REMNANT | xu minghao {part one}
SYNOPSIS. In the year 2197, Xu Minghao works as a government shadow operative, hired to hunt down political dissidents. After surviving a catastrophic accident that should have ended his life, his body had been rewired to become nothing more than a living weapon solely engineered for one purpose: obedience. You live a different kind of double life. By day, a reclusive digital artist curating an elite art gallery; by night, a ghost hacker where you siphon power and secrets from the city’s corrupt core. But when your latest hack uncovers an unsettling truth, a target is painted on your back—and Minghao is assigned to terminate you. PAIRING. shadow operative!xu minghao x ghost hacker!fem!reader (ft. ghost hacker!vernon) GENRE. cyberpunk au, futuristic au, angst, smut (minors dni 🔞), fluff, hurt/comfort, slowburn-ish, enemies to lovers/hunter x hunted dynamic WARNINGS. cursing, drugs, violence (murder, blood, gore, etc), weapons and guns, implied “death”, body modifications/cybernetic enhancements, government corruption, dystopian government, brainwashing/memory manipulation, human experimentation, morally grey characters, mentions and descriptions of dead bodies, minghao experiencing violent cyberpsychosis episodes, shirtless minghao oops, reader goes by a hacker alias, smut warnings in part two WORD COUNT. 13k (for part one)
notes: hello everyone!! this is my fic for the @studiosvt cyberpunk: reload collab! i've had so much fun writing this :) and while i'm kinda not satisfied with this first part + feel like i could've done more due to a lot of stress happening irl which has made writing hard lately, i hope this is still okay! please don't forget to support the other amazing authors in the collab <3
SECTOR TWO — THE VEIL DISTRICTS
The rain showering down from the night sky hisses against the alloy skin of the city.
Xu Minghao finds himself standing on the narrow maintenance ledge of a building sitting right across from the 47th floor of the Helix Tower, the tips of his combat boots hovering just over the edge as the wind snaps at the tails of his black trench coat. Right below his feet, the neon arteries of the city bleed through the thick layers of dense, permanent fog and rain.
Tonight’s target is a man named Arthur Kim. Age forty-three, married, with two daughters𑁋assigned to be executed under the orders of the Dominion for illegally accessing financial streams and attempting to sell them to some brokers located in the Undercity. A fatal error that costed him his entire life, and Minghao was sent to deliver the act within a termination window of two hours.
Minghao didn’t need all that time.
In due time, the ocular implant in his eye pings, immediately locking onto the target’s heat signature through the reinforced glass and walls. Minghao narrows his gaze, heat mapping across his vision, following the man’s dull amber silhouette frantically pacing inside of his dimly lit and expensive apartment, as if already knowing what’s about to come.
A forty metre gap separates the two buildings. Minghao steps into the void without any hesitation. The wind roars past him as he launches himself off the ledge, his coat flaring out like wings. Twin magnetic grapples fire out from the wrist of his right bionic arm with a sharp hiss, cables flying across the chasm until they latch onto the Helix Tower’s exterior frame.
At the apex of the launch, he releases the grapples and twists his body into a controlled dive towards the window. The second he makes contact, reinforced glass explodes inward as his boots smashes cleanly through Arthur Kim’s window, causing shards to rain across the carpet floor like confetti.
The man in question spins around too late, eyes blown wide with utter panic, clutching nothing but a half-empty glass of whiskey in his trembling hand and useless revolver in the other that he shakily points directly at Minghao.
“Don’t… don’t come any closer!” he begs, fingers twitching around the trigger. “I have connections𑁋I-I have a family, a wife, two little girls𑁋I can pay𑁋”
Minghao doesn’t speak. He never does on missions like this. Words are wasted on the already dead.
Instead, he crosses the room in three, perfect strides, way faster than any modified human should. Arthur attempts to shoot, but the revolver kicks back into his grip and causes the bullet to go wide and harmlessly punch into the wall directly behind Minghao, barely grazing the edge of his temple. The second bullet misses again and punches a smoking hole through a video holographic family portrait that flickers and dies mid-laugh.
