“Tago has waited long enough.

  For too long, gangs have carved fear into our streets while honest citizens paid the price.

  That ends now.

  We will reclaim our neighborhoods, restore safety, and stand together as one city.

  To support this effort, every citizen will contribute just one additional percent, so that no district, no family, and no future is left behind.”

  — Mayor Prattle, public broadcast

  I climbed the stairs from the basement workshop, my legs protesting after hours of standing in one spot while redesigning the same pair of pants three times. The house was quiet when I emerged. Comma was probably in her room doing homework or, more likely, not doing homework instead of sleeping.

  My holoband buzzed again.

  [Omar: Seriously, where are you?]

  [Me: Coming to the front entrance now]

  I walked through the house. The front door scanner recognized my palm print, and the lock disengaged with a soft chime. I pulled it open and walked through the garden toward the front entrance.

  The lamps cast long shadows, but I could still clearly see Omar, who stood on the doorstep in his Creston Academy uniform, probably a good idea coming to the central district. His backpack hung from one shoulder, but it was the cap that made me pause.

  Black baseball cap, worn and faded, with Al-Sirr’s distinctive crescent moon logo embroidered in silver thread on the front.

  I furrowed my brow. “Why are you displaying gang affiliation?”

  Omar laughed, completely unbothered by my question. “With Mayor Prattle declaring ‘war on crime,’ gangs have it hard now.” He adjusted the cap with one hand, tilting it slightly. “So I’m normalizing it a bit. Bought merch, supporting the homies.”

  I shook my head, stepping aside to let him in. “You should be careful. I’ve seen people shot for wearing gang colors.”

  “In the Central District?” Omar grinned as he stepped past me into the house. “Please. This is the safest neighborhood in Tago. Prattle’s war doesn’t touch places like this.”

  He had a point, but still. “Just... be careful.”

  “Always am, habibi.” Omar glanced around the entryway, taking in the biosculpted garden. “First time you let me come. Nice place. Very... corporate.”

  “Yeah,” I said, closing the door. “Mom’s aesthetic. Come on, I want to show you something.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked as we reached the back garden with its perfect grass and biosculpted trees.

  “My workshop. Well, sort of.” I gestured toward the far end of the garden, where great-grandpa’s statue loomed against the night sky. The eternal plasma flame flickered in its bronze hand, casting dancing shadows.

  Omar stopped walking. “Is that...?”

  “My great-grandfather,” I confirmed. “John Kallum. The statue’s been here since the house was built.”

  “It’s huge,” Omar breathed, staring up at the three-times-life-size figure. “And is that an actual plasma torch?”

  “Eternal flame. System-maintained, somehow.” I started walking toward it. “Come on.”

  Omar followed, his eyes never leaving the statue. As we got closer, he could see the details thanks to the light from the torch: the working clothes, the hammer in one hand, the stern but not unkind expression carved into the bronze face.

  “This is your secret place?” Omar asked, confusion clear as we reached the low decorative wall surrounding the monument.

  I stepped over the wall. “Sort of. It was supposed to be a secret. Turns out everyone in my family knew about it anyway.” I couldn’t help the slight bitterness that crept into my voice. “My sister even cleaned it.”

  “Wait, what?” Omar climbed over the wall after me, still looking confused. “Cleaned what? It’s a statue.”

  Instead of answering, I walked to the pillar’s base and ran my fingers along the stone until I found the slight depression and the hidden button.

  I pressed it.

  The metallic click was soft. “What the—” Omar started. I punched in the code on the now-visible keypad: 1-2-3-4-5.

  Omar’s eyes widened as the pillar shimmered, the solid stone turning translucent as if reality had stopped pretending it existed. The bronze statue above us remained solid, but the pillar beneath it... wasn’t.

  The pillar dissolved completely.

  Omar’s mouth fell open as the monument folded in on itself, stone and structure collapsing into nothing with a soft whum of displaced air. Where the pillar had been, a square opening yawned in the ground, stairs descending into darkness below.

  Automatic lights flickered on as I started down.

  “Dash,” Omar managed, his voice slightly strangled. “What the fuck.”

