Vincent stood in front of the building's door, its paint cracked and peeling, wood warped from years of neglect.
He had been here before—dealings with Fernando, the man who sold identities to those who needed them. Immigrants, criminals, people like Vincent.
The alley smelled of stale beer and damp concrete, the cold biting at his exposed skin. His breath misted in the faint sunlight filtering through the gaps between buildings. He knocked once. Paused.
Knocked again. Silence.
Then, after a few seconds, the door creaked open just enough for a single bloodshot eye to peer through the gap. It studied him.
Vincent lifted his cap slightly, ensuring the man recognized his face. The lock clicked, heavy and deliberate, and the door swung open.
Vincent stepped inside, his sneakers pressing against the dust-covered floor. The worn-down exterior of the building didn't match what was inside.
Computer screens glowed with streams of code, laser printers spat out documents in rapid succession, and high-end security hardware lined the cluttered workspace. The air smelled of burnt circuits, cheap alcohol, and sweat.
Fernando slumped into his chair, running a hand through his greasy hair. Vincent smirked slightly but kept his expression flat. "I need an identity."
Fernando scoffed, tapping away at a cracked keyboard. "And you think I'll just hand over a clean slate like it's free?"
Vincent exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp. "I think you will. Because you owe me."
Fernando's fingers froze mid-keystroke. The screen beside him lit up, encrypted files flashing across the display—files Vincent could access if he wanted. "You need more than a fake passport, don't you? What's it this time?"
Vincent reached for a file from the cabinet behind Fernando, flipping through it without reading. "I need something completely untraceable."
Fernando smirked, revealing teeth stained dark from cigarettes and bad decisions. "You're either running or about to start some serious shit."
Vincent didn't respond. There was no need to.
Fernando sighed, rubbed his temples, then resumed typing. The monitors around him filled with Vincent's fabricated identity—family records, credentials, documents that didn't exist but could be created for the right price.
"You know how this works. Don't waste my time," Fernando muttered as his fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard.
Vincent pulled a stack of cash from his hoodie and tossed it onto the desk. "Get it done."
Fernando barely glanced at the money before shifting his gaze back to Vincent. "No refunds."
Vincent kept his gaze steady. "Won't need one."
Fernando exhaled, stretched his fingers, and got to work.
***
Vincent took the brown envelope Fernando handed him and tucked it into his hoodie. He didn't bother checking—he trusted Fernando to deliver flawless work.
Inside, he knew, were the keys to a new life. His name was now Vincent Mercer. The bundle contained a new ID card, a driver's license, and credit cards with a plausible transaction history.
There were even fabricated family records—a childhood in a small town upstate, a life without ties to Rothvale Enterprises or the cutthroat tech world. A clean slate, built to withstand scrutiny.
He felt the weight of it—a strange mix of freedom and loss. Vincent Rothvale, the failed Market King, was gone.
Without another word, Vincent turned and left. The metal door groaned as he pushed it open, the cold air hitting him once more.
He pulled his hoodie lower, ensuring no one paid him any attention as he stepped onto the street. The alley was quieter now. The only sound was his footsteps against the snow-dusted pavement.
Ahead of him, a translucent blue screen flickered into view—visible only to him.
**[Task Complete: New Identity Acquired.]**
Vincent frowned slightly. "This damn system—always breathing down my neck."
Ignoring the screen as it faded, he continued walking toward the motel with its flickering sign ahead.
***
Vincent sat in his motel room, eating a bowl of soup that tasted like rust while watching the system screen blink again.
**[Next Objective: Secure Local Operations – Target: Stardust Motel.]**
He muttered in confusion. "What the hell is this?"
His fingers tapped lightly against the table as he reread the directive. Before he could process it further, the screen updated.
**[Objective Breakdown:]**
**[Take control of Stardust Motel's financial and operational functions. Influence key individuals to ensure long-term stability.]**
**[Eliminate external threats that may compromise the motel's security.]**
**[Failure to complete this objective will result in System Penalties: Intensive VR Simulation Protocol Activated.]**
Vincent exhaled slowly. "Take over this place? For what? It's a damn money pit."
He scanned his motel room, noting the faded wallpaper and flickering ceiling light. Leaning back in his chair, he ran a hand through his hair.
The system flickered again, pulling up details on the motel's owner. He recalled seeing her briefly when he returned from Fernando's place.
**[Name: Stephanie Moore.]**
**[Status: Motel Owner.]**
**[Weakness Detected: Financial Struggles, Poor Business Performance.]**
Vincent stared at the information. The motel hardly seemed profitable.
But then he remembered what the system had done to him before—seizing control of his body, forcing him into movement against his will. The thought alone sent a chill down his spine.
"This damn thing will push me harder if I don't play along."
***
By afternoon, Vincent left his room. At the front desk, Stephanie Moore was still at work, handling the motel's daytime operations while her husband managed the night shift.
Her brown hair was loosely tied back, and her tired eyes focused on sorting paperwork.
Vincent approached with a casual but measured demeanor. She barely glanced up before speaking, her tone indifferent. "Do you need something?"
Vincent leaned against the counter, a faint smile on his lips. "I have an offer for you."
Stephanie raised an eyebrow. "If this is about an extra room or a discount, the answer is no."
Vincent chuckled but kept his tone calm. "No. This is about saving your business before it shuts down next month."
Stephanie froze, her fingers tightening around a document. Her eyes narrowed slightly—cautious. "How do you know about that?"
Vincent met her gaze evenly. "Because I know more than you think. And I can help you—under certain conditions."
She leaned back, crossing her arms. "And what conditions are those?"
Vincent's smile faded, his voice steady and serious. "I take over the motel's operations. You stay on as the owner, but final decisions are mine."
Stephanie scoffed, shaking her head. "You're joking."
"I don't joke about business," Vincent said firmly. "I can make this place profitable and secure. If you refuse… well, I doubt you want to watch it go bankrupt in a few weeks."
Stephanie stared at him, suspicion and hesitation clear in her tense posture. Vincent let the silence linger, knowing she was weighing her options.
She glanced at the financial reports scattered across the desk—the ones she had been struggling with all morning.
Vincent leaned in slightly, his voice low but sharp. "You don't have much time to think about this."
Stephanie exhaled deeply, rubbing her temples, the reality of her situation sinking in.
Vincent waited.
He had already calculated the outcome.
She would say yes.
Eventually.