Neon Remnant

Sol leaned against the damp stone wall of the tunnel, his body aching from the relentless strain. His legs felt like lead, each step heavier than the last. Every jolt of pain in his ribs reminded him just how fragile his body was right now, but stopping wasn't an option. The sewer was dark, humid, and reeked of decay. Water dripped from rusted pipes, echoing eerily through the tunnels. Slime-coated walls made each step treacherous, and the distant scurrying of rats hinted at unseen life thriving in the filth. The putrid stench of stagnant water mixed with rot clung to his clothes, making it hard to breathe without suppressing a gag. His fingers trembled as he reached into his bag, retrieving a roll of bandages.

He peeled back the fabric of his jacket, exposing the deep bruises and cuts along his ribs. Each breath still sent a sharp spike of pain through his body, but there was no time to dwell on it. He had to keep moving. With quick, practiced movements, he wrapped the bandages tightly around his torso, wincing as the pressure settled against his wounds. It wasn't much, but it would keep him going.

"Focus. One step at a time."

Taking a slow breath, he accessed the ACE System, issuing a command to one of his recalled spider bots. The small drone scurried ahead, its tiny limbs tapping lightly against the stone floor as it mapped out the sewer's structure. The system processed the incoming data in real-time, overlaying a virtual map into Sol's vision. The labyrinthine tunnels stretched far and deep beneath the city, many of them long abandoned and half-collapsed.

I need to get to the black market.

His teacher had left him a name—a smuggler with a reputation for getting people out of the city unnoticed. But finding him wouldn't be easy. The black market was sprawling, divided into multiple hubs, and the smuggler's location was deep in its heart, past layers of cutthroats, traffickers, and illicit dealers. Even worse, Sol would need to move unnoticed, avoiding any enforcers or bounty hunters sniffing around for information.

But he had an advantage.

The black market had one sacred rule: No one asks questions.

The organizers of the market enforced this law with brutal efficiency. It was the only reason such a vast underworld could operate beneath the city's surface without crumbling under constant raids. Buyers needed to feel safe. If the enforcers or corporations could freely interrogate patrons, no one would dare do business.

It was the perfect place to disappear—if he could reach it.

Sol watched as his spider bot transmitted a clear path forward, avoiding the main passageways where waste flowed heavily. He adjusted his bag, forced his exhausted limbs to move, and pressed forward through the tunnel, his boots splashing softly in the shallow water. He had no time to waste.

After nearly an hour of careful movement, Sol finally spotted the faint neon glow ahead. He hesitated, forcing himself to still his breath. His body screamed for rest, but he couldn't afford to slow down now. If DreamCorp had any informants lurking in the market, one wrong move could cost him everything. A rusted metal grate marked one of the hidden entrances to the black market hub. He crouched behind the tunnel's edge, scanning the crowd beyond. The marketplace was packed with figures moving in and out of dimly lit stalls, their faces shadowed beneath deep hoods. Some wore masks, others bore their identities openly, unconcerned by prying eyes.

The black market was a melting pot of life and crime. He lingered in the shadows, eyes scanning for anything out of place. A group of cloaked figures huddled near a weapons dealer, exchanging hushed whispers. Further down, a pair of mercenaries leaned against a stall, their sharp gazes sweeping the area. The market was safe, but only in the way a cage was safe—you just had to make sure you weren't the one being hunted. Humans, slimes, goblins, orcs, lizardmen, and countless other species mingled freely, bartering and dealing under the dull hum of flickering neon signs. Exotic weapons, illicit cybernetics, and stolen goods were displayed under the watchful gaze of mercenaries hired to maintain order. The smell of sizzling street food barely masked the underlying aroma of chemicals, metal, and desperation.

Sol exhaled, adjusting his hood over his head. For a brief moment, he thought about his teacher. If he were here, he'd probably warn Sol to move carefully, to trust no one. The thought made his chest tighten, but he shoved it down. There was no time for grief. Not yet.

This was it.

Sol pulled up his hood, ensuring his face was concealed in the dim lighting. He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves before stepping forward. He had made it to the black market. Now, he just had to find his way through its chaos without drawing attention.