reached inside.

  And pulled out a longsword.

  I stared.

  The blade was easily a meter long, a weapon that should’ve been strapped to her back or hanging from a belt. But it had been inside her jacket. Under her jacket. The jacket was form-fitting and showed absolutely no bulge or outline of a weapon.

  She set it carefully on the counter beside her bowl, then reached back inside and pulled out a rapier.

  Two weapons.

  Both full-sized.

  Both had been somehow stored inside a jacket that couldn’t physically hold them.

  My brain tried to process this and failed spectacularly. “How—”

  Cecilia saw my confused stare and laughed lightly, the sound surprisingly warm. “Grandpa got a reward from the System fifty years ago,” she said, a hint of smugness creeping into her voice. “It can fit two weapons, and it warps the surrounding space to make them fit.”

  Alice immediately leaned over and hugged her sister from the side, grinning widely. “Got it as a recovery gift. And she put everything into AGI after she recovered from—”

  Cecilia’s glare could’ve melted steel. “He doesn’t need to know.”

  Alice shrugged off the glare as if it was nothing. “And yeah, she chose melee sub-traits, because—”

  “Ali!” Cecilia’s hand shot out and clamped over her sister’s mouth.

  Alice’s eyes widened in surprise, her next words muffled behind Cecilia’s palm. “What?” Alice asked after pulling her sister’s hand away, genuinely confused.

  “He probably doesn’t have sub-traits,” Cecilia said, glancing at me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Dash.”

  I sat there, chopsticks frozen halfway to my mouth. “... It’s okay,” I drawled. “But what are sub-traits?”

  Realization dawned across Alice’s face like watching a system window load. “Damn, sorry! Yeah... uh... so, you know how each of the primary systems can be replaced?” She gestured vaguely with her hands. “Like the skill tab being totes different for different people?”

  I nodded along, as if I totally understood what she meant and my entire system wasn’t a glitching mess of ERROR messages and incomprehensible symbols.

  “Yeah, so goddess Aurelia has this special... one for traits?” Alice continued. “Instead of just having one trait, you can put LPs into sub-traits. So Ceci’s primary trait is, like, enhanced reflexes or whatever—”

  “Temporal Perception,” Cecilia corrected quietly.

  “—right, that, and then she’s got sub-traits for sword techniques, dodge enhancements, all that fancy melee stuff.” Alice grinned. “Makes her stupidly fast with a blade.”

  “We’re not supposed to tell outsiders,” Cecilia let out a long-suffering sigh, shooting her sister another look.

  “Dash isn’t an outsider,” Alice protested. “He’s... I dunno, a friend now? We dove together! …Kinda!”

  “We dove separately in the same general timeframe,” I pointed out.

  “Same thing!” Cecilia just shook her head and picked up her chopsticks again, but I caught the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

  I stared down at my bowl, mind racing.

  Sub-traits, LPs that could be spent on additional trait modifications. The entire system modification that Aurelia Academy provided to its students, probably exclusive, probably expensive, definitely what gave corpo kids another massive advantage over everyone else.

  And here I was with a system that couldn’t even display my attributes without glitching into ancient runes.

  “That’s... pretty cool,” I managed, keeping my voice neutral.

  Alice beamed. “Right? I’ve got sub-traits too, but mine are all fire-focused. Pyrokinesis’ primary trait, then sub-traits for heat resistance, flame shaping, explosion control—”

  “She set her room on fire twice,” Cecilia added helpfully.

  “It was controlled!” Alice protested. “Mostly!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound surprising even me. These two corpo academy kids, with their space-warping jackets and custom trait modifications, sitting in a grimy Floor 72 noodle stall and arguing about accidental arson.

  “So,” I said, glancing at the longsword still resting on the counter beside Cecilia’s bowl. “You actually know how to use those, or are they just for show? Because I fumble all day with mine.” I motioned to the scabbard, but kept it inside. People were getting strange looks at us as it was.

  Cecilia’s expression shifted. Not offended. Just... focused. “I know how to use them.” The way she said it made me believe her.

  Alice grinned and elbowed her sister. “She’s being modest. Ceci’s preem with a blade. Top of our combat class. Probably could’ve taken a shard boss solo if we'd met one.”

  “There wasn’t a boss,” I said. “Just... dog-things with too many eyes.”

  “Yeah, gray shards rarely have bosses,” Alice agreed. “Higher tiers do, though. Those are way more dangerous.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re gonna dive green next year. After we get some better gear and some levels.”

  Green. That was a tier above gray. “Sounds dangerous,” I said.

  “That’s what makes it preem!” Alice’s grin widened. “Plus, the loot is way better. We could make serious credits.”

  Cecilia carefully sheathed her weapons and tucked them back inside her jacket, where they vanished without a trace. “As if we need credits. Come on, we should probably eat before it gets cold,” she said pointedly.

  Alice laughed and went back to her Neurothread Special, and I returned to my ramen, but my mind was elsewhere.

  Sub-traits. Custom modifications. Space-warping storage. The gap between corpo academy students and everyone else wasn’t just wide.

  It was a chasm.

  Alice looked up mid-bite, her expression shifting from cheerful to resigned in an instant. “Oh. Fun’s over.” She nudged her sister with an elbow. “Look, ‘eli...”

  Cecilia glanced over my shoulder, and I watched her entire posture change. The relaxed ease evaporated, replaced by something tired and frustrated. She let out a long sigh. “Okay, Dash,” she breathed. “We need help.”

  “Help?” I blinked. “Help with what?”

  I turned to look. Three figures were moving through the crowd toward us, and they stood out like blood on snow.

  Bodyguards.

  High corporate. The real deal.

  All three wore matching tactical suits, not the improvised gear everyone else on Floor 72 had, but seamless, form-fitted armor that probably cost more than my house. The Tago central house. Matte black with subtle geometric paneling that caught the light, it screamed military-grade without being obvious about it. Smart-fabric that could probably stop small-arms fire and looked good doing it.

  Their movements were synchronized, professional, cutting through the crowd with the ease of people who knew exactly how dangerous they were.

  One had visible chrome along his jawline, high-end work that integrated seamlessly with his skin. Another had an optical implant that glowed faintly red, tracking everything in a constant scan pattern.

  The third, leading them, had his hand resting casually on the grip of a high tech-pistol holstered at his hip. Not threatening. Just... present.

  A reminder.

  They moved like apex predators in a room full of prey, and everyone got out of their way without being asked.

  My stomach dropped. These weren’t security guards, but these were people who disappeared problems quietly and efficiently, the kind corpos hired when they wanted something handled with zero public incident.

  “Uh,” I said, still staring. “Help?!”

  Alice was already standing, grabbing my arm with one hand and her sister’s with the other. “Yeah. Help. As in, we need to bounce. Now.”

  “What—”

  “Move!” Alice hissed, pulling me off the stool.

  The bodyguards were maybe twenty meters away now, closing fast, their eyes locked on the twins.

  Cecilia was already up, slipping into the crowd with grace. Alice dragged me after her, weaving between stalls and people with sudden urgency.

  “Who are they?!” I managed, stumbling over someone’s leg.

  “Ours!” Alice shot back. “Unfortunately!”

  TODAY’S CHAPTER IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY TagoEats

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