The elevator chimed as it reached the first floor, and a wave of nausea hit me like a physical blow. Something was wrong with this Soul—something fundamentally different from any I'd transported before. My head felt impossibly heavy, as though my skull had been filled with liquid metal. I steadied myself against the elevator wall, then cautiously stepped into the corridor.

  I had to reach the Deposit Center quickly. Every Soul transfer came with discomfort, but this was something else entirely. Two Beta-Blockers should have eliminated any pain, yet the wrongness persisted, burrowing deeper with each passing moment.

  As I pushed forward, my vision fractured. Foreign memories invaded my consciousness—vivid, sharp, and utterly alien to me:

  A young girl entering a pristine office, greeted with smiles and a loving embrace—my daughter.

  Rushing into an elevator, panic rising in my chest. Someone named Erica knew what I had done. Had to escape. Had to run.

  The memory felt so real that my body responded—I'd begun sprinting down the corridor, driven by someone else's panic. I collapsed to the floor, suddenly aware I hadn't actually left the building's first level. What was happening? Were these memories even mine?

  Something warm dripped onto my lips. I touched my face and my fingers came away crimson. I wiped the blood from my nose with the back of my hand. In two years as a Courier, I'd never experienced anything remotely like this. Could these be Noah's memories integrating with mine? Impossible—the Receptacle wasn't designed to work that way.

  Before I could process this thought, another wave of pain crashed through me. My vision tunneled to darkness as I clutched my head and curled against the wall. The agony was unrelenting, as though something inside was fighting to break free.

  I fumbled for the Beta-Blocker bottle, fingers trembling as I extracted another pill. I hesitated briefly—two pills in rapid succession was already pushing safety limits. But as another surge of pain left me gasping, I made my decision and swallowed the third pill.

  I lay still against the wall, watching the decrepit plaster above me. Time warped strangely. Though physically present, I felt disconnected, floating on the edge of existence. I focused on the shattered plaster and exposed framework visible through the wall's wounds, trying to anchor myself to something tangible.

  The world began to distort around me. Walls rippled like liquid, solid surfaces bending and reshaping into impossible patterns. Colors bled together, objects lost their definition, folding and stretching as if manipulated by invisible hands. Even the corridor itself seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting in perfect synchronization with the pounding in my skull.

  With tremendous effort, I placed my palms against the floor and pushed upward. Though it felt like launching into orbit, I'd barely moved. Fighting through the disorientation, I forced myself to stand. The world spun wildly around me in a nauseating carousel of distorted perceptions.

  I slapped myself hard across the face.

  "Wake up!" I shouted into the empty corridor. "Wake up!"

  The shock helped clear my mind marginally. I reactivated the path to the Deposit Center, following the fluorescent yellow line superimposed on my vision. "I can do this," I muttered, focusing entirely on that glowing path.

  Gradually, painfully, I advanced toward the exit, using the wall for support. Each step forward seemed to push the ethereal world and physical reality back into alignment. I focused intently on the glowing yellow path in my overlay display, using it as an anchor. My thoughts and body slowly synchronized again with the tangible world around me.

  Outside, the street resembled a war zone—evidence of the frenzied competition as multiple Couriers had raced to reach the Gold Tier subscriber. Fractured concrete, blood spatters, and two vehicles smoldering quietly marked their desperate battle. Scavengers picked through the wreckage, salvaging anything of value, completely indifferent to my presence.

  The nearest Deposit Center was 1.21 kilometers away—a journey I could normally complete in minutes, but in my compromised state, it might as well have been across the wasteland to Nuno. As my connection to reality strengthened, I pushed away from the wall. Though far from optimal, I could navigate the streets without support.

  Outside in the desolate street, I struggled to focus my thoughts. This Soul was different, dangerously so, but my objective remained fixed: secure those Credits—the precious Credits that would bring me one step closer to freedom.

  It was almost 3 AM. The streets were sparsely populated, but these hours belonged to the desperate and violent. I needed to reach the MainFrame Depository quickly.

  My appearance worked in my favor. Scorch marks and scratches covered my cybernetic legs from the frantic race earlier. My arms showed dents from the clash with the other Courier on the roof. My skin was bruised, cut, and streaked with dried blood and grime—rendering me indistinguishable from ToxCity's desperate underclass. The perfect camouflage.

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  After what felt like an eternity of cautious progress, I reached Avant Street—the final approach to the Deposit Center. Just 356 meters remained.

  I rarely traveled these streets, especially at this hour, preferring the safety of rooftops whenever possible. The city had transformed into an urban wasteland, with Dream junkies scattered about—some unconscious, others engaged in incomprehensible disputes. Distant screams and sporadic gunfire provided a grim soundtrack, while the massive freighters hung overhead, visible through the haze, a constant reminder of our abandonment.

  "Hey!" a voice called from behind.

  I ignored it, hoping it wasn't directed at me, and maintained my forward momentum.

  "Hey, you, stop for a minute," the voice insisted.

  Two hundred fifteen meters to go. I paused as a hand settled on my shoulder. I slowly turned to confront whoever had grabbed me.

  Before me stood a man whose face was a battlefield of pustules and sores. One eye socket was empty, while the other housed a crude, low-grade cybernetic implant leaking dried blood and oil. His teeth were mostly gone, and the concept of hygiene appeared foreign to him. A Dream junkie, unmistakably.