  “System fuckery,” I called back up to him. “Come on. It’s safe.”

  I heard him curse softly in Arabic, then his footsteps on the stairs behind me. Above us, the pillar reformed with the same soft sound, sealing us inside. The lights stabilized as we reached the bottom, revealing a small concrete room. Empty except for a single door on the far wall.

  Omar turned in a slow circle, taking in the bare space. “This is it? Just... an empty room?”

  “This is my bunker,” I said, walking toward the door. “My actual workshop is through the door that will be there instead of stairs. I moved everything this morning; it was a pain.”

  “Moved everything,” Omar repeated. “From a secret bunker under a statue. That dissolves. Using system magic.”

  “Pretty much. I moved it to the basement,” I said, walking toward the sealed door.

  “Right.” Omar followed me across the room, his footsteps echoing slightly in the empty space. Then he stopped, staring at the door. “What’s that?”

  I looked at the door, at the blast-shielding that had resisted every attempt I’d made to open it. “Great-grandpa’s final project, maybe. I don’t know. It’s been sealed since I found this place.”

  Omar walked closer, running his hand along the door’s surface. His fingers traced the edges, searching for seams or mechanisms. “Have you tried opening it?”

  “Everything short of explosives,” I said. “It’s system-reinforced. Probably the same material they use for vault doors in Kallum facilities.” I pulled up my holoband, navigating to the notes I’d compiled. “I found out what I need to open it, though. Or at least, what great-grandpa wanted me to gather before opening it.”

  Omar glanced back at me, one eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

  I hesitated. The list included materials that screamed “system secret” and “dangerous project” in equal part… but Omar had come here to help me with my drain problem.

  He was already involved, and if I couldn’t trust my best friend...

  I projected the list from my holoband; the holographic text floated in the air between us. Omar read through the list once. Twice. His expression shifted from curious to confused to slightly alarmed.

  “Wait,” he drawled. “Void-iron shavings? Intact warp coil?” He looked at me. “Dash, what are you building? A warp engine?”

  I scoffed. “Warp engines are only in holo-movies. They don’t actually exist.”

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  “Then why,” Omar pointed at the list, “do you need a warp coil?”

  “Because warp coils aren’t for engines,” I said. “They’re for stabilizing warp fields, yes, but not for ships. They’re used in system-assisted teleportation equipment…” I trailed off, realizing I was getting into technical details Omar probably didn’t care about.

  But Omar’s eyes had locked onto the door again, understanding dawning. “So the door...” He turned back to me. “It leads somewhere else? Like, teleports you somewhere?”

  I glanced at the door, at the sealed surface that had kept its secrets for decades. “Good point,” I said. “Maybe? I mean, great-grandpa built this place. Used system fuckery to hide it under a monument. Had spatial anomalies connecting it to the basement.” I gestured vaguely at the stairs. “Why wouldn’t he put something interesting behind a door that requires spatial manipulation materials to open?”

  Omar let out a low whistle. “Your family is insane.”

  “Tell me about it.” I dismissed the holographic list. “But that’s why I can’t open it yet. I don’t have any of those materials, and they’re not exactly available at Eddy’s shop.”

  “How much would it cost?” Omar asked.

  I did some quick mental math based on the prices I’d seen in the Kallum catalog. “Conservatively? Few million credits. Maybe more, depending on market prices for void-iron. I also don’t have high enough access, but I’ll get it in six years.”

  “So you’d need another loan from your grandmother,” he said and nodded to himself.

  “Or I’d need to hunt enough incursions and chaos shards to gather the money and materials myself.” I shrugged. “Which would take months, probably. Maybe longer.”

  Omar nodded slowly, still staring at the door like it was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “But once you have them? You just... dump them on the door?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “The system message just said I needed to gather the materials. Didn’t specify what to do with them next.”

  “System message.” Omar turned to look at me, face shifting to something more serious. “So your system knows about this door?”

  “Yeah,” I hesitated, deciding how much to reveal. “My system is... weird. Broken in a lot of ways. But it gave me information about this door and about what great-grandpa left behind.”

