Ren lived in a housing unit colloquially known as "The Coffin."
It was a 4x4 meter cube in Block 302 of the Lower Decks. The walls were thin enough to hear his neighbor's cyber-liver failing, and the window looked out directly onto a neon sign for a "Gentleman's Club" that flashed pink light into his room every three seconds.
Flash. Dark. Flash. Dark. It was like living inside a migraine.
Ren sat on his mattress, staring at the small pile of cred-sticks on his wobbly plastic table.
Five thousand credits.
He had counted it four times. He had even bitten one of the sticks, old-school style, just to make sure it wasn't a holographic prank. It was real.
"Okay, Ren. Be cool," he whispered to the empty room. "You didn't steal this. You… accepted a donation from a concerned citizen who was taking a nap in a puddle."
He quickly shoved the credits into a hollowed-out nutrient paste can and hid it under a loose floorboard. In Neo-Babel, having money was almost as dangerous as owing it. If his landlord, Mr. Henderson, smelled fresh credits, the rent would mysteriously triple.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Ren jumped, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling.
"Ren! Open up!"
Speak of the devil. It was Henderson.
Ren's heart hammered against his ribs. Did the thugs track me? Did Henderson see me come in with money?
He walked to the door, took a deep breath, and put on his best "I am destitute and pathetic" face. He opened the door a crack.
"Mr. Henderson, look, I know rent was due yesterday, but I'm waiting on a—"
Ren stopped.
Mr. Henderson, a man who usually looked like a bulldog chewing on a wasp, was sweating profusely. He wasn't wearing his usual grease-stained tank top. He was wearing a suit. A very cheap, very ill-fitting suit that looked like he'd stolen it off a corpse.
"Mr. Ren!" Henderson squeaked. His voice was an octave higher than usual. "So good to see you! I hope the… er… ambience of the room is to your liking today?"
Ren blinked. " The ambience? You mean the neon light that's slowly giving me a seizure? It's fine."
"Good! Good." Henderson wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Listen, I just wanted to inform you of a slight change in management. I sold the building."
Ren felt his stomach drop. Here it comes. Eviction.
"Sold it?" Ren asked, his grip tightening on the doorframe. "Look, if the new owners are kicking us out, by law you have to give me thirty days—"
"No! No kicking out!" Henderson waved his hands frantically. "The new owner, uh, Sterling Industries, has acquired the entire block. They… they want to preserve the 'local culture'."
Ren stared at him. Sterling Industries? The mega-corp that manufactured eighty percent of the military cybernetics in the hemisphere? They bought a slum block to preserve the culture of mold and drug addiction?
"Right," Ren said slowly. "So, how much is the rent going up?"
Henderson laughed nervously. "Going up? Oh, no, my boy. It's subsidized! Part of a new… uh… urban relief initiative. Your rent is frozen. Indefinitely. Also, they're installing a high-speed Net connection and a filtered water system tomorrow."
Henderson shoved a piece of paper into Ren's hand. "Sign here to acknowledge the upgrade. Great! Have a nice day! Please don't report me!"
The landlord practically sprinted down the hallway.
Ren stood in the doorway, holding the paper. The pink light from the sign outside flashed over his face.
"Filtered water?" Ren muttered. "In the Lower Decks?"
He looked at the paper. It was a standard tenant agreement, but the logo at the top was the sleek, silver 'S' of Sterling Industries.
Ren narrowed his eyes. "This isn't relief. This is gentrification. They're gonna fatten us up with clean water and good internet, and then bulldoze the place to build a luxury mall."
He slammed the door and locked it. Panic set in.
"I need to save more money. If Sterling is involved, this whole block is going to be a parking lot in a month."
[The Spire – Level 99 – Sterling Industries HQ]
Fifty miles above Ren's head, the air was clean and smelled of lavender and money.
Sylvia Sterling stood before a wall of monitors that displayed the entirety of Neo-Babel's financial flow. She was beautiful in a terrifying way—sharp features, platinum hair tied in a severe bun, and eyes that looked like they could calculate the value of your soul and find it lacking.
She took a sip of vintage tea (real tea leaves, worth more than Ren's life) and tapped a holographic screen.
"Status on Asset R?" she asked.
An AI voice responded smoothly. "Asset R has signed the tenant agreement. Biometric signature confirmed. Heart rate indicated elevated stress levels."
Sylvia frowned, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her perfect brows. "Stress? Why is he stressed? I bought the building, fired the corrupt management, and lowered the rent to zero. I even routed a private fiber-optic cable directly to his unit so he won't lag in his games."
"Analysis suggests Asset R believes this is a prelude to eviction," the AI replied.
Sylvia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Of course he does. He's so… wonderfully cynical."
In the third timeline, Ren had been her Chief of Staff. When she was a ruthless warlord conquering the corporate wastes, Ren was the only one who told her when she was being an idiot. He managed her schedule, ensured she ate, and eventually died shielding her from a corporate assassin's poison dart.
She remembered his last words in that timeline: 'Sylvia, stop overworking. And for god's sake, fix the AC in the breakroom, the interns are dying.'
She swiped her hand, bringing up a live feed of the alleyway outside Ren's apartment.
"I can't approach him directly," Sylvia mused. "In this timeline, I am a 'Corpo Scum' and he is a 'Street Rat'. If I offer him a million credits, he'll think I'm trying to frame him for tax fraud."
She needed to be subtle. She needed to give him money in a way that he would accept.
"AI, access the Odd-Jobber freelance network."
"Accessing."
"Filter for jobs in Ren's vicinity. Create a new listing. Something simple. Something safe. Something that pays... unreasonably well, but not suspicious."
"Defining 'Not Suspicious'. Suggestion: 200 credits for courier work."
"Too low," Sylvia scoffed. "He needs to eat protein, not synthetic slime. Make it 2,000 credits."
"Warning: 2,000 credits for a simple courier job is 400% above market rate. It will appear suspicious."
"Just do it," Sylvia commanded. "Label it as… 'Hazard Pay due to fragile contents'. And route the package through one of my shell companies."
She watched the screen as the job listing went live.
"I will wrap you in cotton wool, Ren," she whispered to the screen, her eyes burning with possessive intensity. "And this time, I'll buy the assassin before he even loads his weapon."
[Ren's Apartment]
Ren's wrist-comp buzzed.
He looked down. A notification from the Odd-Jobber app.
[NEW GIG AVAILABLE] Type: High-Priority Delivery Cargo: One (1) Vintage Analog Watch (Fragile) Route: Sector 4 to Sector 2 (Safe Zone) Payout: 2,000 Credits
Ren stared at the screen. He rubbed his eyes.
"Two thousand credits just to move a watch?"
He stood up and paced the tiny room. "This is a trap. It has to be. You don't pay two grand for a delivery unless the watch is made of antimatter or it's stolen evidence."
He tapped his chin. "But... if Sterling Industries flattens this building next week, I'll need a deposit for a new place."
He looked at the 'Accept' button. It pulsed invitingly.
"If I die," Ren told the empty room, "I'm haunting Mr. Henderson."
He pressed ACCEPT.
[JOB CONFIRMED. PICKUP IN 15 MINUTES.]
Ren grabbed his jacket. He didn't know that the "Vintage Watch" was actually a GPS tracker Sylvia wanted him to carry so she could monitor his location 24/7. He just thought he was the luckiest, most suspicious guy in Neo-Babel.
"Okay," Ren exhaled, checking his pockets. "Easy money. What could possibly go wrong?"