When Arthur tries to bolt towards the door, Minghao cuts him off with a firm seize to his throat with his cybernetic hand, lifting the man clean off the floor and knocking the breath out of his lungs with a choked gasp. The synthetic muscles and servos whirr softly under the plating as Arthur’s legs kicked uselessly through the air, causing the whiskey glass and gun to slip free out of his hands.
Arthur’s screams are muddled when a sudden boom of thunder vibrates the world outside. Minghao doesn’t budge, even as the man claws at his grip with both hands. Forty-three years of soft living against a body rebuilt for war𑁋there was never a contest.
Minghao tightens his hold ever so slightly. Not enough to fully incapacitate yet. He wants the man to feel it, to feel the consequences of his actions with a teasing crush to his windpipe. The ocular implant in his left eye feeds him live data: heart rate 179… 203… oxygen saturation plummeting from 97% to 47%. It isn’t long until Arthur’s face bloats and washes into a deep crimson. Veins stand out like ropes along his temples. His eyes bulge, whites shot through with burst capillaries, tears leaking from the corners as his tongue presses thickly against his teeth.
Nothing but a wet, gurgling choke escapes him, barely audible over the storm raging outside and Minghao’s ironclad grip. “Please… my girls…”
The man continues to spew out gargled, pathetic words𑁋about his family who he only wanted to provide for, his wife who didn’t know anything, his innocent little girls𑁋and Minghao doesn’t feel a single ounce of remorse for it. He was assigned a task to complete. There was nothing programmed in him for mercy or pity.
When Minghao squeezes his fingers a fraction tighter, Arthur’s windpipe collapses with a wet, sickening pop. His eyes roll back completely in his head, his face drained of colour, as one final spasm jerks through his body before his arms drop limp to his side. Minghao holds him suspended in the air for a full ten seconds after the heart monitor flatlines before opening his hand.
Arthur’s body falls to the floor with a thud, sprawling among the glass shards and spilled whiskey. A thin stream of blood leaks from the corner of his mouth and pools beside his lifeless eyes. Updated data swarms through Minghao’s vision.
TARGET: Arthur Kim — TERMINATED ELAPSED TIME: 8 minutes, 53 seconds
Minghao exhales a breath through his nose, rolling his shoulders back. The servos under his bionic arm hum faintly through the movement of his artificial joints, recalibrating itself from the temporary exertion. Eight minutes and fifty-three seconds. It’s somewhat sloppy by his standards, but the noise of the storm did well to hide most of the struggle. Still, the Dominion would be satisfied with his work as they always are.
He crouches beside the corpse, metal fingers brushing against the man’s neck to confirm zero pulse. Rain pours in from the shattered window, mixing in with the whiskey and the small pool of blood at his feet. This was definitely one of his messier missions, but the cleanup crew will do their task when he leaves.
He does a quick scan around the room, cycling through spectral overlays𑁋motion, thermal, electromagnetic. No alarms or security drones are detected. Arthur Kim had been arrogant enough to hide behind privacy glass and a single biometric lock on his door. What an amateur.
The apartment is dead silent now, except for the storm outside slowly beginning to dull out. But what catches him for a split second is the glitchy sound of laughter. Minghao shoots a glance toward the broken holographic family portrait that Arthur had shot at just moments ago.
His gaze lingers on the screen as it flickers erratically. What remains is a looping fragment: Arthur Kim smiling wide with his arms looped around another woman, and two small girls in front of them, both of them with equally big grins as if the world had never once been cruel.
The audio stutters with one of the girls saying, “Daddy, look! I drew you a𑁋” before restarting the loop again.
Minghao forcibly tears his eyes away. He forces out a flat exhale through his nose, turning his back on the portrait entirely. Sentiment was a luxury for the wealthy civilians; for him, it was just irrelevant data. He mindlessly steps over Arthur’s corpse and treads his way toward the shattered window, climbing onto the rain-slicked ledge without looking back.
