01:00 | Missed deadlines

  Nick returned to consciousness against the unforgiving grit of cold concrete. The temperature registered first, a biting chill that seeped through his clothes, followed closely by a wave of measured, precise pain designed to linger in the marrow. The metallic tang of iron coated his tongue, and a thick layer of dust clung to the back of his throat. When he attempted to swallow, his jaw shifted with a dull, grinding sensation that confirmed something had been forced out of alignment.

  “Tuesday,” a voice stated from somewhere above him. The tone was calm, carrying the heavy weight of expectation.

  Nick exhaled a slow, ragged breath and forced his mouth into the ghost of a smile. The movement caused the split in his lip to tear open once more, sending a thin trickle of warmth sliding down his chin.

  “I said around Tuesday,” he muttered, his voice scraping against his raw throat. “Deadlines are…flexible.”

  A heavy boot drove into his ribs with surgical placement, stealing the breath from his lungs in a single, sickening impact. Before he could curl inward to protect his midline, a fist knotted into the fabric of his jacket and hauled him upright. The rough concrete tore at his spine as he was shoved against the wall. Fingers tangled into his hair, wrenching his head back until his neck strained.

  “You said Tuesday.”

  Above them, a solitary fluorescent strip flickered with a rhythmic hum, illuminating oil-stained walls and damp air that smelled of old blood baked into the floorboards. Nick blinked against the harsh light, his vision swimming.

  “I said I’d have results,” he rasped, struggling to focus. “Which I do. Just not in a format you can—”

  The punch landed squarely across his cheek, sending a burst of white light exploding behind his eyes. Someone in the periphery cursed as the spray of blood hit them.

  “Don’t talk,” a second voice intervened. “You talk too much when you’re wrong.”

  Nick let out a wet, bubbling laugh despite the warning. “You wouldn’t be here if I was.”

  A dense silence spread through the room, stretching the tension until it felt brittle. The hands holding him suddenly let go, and he sagged forward, catching his weight on shaking arms just before his forehead could strike the floor. A pair of polished leather shoes stopped inches from his face.

  “You said you were an Atwood,” the crouching man said quietly, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “You said your father built something no one else could replicate.”

  The air in the room seemed to sharpen. Nick lifted his head, his neck protesting the effort. “I said a system.”

  The man waited for him to continue.

  A drop of blood fell from his chin, spotting the floor.

  “I said a system,” Nick replied. “An architecture. A way of integrating augmentation that doesn't just add to a body, but reorganises it.”

  The man didn't interrupt, so Nick pressed on, his voice gaining a desperate clarity. “My father’s work isn’t incremental. It doesn't compete with existing enhancement models, it bypasses them.” He drew a slow breath through his teeth, steadying his focus. “Every system you’re currently running hits a ceiling. Processing load, recovery time, neural tolerance, you push past it, and the body fails. Every single time.”

  He looked up at them, his eyes sharp despite the blood matting his face.

  “This doesn't hit the ceiling,” he whispered. “It raises it. Reaction times drop below predictive thresholds. Cognitive throughput increases without signal bleed. Adaptation curves flatten instead of spiking. The body stops fighting the augmentation and starts using it.” Nick swallowed hard. “You don't get diminishing returns. You get compounding ones.”

  He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze hardening. “Nothing else on the market can do that. Not legally, not illegally, and certainly not at scale. And no one else knows how to make it work. If there were another way to get results like this, you wouldn't be talking to me.”

  The man regarded him for a long moment, measuring him with the cold eyes of a merchant. “If that were true,” he said finally, “you’d already be very rich.”

  Nick huffed a breath that almost became a laugh. “If it were easy, you wouldn't need me.”

  A hand suddenly closed around his shirt, slamming him back against the wall. His head rang as bone met concrete, stars bursting behind his eyelids. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give them a sound. The pain was sharp, but it was clean. He could work with clean.

  “You missed your deadline,” the man said. “You missed it badly.”

  “Because I’m not selling you a shortcut,” Nick ground out.

  “That’s exactly what you promised.”

  “No,” Nick corrected, his voice raw but steady. “I promised you an outcome.”