  Omar was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he reached up and adjusted his Al-Sirr cap, a nervous gesture I’d seen him do when he was thinking hard about something. “Dash,” he said finally. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. Your system.”

  My stomach tightened. “What about it?”

  “I did some research,” Omar said. “After you told me about the drain...” He paused. “Can we go somewhere else to talk about this? Somewhere that’s not a creepy empty bunker?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. The actual workshop. Come on.”

  I reached out and tapped the doorframe, focusing on the intent. I’d discovered this by accident: the spatial anomaly responded to direct will, reshaping itself when I needed it to.

  The stairs dissolved like a bad render, reality hiccupping as the geometry rearranged itself. Where the descending steps had been, a simple door materialized, perfectly mundane except for the fact that it had just replaced an entire stairwell.

  “What the—” Omar started behind me.

  I grabbed the handle and pulled it open, revealing the basement workshop on the other side. “System fuckery,” I said again, because really, what other explanation was there?

  Omar followed me through, and his breath caught.

  The basement workshop stretched before us, ten meters by ten meters of organized chaos. Wooden crates lined the walls, each one labeled with contents that probably cost more than most people’s cars. My old bits and pieces I brought from the bunker were still in scrap containers, still not organized.

  The Orbital projector stood in the center, six emitters arranged in a perfect circle around its base cylinder. The TABLO workstation gleamed against the far wall, and the crafting bench, well, ACCIW... still not assembled.

  Omar walked slowly into the room, his head swiveling to take everything in. “Dash,” he whispered. “What is all this?”

  “Half a million credits worth of equipment and materials,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual despite the pride bubbling up. “Courtesy of my grandmother’s guilt money.”

  He stopped at one of the crates, reading the label. “Exotic Alloy Stock - 23 variants.” His eyes found me. “Twenty-three variants?”

  “For the ACCIW.” I gestured at the machine still packed in a crate. “System-grade fabrication equipment. I can make basically anything now, as long as I have the right materials and the skill to design it.”

  Omar moved to the next crate, then the next, reading labels with increasing disbelief. “System Fibers - Combat Rated. Michalski Hexagon Hybrid Shield Matrix. Kallum TABLO Series...” He looked at me. “You weren’t joking about spending all of it.”

  “Most of it went to book rental,” I complained. “But yeah, the rest went into setting up a proper workshop.”

  He walked over to the Orbital, circling it slowly. The emitters tracked his movement, the projection field flickering to life automatically. “This is Seorin Dynamics,” he said, running his hand through the holographic space. “Their industrial line. Dash, this thing costs...”

  “Thirty thousand market price,” I finished. “Worth every sol, and I even got a discount.”

  Omar shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re insane. You know that, right? Completely insane.” He gestured around the workshop. “This is... this is professional-grade equipment. Better than what most small corpo research divisions have.”

  I felt myself smile despite the exhaustion. “That’s the idea.”

  He turned to face me fully. “Okay. Before I tell you about the system, show me what you’re building.”

  “Cargo pants, actually,” I said, pulling up the design on Orbital. “Combat-rated system fiber, integrated shield projectors, adaptive camo capability, and about seventeen pockets.”

  Omar’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re building tactical gear? Like, actual system-grade tactical gear?”

  “That’s the plan.” I turned the design into the air between us. The holographic pants rotated slowly, showing off all twelve projector positions, the web of conductive threading, and the distributed power network. “Though it’s been more complicated than I expected. Turns out shield projector placement is a whole mathematical discipline I knew nothing about.”

  “Looks so cool,” Omar said, studying the design. “You could pick any girl at the academy parading in this.” He glanced at me. “You figured this out on your own?”

  “Thanks,” I said, dismissing the projection. “But that’s not what you came here to talk about.”

  His expression sobered instantly. “Right, yeah.” He set his backpack down. “I looked into your compatibility drain. Spent most of yesterday and today’s free time digging through Academy books.”

  I felt my pulse quicken. “And?”

  “And I found something.” Omar hefted his backpack and pulled out something that made the bag sag with its weight. A book. Not a datapad or holo-reader, but an actual physical book, bound in dark blue synthetic leather with gold lettering on the spine.

