Implant

The paralysis didn’t hit my eyes though, so I whipped them around in a panic, locking on the smirking reporter. His grin revealed a curious detail: he was missing a right fang. Glancing at my arm, I saw where it had ended up—lodged in me. That bastard bit me. A freaking strigoi.

Now it all made sense. Why his assistant was so robotic—he’d hypnotized her. He must’ve swiped her supply of fire-juice too. The press badge? Total

fake. And I hadn’t even bothered to look at it properly. What a day.

And to top it all off, I didn’t use my twilight vision to scan his true form.

High-rank strigoi could cloak themselves as human, sure—but this guy? Looked completely ordinary. No ghostly pallor, no pointy ears, no glowing amber eyes, none of that classic corpsecore aesthetic.

Just... Roger. The charming one.

As I mentally braced for a messy, tragic ending, Mr. Pseudo-Journalist gently pulled his fang from my arm, wiped it with a dainty handkerchief— without even bothering to clean my blood off.

– See, Alenari? That wasn’t so bad. Just a little prick and poof, all done.

Oh great, now he’s joking. And wait—how the hell does he know my name?! I never introduced myself!

He popped his fang back into his mouth—and with a gross little wiggle, it reattached like it had never left. Dude should’ve gone into dentistry. What a waste of talent.

I tried to act tough, but the paralysis still had me stuck. So I began prepping a desperate final strike—one that would probably cost me my physical form. I didn’t want to think too hard about what came after. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to go through with it...

The strigoi, meanwhile, rolled my blood on his tongue like a wine critic, groaned in pleasure, smoothed his hair (poser), and gave a graceful little bow.

– Well, that’s that. I won’t keep you ladies. Perhaps we’ll meet again. – Then he winked and vanished into the shadows.

Just like that, the paralysis melted away.

I blinked, wiggled my limbs in disbelief. Holy crap. He let me go. Right next to me, I heard a panicked squeak:

– What happened?! What’s going on?!

Turns out the hypnosis on the girl had worn off too. The young journalist batted her lashes and spun around in confusion.

– Where am I? Who are you?

I let out a heavy sigh. This was officially the worst day I’d had in ages. The one silver lining? I didn’t need to haul Angie off for memory scrubbing— she already remembered zilch. And I could feel it wasn’t an act. That much, I’m a pro at reading.

-But you couldn’t read the smooth-talking strigoi’s lies,- – muttered that annoying little self-loathing voice in my head. I slapped it mentally, and it shut up in a sulk.

About five minutes later, Angie and I exited the slums. As soon as we hit a normal district, I flagged down a cab for her. The poor thing got an earful of lies from me: that I was a local, found her wandering lost, and helped her snap out of a daze. I even handed back her cardboard press badge—the one dropped by her oh-so-kind kidnapper—and told her to get an MRI ASAP, because -that kind of amnesia needs serious checking.-

My delivery was flawless. She bought every word.

Feeling beyond drained, I ordered myself an aero-taxi. My legs were jelly, but I couldn’t go home yet. I still had to upload the combat footage, report the mission, and claim my paycheck.

I sank into the soft seat of the hover-cab and sent a silent thank-you to all the gods I don’t believe in—for living in the City. This place got the first crack at every tech advancement, and our aero-taxis weren’t used anywhere else yet. Our megapolis always got the best of everything. Rightfully so— our people had suffered enough to deserve it.

…It all started with the outbreak. A wave of disease that crashed over the capitals of the world. It looked a little like monkeypox—but only targeted major cities, infecting their entire populations. Strangely, the disease ignored everyone else, as if it had preferences.

Another weird trait? Speed. The damn thing spread at warp pace.

Only the lucky ones made it out—those who realized fast that medicine wouldn’t help and that life outside the cities was still ticking along just fine. Those quick thinkers packed up and got out while they could.

The rest? Became bones. White skulls littered the capitals like seashells on a beach.

In just two days, humanity lost millions.

Survivors were stuffed into hastily built refugee towns while the world's governments (who miraculously survived first, of course) scrambled to figure things out. Eventually, some genius had the bright idea to bring together the top architects, engineers, and builders—and they started constructing the City based on blueprints and footage from the fallen metropolises.

The professionals in charge decided not to divide the new megapolis into districts based on the original capitals. Instead, they deliberately mixed the cities up, interlacing their streets without any clear pattern.

The idea was to unite the future population—and, as time would prove, the plan actually worked. Despite the massive differences in culture, language, and religion, people bonded. The reason was simple: shared tragedy unites better than any cheesy motivational slogan.

So when the project was finally completed, the first pedestrians of the City could take their evening strolls through New York’s business district, admiring the majestic Art Deco skyscrapers, then pass through the elegant spires of Dubai’s mosques and minarets, and finally dip their hands into Rome’s whispering fountains.

Pure bliss.

The City became the dreamland of every escort in the world—no more worrying about travel logistics, since every capital and every cash-loaded client now existed in one convenient place.

The view from below was mesmerizing, and I struggled to stay focused— especially with the elderly cabbie and his glorious mustache showing off by zipping past the flame of the Statue of Liberty. That’s when I had another random thought: after the megapolis was built, the best minds of the world

had to join forces again to create something else—the Wall. When the Obscurity appeared, the Municipality didn’t skimp. They cracked open their war chest and built that beast.

Okay, time to get it together.

I pulled out my vanity kit and started freshening up—well, pretended to. In reality, I was skimming through the footage of the earlier battle, editing out all the appearances of the strigoi and his hostage. That part was personal and none of the cops’ damn business.

I also decided to keep a copy of the entire incident for myself on an external drive, so I could analyze it later in peace and quiet. Technically, that was against protocol—making copies was forbidden. But how were they gonna check my brain? They sure as hell weren’t gonna cut me open. Of that, I was pretty confident.

With the implant tasks done, it was time for a big, ugly question: What the hell is going on?