  The boot shifted as the man redistributed his weight. Someone else spoke from the shadows at the back of the room. “You don't have it.”

  Nick closed his eyes for half a second, then forced them open. “I didn’t say that either.”

  The man crouched lower, bringing himself level with Nick’s face. He was close enough now that Nick could smell his cologne, something expensive and deliberate, beneath the stench of the garage. “Then where is it?”

  Nick hesitated. It wasn't a long pause, but it was just long enough for them to notice. “There’s one more place I haven’t checked,” he said.

  “And you’re only thinking of this now?” the man asked. “Why?”

  “Because it’s…complicated,” Nick said. “And because once I go there, there’s no pretending it was never part of the chain.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The silence in the room thickened, making the buzz of the fluorescent light seem louder.

  The man leaned back on his heels, considering. A soft, unconvinced chuckle came from the shadows. “You’re asking for more time.”

  Nick shook his head, slow and deliberate. “I’m offering you more than you paid for.”

  Another pause stretched out, longer than the last. Finally, the man stood. “You have a week. One week. After that, we stop talking about missed deadlines.”

  Nick exhaled through his nose, careful to hide the relief.

  “If you miss it,” the man continued calmly, “we won't chase you.”

  Nick frowned. “What-”

  “Ownership,” the man said. “We collect ownership. You’ll work until the work is done, or you break in the process.”

  Nick’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The man smiled. “Make sure it isn't.”

  They released him abruptly. Nick staggered, catching himself against the wall before forcing his legs to move. No one helped him, but no one stopped him. He made it to the door on his own, blood dripping steadily from his knuckles onto the concrete.

  Outside, the night air hit him with a frigid shock. He leaned against the brickwork, breathing through the pain as he cataloged the damage: jaw, ribs, shoulder. All of it was survivable.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He stared at it for a long moment before pulling it free. An old address sat pinned at the top of his notes, one he hadn't touched in years, one he had deliberately left buried.

  He wiped blood from his lip and smiled a dark, jagged smile.

  Then, he pushed off the wall and limped into the dark.

  He was going home.

  01:01 | The Futility of the Day

  Nick returned to consciousness against the unforgiving grit of cold concrete. The temperature registered first, a biting chill that seeped through his clothes, followed closely by a wave of measured, precise pain designed to linger in the marrow. The metallic tang of iron coated his tongue, and a thick layer of dust clung to the back of his throat. When he attempted to swallow, his jaw shifted with a dull, grinding sensation that confirmed something had been forced out of alignment.

  “Tuesday,” a voice stated from somewhere above him. The tone was calm, carrying the heavy weight of expectation.

  Nick exhaled a slow, ragged breath and forced his mouth into the ghost of a smile. The movement caused the split in his lip to tear open once more, sending a thin trickle of warmth sliding down his chin.

  “I said around Tuesday,” he muttered, his voice scraping against his raw throat. “Deadlines are…flexible.”

  A heavy boot drove into his ribs with surgical placement, stealing the breath from his lungs in a single, sickening impact. Before he could curl inward to protect his midline, a fist knotted into the fabric of his jacket and hauled him upright. The rough concrete tore at his spine as he was shoved against the wall. Fingers tangled into his hair, wrenching his head back until his neck strained.

  “You said Tuesday.”

  Above them, a solitary fluorescent strip flickered with a rhythmic hum, illuminating oil-stained walls and damp air that smelled of old blood baked into the floorboards. Nick blinked against the harsh light, his vision swimming.

  “I said I’d have results,” he rasped, struggling to focus. “Which I do. Just not in a format you can—”

  The punch landed squarely across his cheek, sending a burst of white light exploding behind his eyes. Someone in the periphery cursed as the spray of blood hit them.

  “Don’t talk,” a second voice intervened. “You talk too much when you’re wrong.”

  Nick let out a wet, bubbling laugh despite the warning. “You wouldn’t be here if I was.”

  A dense silence spread through the room, stretching the tension until it felt brittle. The hands holding him suddenly let go, and he sagged forward, catching his weight on shaking arms just before his forehead could strike the floor. A pair of polished leather shoes stopped inches from his face.