The wind claws onto him immediately, trying to sweep him off the building. He activates the magnetic grapples through his hand and anchors onto the opposite structure. With one powerful pull, he’s airborne again, swinging across the forty-metre gap like a shadow trailing through the void. Then he finds himself running across the rooftop before stopping right at the edge.
Below him, the city continues its restless slumber. Minghao watches it all distantly.
Then he jumps down into the void as the rain washes away the city’s sins.
This time, the fall felt a little longer than it should have.
SECTOR THREE — THE AETHER DISTRICTS
“And what is this one here supposed to represent? The colour palette you chose is truly… evocative.”
You give a polite and charming smile to the gallery patron in front of you. A middle-aged man within the wealthy elitists of the city, too rich to the point he’s probably untouchable. He’s wearing a flashy chrome silver suit, a champagne glass in his hand, and both of his eyes appear obviously augmented. He’s standing a little too close for comfort to you, gaze wandering down your figure instead of the digital artwork displayed in front of him. The gun hidden under your coat suddenly feels ten times heavier.
“The piece explores the themes of emotional preservation through digital decay,” You explain smoothly. “It showcases how memories become distorted when people try to immortalise them.”
“How fascinating,” the man hums contemplatively, his eyes gleaming a little too brightly when they switch between the artwork and you. “You must have a tortured mind to come up with this, yeah?”
You resist the urge to laugh out of spite. The elitists adore these kinds of things𑁋seeking out tragically profound artwork to place in their grandly guarded penthouses, far removed from the decay eating away at the city. The wealthy have spent the entire evening complimenting your work.
Little do they know that you created it after watching a beggar get murdered in cold blood in the Undercity last month.
Funny how context changes art.
“Someone with your talent shouldn’t remain independent any longer,” the man chimes back in, eyes pervertedly trailing over your body once again. “I could introduce you to more people who could help you elevate your career beyond these…” He gestures vaguely around the gallery. “...smaller venues.”
The hook beneath the bait.
You tilt your head thoughtfully, pretending to be interested in the offer. You subtly adjust your stance, giving you enough room to slide your hand underneath your coat, fingertips brushing against your concealed gun.
“Generous offer,” You reply lightly. “But I prefer maintaining creative control over my own art.”
“Everyone says that before the right amount of money appears.”
A tight-lipped smile forces its way across your face. If only he knew the amount of money currently sitting in your anonymous offshore accounts you’d siphoned from people exactly like him.
“I appreciate the offer, sir, but I’ll have to decline,” You say, keeping your tone perfectly neutral. “Would you like to make an offer on the product?”
The man taps his foot pensively on the ground, trailing his amused eyes back to your artwork.
“Price won’t be an issue,” he states casually, or more so with that lazy entitlement. “Have it delivered privately to my estate this week. I’ll send the coordinates.”
You nod. “Of course. It’ll arrive by tomorrow evening.”
The man shoots you a wink, raising his champagne glass in the air before taking a slow sip that almost makes you want to gag. “Smart girl.”
You offer him one last polite smile as he walks away. But the moment his back is turned and you watch his figure disappear into the crowd of mingling elitists roaming through your gallery, the smile immediately fades off your face. You retrieve your hand from where it had been hiding underneath your coat.
God, your feet are aching.
As the day begins to wind down to the night, the last patron finally steps out just after 22:17. You lock the hydraulic gallery doors with a click, dimming the overhead lights to thirty percent until only the neon colours of your digital canvases remain as the only sources of life.
Then you move behind the counter and slip your heels off, your feet throbbing from hours of walking and pretending to care about rich people’s feelings. It’s time to conduct your closing routine.
First, the security sweep. You pull up the gallery’s neural interface on your wrist watch, entering a quick code that shows off the holographic display of the building. You check through cameras, motion sensors, and electromagnetic jammers𑁋they all check green. Then a secondary backdoor protocol that scrubs any facial recognition data the elitists might have tried to sneak in on their visit.