  I kept my expression vacant and unfocused, mimicking the perpetual haze of addicts, hoping to be mistaken for one of their kind. The man's gaze fixed on my cybernetic legs.

  "Good implants you got there, real good, huh?" His voice was unnervingly calm and authoritative—not the typical demeanor of someone under Dream's influence. This was an addict between fixes, hunting for Credits.

  "Broken," I mumbled, maintaining my facade of stupor while staying alert for any sudden movements.

  The junkie surveyed me with a grin that revealed blackened gums. Despite his emaciated state, he represented a genuine threat. Dream addicts cycled through different states, like users of any mind-altering substance. After their initial dose, they entered a sleep-like state, experiencing vivid dreamscapes while their bodies nearly shut down. Waking them during this phase was dangerous—they existed in a liminal space between dream and reality, reacting with feral unpredictability.

  After their 8-10 hour cycle, they'd awaken consumed by the need for another dose. Dream was instantly addictive, and the brain damage it caused made users extraordinarily aggressive. Most importantly, it obliterated all sensation—including pain and fear.

  "I want them," he declared suddenly, producing a curved blade from behind his back. "These are mine."

  With reflexes honed by years as a Courier, I seized his wrist and twisted savagely, feeling bones splinter beneath my grip. I didn't hesitate—there was no time for dialogue or diplomacy. I had to act decisively before the situation spiraled completely out of control. His agonized cry pierced the night air. He attempted to swing his blade, but I evaded easily, maintaining my hold on his left hand.

  I immobilized him further by trapping his weapon arm between my knee and elbow, applying pressure until the sound of cracking bone joined his howls. I repeated the maneuver with all my strength until his hand finally released the blade.

  In blind rage, he screamed again, but I maintained control. I yanked his arm toward me, then released it to swing back as I delivered a vicious elbow strike to his face. He tumbled backward, blood streaming from his shattered nose. But pain meant nothing to someone in his state.

  "CREDITS! HE HAS CREDITS!" he shrieked.

  I quickly scanned my surroundings and saw at least six figures turning toward us with predatory interest.

  "Damn it!" I cursed and disengaged immediately.

  I sprinted away, leaving the junkie behind, his frenzied chant attracting more attention with each passing second. The sudden rush of adrenaline cleared my mind and lent new strength to my limbs. The fog of confusion that had plagued me since the Soul transfer momentarily receded, replaced by laser-focused survival instinct.

  One hundred twenty-eight meters separated me from safety. I pushed forward, refusing to look back despite the growing chorus of inhuman cries as the mob of junkies gave chase.

  I reached the massive staircase leading to the Deposit Center and began my ascent. Just as I neared the summit, someone grabbed me from behind, yanking me backward with surprising strength and slamming me down onto the hard stone steps.

  A woman's face filled my vision—a nightmare made flesh. Both her eyes were cybernetic but disturbingly wrong—oily and grimy, likely black market implants. Her blood-stained smile revealed teeth equally tainted with crimson. A living horror.

  "Creeeeeeyyydits!" she shrieked, plunging her blade into my chest. Pain exploded through me as blood splashed from the wound onto her grotesque face.

  Was this how it would end? At the hands of a junkie, mere steps from safety? After securing a Gold Tier, after everything I'd endured...

  Suddenly, the junkie woman's head exploded in a spray of blood, brain matter, and oil that obscured my vision. A metallic arm had crushed her skull with brutal efficiency.

  I looked up to see the Asian woman from yesterday—the other Courier.

  "Need help?" she asked with a grin.

  "Please," I managed.

  She glanced over my shoulder, then back at me. "Roughly twenty quite deranged individuals headed your way."

  "Help me, please," I repeated, struggling to rise through waves of pain.

  "Half," she stated coldly, her smile vanishing instantly.

  "Half?"

  "I know you secured the Gold Tier," she said, her expression resolute. "I want half the reward."

  I stared at her in disbelief.

  "This isn't charity, love," she clarified. "It's simple: either you die here and no one gets paid, or you live and keep half."

  My options had narrowed to one.

  "Okay," I nodded.

  Her smile returned. With blinding speed, she dashed up the remaining stairs toward the MainFrame Deposit Center entrance.

  Behind me, the horde of crazed junkies began their ascent. I watched anxiously as she reached the entrance and scanned her identification chip at the security panel. The red LED above the entrance shifted to green.

  "Courier with a Soul in danger! MainFrame Depot under attack!" she shouted.

  The guards—a formidable phalanx of security—rushed forward, weapons blazing. I covered my ears as a storm of bullets assaulted the intruders. The Dreamers were dismembered, their bodies riddled with armor-piercing projectiles. The confrontation was brief and entirely one-sided; the MainFrame security personnel annihilated them with the efficiency of machines, dispatching the attackers like insects in a swift and merciless display of corporate power.

  With mechanical precision, the guards returned to their posts as though nothing had happened.

  The Asian woman approached and extended her hand.

  "Half," she repeated.

  "Half," I confirmed.

  She helped me to my feet, and I leaned against her as we approached the security checkpoint. I scanned my arm, gaining access to the hallowed interior of the MainFrame Depository.