Neon Remnant

DreamCorp - The Inner Sanctum
Director Asmund Kren stood before the massive holographic display in his office, hands clasped behind his back. The skyline of Galvaris Prime—a sea of neon and smog—glimmered beyond the reinforced glass wall. His eyes were locked on the display, which replayed the disastrous footage of the failed shipment ambush. A convoy reduced to flaming wreckage. Guards dead. And the item—his responsibility—gone.
Kren's office was a blend of ultramodern technology and cold minimalism. Translucent panels of glowing data hovered over sleek, black desks. The walls were adorned with shifting, iridescent designs—interactive art pieces that pulsated faintly with the room's artificial light. Yet the sterile elegance of the space felt oppressive as the weight of his failure bore down on him.
Kren's jaw clenched as he turned to face the silent figure seated across the room. The representative from the board, a woman with sharp features and colder eyes, observed him with an air of predatory calm.
"Explain this," she said, her tone venomous.
Kren took a measured breath. "The convoy was attacked by the Iron Fang gang, as expected. Our security measures should have been sufficient to repel them. However, a third party intervened. A thief—likely hired by the gangs—exploited the chaos to steal the shipment. The item…" He hesitated, his throat tightening. "The item is missing."
"Missing?" The woman's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You assured the board this shipment would be secure. Do you have any idea what this failure will cost us? The item—if it falls into the wrong hands…"
Kren nodded stiffly. He knew exactly what was at stake. The stolen item wasn't just a technological marvel—it was a prototype that could revolutionize cybernetic augmentation, a game-changing advancement DreamCorp had been quietly developing to cement its dominance in the galactic market. If this technology was reverse-engineered or leaked, the consequences would ripple across entire systems.
"I understand the stakes, ma'am. We've already mobilized teams to recover it. Surveillance footage has identified a potential suspect, though we've yet to confirm their identity. The slums are… difficult to navigate."
"Excuses won't save you, Director," she snapped. "Recover the item. Discreetly. If this debacle becomes public, the consequences for you… and the company… will be catastrophic."
Kren nodded again, sweat forming at his brow. As the representative left the room, his calm facade cracked. Turning back to the hologram, he whispered, "Whoever you are, rat, you've just made the worst mistake of your life."
The Vultures' Den
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the dimly lit chamber as Serik Vorta, leader of the Vultures, hurled a bottle against the wall. The gang's lieutenants stood in tense silence, avoiding their boss's fiery glare.
The room reeked of stale alcohol and smoke. Its walls, lined with mismatched metal panels, were adorned with trophies of Serik's conquests—everything from dismantled weapons to helmets bearing the insignias of rival gangs. A massive table at the center held a detailed map of the slums, littered with markers and holographic indicators showing gang territories and key assets.
"*He played us,*" Serik growled, his voice low but trembling with barely restrained fury. "That scrawny little rat *played us.*"
One of the lieutenants, a wiry woman with a cybernetic arm, dared to speak. "We underestimated him, boss. The kid… he's smarter than he looks. And desperate. Desperate people are dangerous."
Serik slammed his fist onto the table, denting the metal surface. "He was *nothing.* Just another street rat trying to scrape by. I gave him a chance. A job. And how does he repay me? By stabbing us in the back and running off with our prize."
A hologram of the stolen item flickered to life above the table. The core—an intricate device pulsing with faint blue light—was unmistakably valuable, even to the untrained eye. It was unlike anything most in the slums had ever seen.
"We need that core," Serik continued, his voice sharp. "If what the techies say is true, it's worth more than all of DreamCorp's pocket change. This thing could buy us a way out of this pit. Better weapons. Better tech. Maybe even our own little empire. And now it's gone."
"Should we send out a bounty?" another lieutenant asked. "Every gang in the slums would be hunting him within the hour."
"No," Serik said, his voice dangerously quiet. "We don't just kill him. We make an example out of him. Find him. Drag him back here alive. I want every gang, every informant, every gutter rat on the lookout. The slums belong to *us.* No one escapes."
The room erupted into motion as the lieutenants scrambled to carry out his orders. Serik leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "You've made a fool of me, kid. And no one makes a fool of Kain Vorta."
#### Iron Fang's Territory
The room reeked of blood and burnt ozone as Garek, leader of the Iron Fang, knelt before the holo-emitter. His massive frame was illuminated by the cold blue light of the hologram—a shadowy figure whose features were obscured by static.
"The mission was a failure," Garek admitted, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "The convoy was destroyed, but the item was taken before we could secure it. Some thief beat us to it."
The holographic figure remained silent for a moment, the static crackling ominously. "You assured us this operation would succeed, Garek. We provided the resources, the intel. And yet, you return empty-handed."
"We're tracking the thief," Garek said quickly. "The Vultures are after them too. But we'll find them first. The item will be yours."
"See that it is," the figure replied coldly. "Failure is not an option. You know the price."
The hologram flickered and disappeared, leaving Garek alone in the dark. He rose to his full height, his fists clenched tightly. Turning to his second-in-command, he growled, "Double the patrols. Search every inch of the slums. That thief won't hide from us for long."
The hunt for Sol had begun. In the sprawling labyrinth of the Galvaris Prime slums, three powerful forces converged, each driven by desperation, fury, and ambition. And at the center of it all, an orphan with a stolen treasure and a target on his back.