Next, you handle the finances. You transfer tonight’s legitimate sales onto the gallery’s clean account and send a generous amount into your offshore wallets. The piece you sold to the chrome-suited pervert would be delivered by drone tomorrow. You guess it helps to bring you closer to whatever ‘enough’ means anymore.
After the finances are secured and the gallery’s digital footprint scrubbed clean, a soft ping of your wrist watch grabs your attention. You smile to yourself, realising it’s an encrypted message from Vernon𑁋another ghost hacker who’s been operating in the depths of the Undercity and one of the very few people you trust enough not to point a gun at on sight.
The man once hacked a Dominion military convoy while actively high, laughed through the entire thing, and he never got caught once. So yeah, that’s how much trust you put in him.
The two of you have recently formed a partnership together, combining your goals in exposing the corruption rotting through the Dominion from near-opposite ends in the city. Vernon specialised in infiltrating governmental infrastructure and extracting classified data; you specialised in infiltrating the social bloodstreams of the elitists and laundering decrypted data and money to other ghost hackers in your field.
You can definitely say he’s the closest thing to family, with…whatever family you have left. It’s strange considering that you both carry enough criminal charges to disappear forever if the Dominion ever got their hands on you. If shit ever hits the fan, your existences would be completely erased.
The Dominion𑁋in most people’s eyes𑁋are basically worshipped like gods. They emerged as the most powerful megacorporation of the city right after the government had basically collapsed in itself and humanity was fighting one another for survival. They were painted as saviours for rebuilding civilisation and spreading advanced cybernetic medicine and technology.
To the people, they promised stability and safety. That promise was never fulfilled, because their only goal was total control.
You knew pieces of it. Vernon had been feeding you fragments for months.
Together, you both have secretly stolen enough information in the past six months to fill a small data vault. Progress has been slow and time-consuming, but every ounce of corruption pulled from the Dominion’s veins felt like another brick removed from their tower. One day, it would all come crashing down.
You open Vernon’s encrypted message.
VERNON yo ghost u alive? heard u had a gallery showing tonight did u manage to manipulate any rich freaks to join ur harem?
You snort quietly to yourself, the sound echoing throughout the empty gallery.
Y/N a few yeah some creep wanted to buy the art and the artist was hella close to kicking him in the balls but i realised that would be bad for business anyway, closing up now. about to head back to the loft
It takes a few minutes for Vernon’s next encrypted message to send.
VERNON cool cool cool got some new toys to play with wanna try them out with me? i got snacks and some fresh ash to smoke
A low laugh leaves you. Vernon always had his own definition of chaos. First step: casually hijack the relays of a Dominion cargo truck. Second: somehow succeed. Then finally: get high off enough ash to think it was funny.
You shake your head in fond disbelief before typing back.
Y/N say less i’ll be there by midnight
VERNON fuck yeah don’t ditch me for some rich art daddy pls
When your wristwatch slips dark again, you lean back against the counter and allow the silence of the gallery to settle around you for a moment. The gallery looks beautiful at night. Cold, but beautiful. You meticulously slide out of the side exit and trigger the final lockdown sequence on your wristwatch.
The streets of the Aether Districts are still slick from the same storm that must have rolled through earlier this week. The sounds of hover-traffic hum overhead on the nearby skyways that travel throughout each district. The higher tier you are, the more pristine the skyways become; the lower you are, the more grimy and forgotten they are.
You pull your hood up over your head, shove your hands in your pockets, and head towards the Undercity.
SECTOR SIX — THE UNDERCITY
The Undercity. Home sweet rotting home. The air is thicker here, heavy with the smell of exhaust and street food grease left to rot on the ground.
Vernon’s current sanctum is an old shipping containers sitting on the eastern side of the Undercity.. Neon kanji flickers weakly above the reinforced door𑁋some half-dead ramen sign he never bothered to fix. You knock twice, pause for a second, then once more in the stupid rhythm he insists on.
After a few moments, the door hissens open.
“Finally,” Vernon says, a half-eaten protein bar dangling from his mouth. His hair had been recently cut into this punk-rock style mullet, which you’ve constantly teased him about ever since he got it.