  “You said you were an Atwood,” the crouching man said quietly, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “You said your father built something no one else could replicate.”

  The air in the room seemed to sharpen. Nick lifted his head, his neck protesting the effort. “I said a system.”

  The man waited for him to continue.

  A drop of blood fell from his chin, spotting the floor.

  “I said a system,” Nick replied. “An architecture. A way of integrating augmentation that doesn't just add to a body, but reorganises it.”

  The man didn't interrupt, so Nick pressed on, his voice gaining a desperate clarity. “My father’s work isn’t incremental. It doesn't compete with existing enhancement models, it bypasses them.” He drew a slow breath through his teeth, steadying his focus. “Every system you’re currently running hits a ceiling. Processing load, recovery time, neural tolerance, you push past it, and the body fails. Every single time.”

  He looked up at them, his eyes sharp despite the blood matting his face.

  “This doesn't hit the ceiling,” he whispered. “It raises it. Reaction times drop below predictive thresholds. Cognitive throughput increases without signal bleed. Adaptation curves flatten instead of spiking. The body stops fighting the augmentation and starts using it.” Nick swallowed hard. “You don't get diminishing returns. You get compounding ones.”

  He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze hardening. “Nothing else on the market can do that. Not legally, not illegally, and certainly not at scale. And no one else knows how to make it work. If there were another way to get results like this, you wouldn't be talking to me.”

  The man regarded him for a long moment, measuring him with the cold eyes of a merchant. “If that were true,” he said finally, “you’d already be very rich.”

  Nick huffed a breath that almost became a laugh. “If it were easy, you wouldn't need me.”

  A hand suddenly closed around his shirt, slamming him back against the wall. His head rang as bone met concrete, stars bursting behind his eyelids. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give them a sound. The pain was sharp, but it was clean. He could work with clean.

  “You missed your deadline,” the man said. “You missed it badly.”

  “Because I’m not selling you a shortcut,” Nick ground out.

  “That’s exactly what you promised.”

  “No,” Nick corrected, his voice raw but steady. “I promised you an outcome.”

  The boot shifted as the man redistributed his weight. Someone else spoke from the shadows at the back of the room. “You don't have it.”

  Nick closed his eyes for half a second, then forced them open. “I didn’t say that either.”

  The man crouched lower, bringing himself level with Nick’s face. He was close enough now that Nick could smell his cologne, something expensive and deliberate, beneath the stench of the garage. “Then where is it?”

  Nick hesitated. It wasn't a long pause, but it was just long enough for them to notice. “There’s one more place I haven’t checked,” he said.

  “And you’re only thinking of this now?” the man asked. “Why?”

  “Because it’s…complicated,” Nick said. “And because once I go there, there’s no pretending it was never part of the chain.”

  The silence in the room thickened, making the buzz of the fluorescent light seem louder.

  The man leaned back on his heels, considering. A soft, unconvinced chuckle came from the shadows. “You’re asking for more time.”

  Nick shook his head, slow and deliberate. “I’m offering you more than you paid for.”

  Another pause stretched out, longer than the last. Finally, the man stood. “You have a week. One week. After that, we stop talking about missed deadlines.”

  Nick exhaled through his nose, careful to hide the relief.

  “If you miss it,” the man continued calmly, “we won't chase you.”

  Nick frowned. “What-”

  “Ownership,” the man said. “We collect ownership. You’ll work until the work is done, or you break in the process.”

  Nick’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The man smiled. “Make sure it isn't.”

  They released him abruptly. Nick staggered, catching himself against the wall before forcing his legs to move. No one helped him, but no one stopped him. He made it to the door on his own, blood dripping steadily from his knuckles onto the concrete.

  Outside, the night air hit him with a frigid shock. He leaned against the brickwork, breathing through the pain as he cataloged the damage: jaw, ribs, shoulder. All of it was survivable.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He stared at it for a long moment before pulling it free. An old address sat pinned at the top of his notes, one he hadn't touched in years, one he had deliberately left buried.

  He wiped blood from his lip and smiled a dark, jagged smile.

  Then, he pushed off the wall and limped into the dark.

  He was going home.