  MONSTER COMPENDIUM: COMPREHENSIVE THREAT ASSESSMENT Creston Academy Press, 15th Edition

  The thing had to be at least a thousand pages thick, enough to use as improvised armor. Omar carried it over to the TABLO and—

  His eyes landed on the Erika figurine.

  I lunged forward, trying to grab it, but Omar was faster. He snatched it up, holding it out of reach, and his face split into the biggest grin I’d ever seen. “DASH!” he wheezed with laughter. “The first thing you make in your professional workshop—the FIRST THING—is a figurine of Erika?!”

  “It’s not—that’s not—” My face burned hot enough to melt steel. “It’s for practice! The system gave it to me!”

  “The system,” Omar repeated, still laughing. “Sure, habibi. The system just coincidentally made you a perfect miniature of your crush.”

  “It’s for learning!” I protested, reaching for the figurine. “Emotional connection strengthens the enchantment process!”

  “Oh, I bet it does.” Omar finally handed it back, wiping tears from his eyes. “Emotional connection. That’s what we’re calling it now?”

  I snatched the figurine and shoved it into my pocket, my face still burning. “Can we please focus on why you’re actually here?” I slid my rune book out of Omar’s reach because I didn’t want to die yet.

  “Right, right.” Omar was still grinning as he set the massive book down on the TABLO with a heavy thunk that made the entire surface vibrate. “Sorry. But that was too good.”

  I glared at him, but he just smiled innocently.

  “Anyway,” he said, flipping open the book. The pages were paper, yellowed slightly with age, covered in dense text and detailed illustrations. “Teachers make us use physical books for monster identification. They think we remember better if we can’t just search for keywords.”

  “That sounds terrible,” I muttered, still trying to will my blush away.

  “It is.” Omar started flipping through the pages, scanning chapter headings. “But it means I know exactly where to look when I need obscure information.” He found a tab, one of many sticking out from the book’s edge, and opened to the marked page.

  Page 607.

  The header read: MEZTLI NATIVE THREATS

  Below it was an illustration of something that made my skin crawl. Vaguely humanoid, but stretched and wrong, with too many joints in its limbs and a face that was mostly mouth. The artist had captured an unsettling quality to it, like the creature existed slightly out of phase with reality.

  “Meztli,” Omar said, tapping the page. “Well, one of Meztli's moons, we never visited the moon, but creatures were in incursions.” He looked at me. “And the moon is home to one of the nastiest psionic-class monsters.”

  I leaned closer, reading the header beneath the illustration.

  Soul Leech (Anima Sanguisuga)

  Classification: Psionic Predator,

  Threat Level: Teal 1 - Orange 1

  Native Environment: Meztli caverns

  Omar cleared his throat and started reading aloud, his finger tracing the text:

  “The Soul Leech represents one of the most insidious threats to individuals. Unlike conventional predators that inflict physical harm, Soul Leeches employ a parasitic curse mechanism that directly targets the victim’s system connection and converts the energy to experience for them to level.

  The curse is undetectable through standard system diagnostics and exhibits no physical symptoms except excruciating soul pain during application of the curse. Victims typically attribute declining performance to natural causes or equipment failure, until their weekly update reveals the truth.

  Only specialized psionic scans or compatibility measurements under controlled conditions can reveal the leach and confirm the suspicion.

  Treatment: Curse removal requires a level 50 or higher healer specializing in psionic contamination. The success rate decreases significantly after six months of infection. Cases beyond twelve months are considered effectively permanent.

  Prevention: Standard psionic shielding (Orange minimum) provides adequate protection. Avoid engaging Meztli incursions without proper equipment."

  I stared at the illustration of the Soul Leech, at its too-many joints and nightmare mouth. The idea that something like that could have touched me, cursed me, without me ever knowing...

  “But this isn’t what happened to me... right?” I asked Omar, “I don’t remember ‘excruciating soul pain during application of the curse’.”

  “No,” Omar said. “But the principle could be the same. We need to get you a psionic check.”

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