You only roll your eyes and shove past him into the warm and cluttered interior of his little haven.
The space is so Vernon. The walls are covered with holographic sticky notes overlapping each other, a bunch of half-disassembled drones, candy wrappers, and empty cans scattered on his workbench at the corner of the room, and a sagging couch (and bed) that has seen better days. Near his computer setup, there’s a small mountain of ‘fresh ash’𑁋the glowing, iridescent synth-weed everyone in the underground swears isn’t addictive.
You plop down on his beaten-up couch with a groan while Vernon sits down in the chair in front of his computer. The screen behind him flashes with lines of stolen data and files and whatever toys he promised to show you. The old chair creaks under his weight as he kicks his feet up onto the edge of the desk. He’s already reaching over to the ash as if he already knows that you’re thinking about it, taking a few quiet moments to pack the joint. The iridescent smoke travels through the air when he lights it and takes a smooth hit, before passing it to you.
“Rough day at the gallery?” he asks, his voice carrying that familiar drawl as the ash does its work.
You take the joint from his fingers and pull a deep hit. The sweet burn floods your lungs as you exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl through the air.
“Understatement of the year,” You retort in annoyance. “I love smiling at entitled pricks while they eye-fuck both me and my art.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better,” Vernon starts, spinning his chair around to face you. “I pulled some shit from the feeds earlier.”
Curiosity lights up your face as you stand up and settle by his side. He pulls up some surveillance footage from what seems to be in the Veil Districts according to the timestamp and location at the corner of the screen, captured from a mid-level security camera that had barely survived the storm. The footage is heavily corrupted𑁋static glitching eating at the edges and the feed constantly flickering between security overlays like someone tried to scrub the clip out of sight but failed to finish the job completely.
“Watch this shit,” Vernon mutters. “Storm hella degraded the quality, but it looks like the Dominion sent one of their shadows out recently.”
At first, you aren’t able to make out what you’re supposed to be looking at. All you see is rain at first before the footage manages to stabilise. You spot a lone figure in what seems to be a black trench coat, but you aren’t able to make out any sort of face. Rain lashes across the screen when the figure suddenly launches across the gap and smashes through a penthouse window like a missile.
The rest of the footage doesn’t directly capture whatever is happening inside the apartment, but from what you can see, the signs of a struggle𑁋a murder𑁋is abundantly clear from the grainy, violent flashes of movement. When the figure emerges back into frame, you watch them pause briefly at the window, before jumping across the gap once more and disappearing into the stormy night.
Your eyes grow wide.
“Holy shit.” You grab hold of Vernon’s mouse, rewinding the footage back slightly, trying to zoom more into whoever this mysterious killing machine is. “Who is that?”
“No clue,” Vernon answers with a shrug. “But whoever was in there must have definitely pissed off the Dominion in some way.”
You can’t tell if it’s the ash or the footage itself that sends a shiver of paranoia down your spine. That faceless killer is enough of a reminder to show what waited for people like you and Vernon if you both ever slipped up somehow.
You’ve seen murders before.
In the Undercity, death can be considered as common as rain. You’ve watched bodies being dragged into alleyways and witnessed gang disputes end with blood painting the pavement.
This one shouldn’t feel any different, but there was something about it that sticks to your skin like a vice.
“Were you able to clean it up at all?” You ask Vernon.
“Already tried. Tried boosting the resolution, running reconstruction software… Nothing.”
Your fingers clench tighter around the joint, tight enough you feel the burn searing at your fingertips. “Then what the fuck is that thing?”
“I don’t know,” Vernon responds truthfully, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “And I don’t really want to find out… if it means ending up like that guy.”
Passing the joint back to him, you watch the sweet iridescent smoke curl in the air as the frozen footage of the shadow operative sits almost tauntingly on the screen. That faceless killer in the black trench coat has your nerves buzzing harder than the ash.
“Dig deeper,” You urge him, standing up and leaning over his shoulder. “Maybe try crossing it with the financial breach logs we grabbed last week.”
