"The Eliminator."
Enigma lay on the couch, eyes locked on the holographic profile floating in front of him.
A mercenary profile—his.
A slow smile crept across his face.
"Finally."
He exhaled hard. After all this time, he was doing it. Becoming the persona he'd spent years dreaming up. The cyber-legend whose name would shake the underground.
Technically, he still didn't qualify—no mods, not even the basics. But that didn't matter now.
His gaze drifted to the gear on the table: twin pistols, an AR, a hooded cloak, high-knee boots. All laid out like a ritual.
Isaac was going to eat his words. Couldn't wait to smash that smug face into the floor.
That thought widened his grin.
Isaac wasn't a physical threat—Enigma had folded his modded ass more than once. But emotionally? He knew how to dig deep. He knew Enigma's dreams. Knew he wasn't modded. Knew how much he hated the whole idea of it.
So he mocked him. Constantly.
That was about to end.
He lay there refreshing the merc board, waiting for a job to pop up.
Nothing.
Enigma sat up, restless. Sitting still wasn't in his DNA. His blood ran too hot for that.
His eyes scanned the apartment—a sleek, high-tech setup that whispered money without shouting. Every device was top-tier. The only things not on the market yet were the gaming rigs, all beta models meant for insiders.
He almost launched a session.
"Should I jump into a sess?" he muttered. But even that wouldn't cut it—not with the fire humming in his chest.
A soft glow flickered in his ocean-blue eyes as he started pacing.
"Ah."
The pacing turned to movement—quick, sharp. He shadowboxed the air, burning off the heat building in his limbs.
He paused at the dining nook. A mirror on the wall caught his reflection: young, lean, sharp-featured. Black hair. Blue eyes glowing just enough to look unnatural.
"Get a hold of yourself."
He inhaled. Held it. Exhaled slow.
The glow faded. His breath steadied.
"I need air."
He crossed to the table, grabbed a pair of contacts, and popped them in. His eyes dulled to a flat brown.
At the gear table, he swiped his gloved hand over the weapons and clothing. A soft pulse of light lit up beneath his fingers, and the whole setup vanished into storage. The gloves hummed, then went silent.
He stepped out—and it hit.
First the stench, then the weight.
Fuck.Maybe I should've gone for that game sess after all...
He looked around at the gloom he called home.
The sun didn't shine in this part of the city—it glitched.
Above him, the neon sky flickered through static-choked billboards and ad drones stuck in endless loops.
He moved through a street filled with the mournful chorus of rust, smoke, and synthetic decay.
Even though this zone was technically better than the slums, it wasn't far off.
He adjusted his hood, slipped into the alley, and cut into the cybermarket.
The place buzzed—broken lights, bootleg tech, dealers barking deals that were ninety percent lies.
Modded kids haggled over neural chips.Junkies twitched on synth-leather benches, lost in their own code.Somewhere nearby, two rats fought over a dead bird. The bird was winning.
Enigma kept walking.
His outfit and unmodded presence drew stares—people couldn't decide if he was bold or just suicidal.
A pure human, in this age, was like a dinosaur in the Middle Ages—meant to be extinct.
Enigma didn't care.
"Enigmaaa," a voice purred from his left.
He turned.
Miria. Cat-modded—chrome ears, slitted pupils glowing amber, tail swaying behind her. She wore a skin-tight synthsuit with shredded sleeves and a cracked collar blinking faintly. Her smile was all teeth and half-truths.
"Well, if it isn't the legend himself," she said, circling him like prey.
He didn't respond.
"Quiet as always," she teased. "I like that in a man. Mysterious. Loaded." Her gaze dropped to his gloves, still faintly glowing from the gear sync. "Still flexing?"
Enigma raised an eyebrow.
Miria laughed. "Relax, I'm messing with you."
A beat.
Then: "We've got a job tonight. Me and the crew."
He looked at her. Really looked.
She caught herself grinning. "Oops. That was off-record."
"Big job?" he asked, voice low.
She shrugged. "Port-side hit. Suppressor shipment. Real high-level stuff."
She leaned in. "You didn't hear it from me."
He hummed, then nodded slightly.
"Another reason I hang out with you—so reliable." She flashed a grin, then said, "So... come on. Let's go somewhere."
"You mean you want me to treat you."
He chuckled. The only thing Miria liked more than him was his money.
"Fine. I'll indulge you today. Let's go."
"Seriously?!" Her ears perked, tail flicking excitedly.
"Yep."
A few hours later.Late into the night.
Enigma crashed onto his couch, drained but wired. Miria had dragged him across the city—clubs, rooftops, arcades, ramen stalls with no names and ten-star darknet reviews.
"It's always more fun when it's someone else's money," she'd said.
He waved a hand. The holographic screen blinked on.
"Nothing, huh." He sighed. Still no job offers.
"Arrrgh." His head fell back with a groan. "Come on. Just one job. One gig..."
Then he froze. Sat up. A slow grin creeping across his face.
"Who said I need to get a job to do one?"
The grin widened. Dangerous now.
"Enigma," he said to himself, voice low, charged. "Time to introduce the Eliminator to the world."
His cloak dropped into his hands like it had been waiting for this moment too.
A thought sparked across his mind—a motto he'd sworn to live by the moment he became a merc.
If it isn't mine, it can be stolen...
---
The air was thick with oil, salt, and blood.
Miria's crew had the place locked down. The guards were all dead—twisted limbs, broken bodies. Only a few terrified dock workers remained, curled behind crates, praying to anything that would listen.
The job was in motion.
Men in modded exosuits hauled crates into a steel storage box—matte black, humming with encrypted tech. This wasn't just cargo. This was classified.
One by one, the stolen goods disappeared into the box. One last crate.
The last guy lifted it, dropped it in. As he straightened—
CLICK.
A cold barrel pressed against his temple.
He didn't even get to turn.
BANG.
His head exploded into red mist.
Behind him stood a ghost in a hooded cloak.
Enigma.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even look at the body.
He flipped a micro chip over at the box.
He then swiped his gloved hand across the box—flash of light—and the whole thing vanished.
The sound of the gunshot echoed across the docks like a war drum.
Shouts. Screams. Panic. Then—
Bullets.
A wall of gunfire ripped into the back of the truck.
The metal frame shook. Smoke and sparks filled the air. The crew didn't wait—they stormed in, guns raised, fingers tight on triggers.
Empty.
No body. No Enigma.
Just silence.
Then a sound—soft. Like metal straining.
One guy looked up. His eyes widened.
"Ceil—"
Too late.
Enigma dropped from the roof, upside down, arms wide like a demon descending from the dark.
His pistols materialized mid-air.
Two flashes. Two heads dropped.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Each shot landed with brutal precision. No wasted bullets. No mercy.
Enigma walked over the corpses, his cloak floated lightly as he pushed open the truck's doors.
There. Outside.
Miria and the rest of her gang stood, dumbfounded.
Enigma stood there, grinning as he soaked in their stares.
He was fully geared now.
A hooded hybrid—half cloak, half jacket—draped over a sleeveless shirt and tactical trousers, both sewn from a sleek blend of nano-fiber and titanium. Fingerless gloves. Knee-high boots built for speed and impact. A subtle visor-earpiece combo masked part of his face, glowing faintly at the edge.
But the most striking change?
His hair.Dyed white and blue—a rough, deliberate mix.
"Who the fuck—?" someone muttered.
Enigma grinned.
He'd waited for that.
"Listen well, you city rats," he said, voice booming. "And don't you dare forget it."
"I am the soon-to-be greatest merc in existence."
He spun a pistol.
"I am..."
"The Eliminator."