Vernon cracks his neck and dives in, fingers flying across the haptic keyboard. “You got it. Gimme a sec to reroute these fuckass dummy nodes…”
Lines of encrypted data begin to stream past your eyes. You settle into the second chair with tense shoulders, while Vernon’s decryption worms burrow into the deeper layers of the Dominion’s surveillance archives.
However, the moment his proxy hits, the screen blares red.
INTRUSION DETECTED — COUNTERMEASURE PROTOCOL INITIATED
“Goddammit!” Vernon snaps in panic, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Ghost snare! They’re pinging our location!”
In the blink of an eye, multiple windows on Vernon’s computer flood with aggressive tendrils of red code, trying to latch onto the connection and backtrace to your location. On the secondary monitor, spot a predator Dominion trace icon trying to sneak to your proxy chain.
You’re already moving before you could even think, shoulder-bumping Vernon aside to take one side of the dual controls. “I’ll sever the primary relay, you kill the secondary nodes and flood the pipe with junk! Buy us time!”
TRACE PROGRESS — 27%... 43%... 61%...
The shipping container feels as if it’s shrunk down ten times in size. Your fingers blur across the keys as you snap a series of ghost partitions to secure the logs while Vernon focuses on flooding the connection with junk data to confuse the trace: malicious traffic, Dominion propaganda, and generous sprinkle of black-market porn holos for good measure. The red node countermeasure continues surging angrily, and for a terrifying moment, it feels as if the Dominion itself is breathing down your neck.
“Motherfuckers have teeth,” Vernon growls in frustration as he works on slamming kill switches on the breached connection. One of the cooling fans on the computer screams in protest.
“Sixty-eight percent!” You bark, sweat prickling at the back of your neck while you reroute the last of your active proxies across the other districts.
TRACE PROGRESS — 75%... 87%... 91%...
When the progress bar reaches 94%, your heart and stomach drops for a single moment, but it stalls. The predator icon thrashes on the screen as the minutes continue to tensely tick by, glitching from your combined defenses, before finally breaking into static. One final red warning flashes before everything goes dark.
The computer reboots with a low, exhausted hum. Success.
You and Vernon slump back in your chairs. The cooling fans start to quiet down, silence returning except for the sounds of the rain from outside.
Vernon lets out a shaky laugh, running a hand down his face. “Fuck. That was close.”
“They’re getting better at their security measures,” You say shakily, wiping away a drop of sweat on your brow, heart still hammering behind your ribs. “What was the damage?”
“Lost three dummy nodes, but… we’re back to being ghosts. They were definitely waiting for people stupid enough to dig into that footage.”
It takes a while for the computer to fully reboot. But when it does, Vernon leans in and starts to carefully recover the session. A file tree appears on the interface, containing the collateral files of whatever you both managed to claim. But something catches your eye at the very corner of a tree.
Another file𑁋at least, one you haven’t seen before.
PROJECT REBIRTH: THE NEXT STAGE OF HUMANITY — ACTIVE ASSETS
“Was that there before?” You ask, pointing at the screen.
Vernon rubs his jaw, narrowing his eyes at the file. “Shit. No, what is that? It sounds like some fucked-up Dominion wet dream.”
Before he could click on the file, you grab at his wrist to stop him from continuing.
“Don’t open it yet,” You tell him. “I wouldn’t trust anything, especially after the close-call we had.”
Vernon glances between the file and you, then slowly nods and lets his hand fall away from the mouse. The two of you know that whatever is in these files may cost your anonymity; or worst, your entire lives. And as frustrating as it is, impatience can get hackers killed.
“...Yeah, okay.”
You chew at the inside of your cheek. “Should we try to sandbox it?”
“Probably. Might take a day or… longer, depending on how much we need to isolate and decrypt it.”
You twiddle the now-dead joint between your fingers before flickering the burnt filter into the overflowing astray beside the monitor.
“Let’s do it,” You say with determination. “It’s now or never.”
SECTOR THREE — THE AETHER DISTRICTS
It happened again this morning.
Cyberpsychosis is what they call it. An anomaly that happens from the endless cybernetic modifications on the human body; a result of too much steel and too little flesh. Minghao believed he could control it, but the violent outburst he had experienced upon waking up proved otherwise.
He doesn’t recall much from the morning, only remembering the screams of the ripperdoc running the diagnostic scan on him. For one horrifying moment, he looked at the doctor and felt the same thing he feels when looking at a target. Minghao had apparently lashed out with a phantom urge to tear through anything that moved𑁋his metal fingers crushing the man’s forearm before a sedative was forced through him and his systems were promptly rebooted. The ripperdoc survived, but just barely.
It’s been happening ever since the Dominion hired him to become a shadow operative, like tiny little fractures that feel as if they’re clawing its way up his body. The handlers had reassured him that these temporary neurological instabilities were just a side effect of the robotic components installed within his system and that it is completely manageable.
Or rather, more accurately, it’s been happening ever since they brought him back.
The distinction is important. At least, he thinks it is.
Minghao knew he had a life before the Dominion, but whatever was left of that previous life ceased to exist. He doesn’t remember where he was born, what his favourite colour used to be, or whether he had loved someone enough to miss seeing them. There are no parents, friends, or a childhood home waiting for him in the city.
There was only darkness, and never a point in his current life where he questioned the relevance of his previous existence. The Dominion gave him another chance, because what other choice is there? He isn’t allowed to question the hands that pulled him from the grave. Now, he has a purpose when he had nothing.
He was saved.
But as a result of his outburst from earlier, Minghao finds himself roaming the Aether Districts without an assigned target for him to eliminate in weeks. A mandatory cooldown window of two hours to allow the city to absorb the heat building inside of him before it becomes reportable deviation. Extra time to let the fractures settle.
So… he walks with no destination in mind.
The Aether Districts isn’t like Undercity’s choking rot, nor does it resemble the polished cages of the upper districts. The district exists as an in-between. It’s highly recognised as a hub where creativity and entertainment are showcased and a place where the wealthy often come to feel profound without ever touching the filth and insecurity of the lower districts.
Minghao moves through like a ghost, taking in the sight of towering billboards glowing with abstract art and Dominion slogans. His ocular implant continues to idle in standby as he walks past passerbys: no targets, no threats, no kill parameters. He strolls by bustling restaurants, casinos, and nightclubs without interest; they’re all simple tools for the complacent, which he is none of those.
Yet something pulls at the edge of his awareness when he rounds a corner leading to the quieter side of the district showcasing a bunch of curated storefronts. Most stores are closed for the night, but one remains softly lit in the distance. His feet lead him almost curiously in the direction, and he pauses directly in front of the main entrance.
He doesn’t know why he stops. There’s no mission parameter, no target or odd signature in the electromagnetic field that he detects other than the patrons roaming inside. It appears to only be a simple art gallery, one of many in this part of the city. But still, he remains planted through the ground, staring beyond the reinforced glass to the holographic art that feels as if they’re teasing him from the inside.
The doors slide open with a hiss. A chime echoes through the dim interior as the gallery’s neural system registers another visitor. When the doors shut behind, the hum of the city is instantly silenced into nothing but background static. His ocular implant cycles through a passive scan out of habit, still detecting nothing out of the ordinary beyond standard security protocols.
He moves deeper into the gallery silently before stopping in front of a particular exhibit. Minghao stares, unblinking, taking in the pulsing colours that appear like they’re almost breathing. The piece in front of him displays two figures standing on opposite sides of what seems to be a shattered mirror, standing close but not quite touching. At his side, his bionic arm hidden under his trench coat flexes unconsciously.
“Are you interested in buying a piece here?”
His system doesn’t register the unfamiliar yet soft voice. When he turns, his gaze lands on you. You’re standing close enough to be polite, a soft smile to your features as you study him with curiosity.
Minghao’s implant runs through an immediate scan on you.
IDENTITY: Unknown THREAT LEVEL: LOW SUBJECT PROXIMITY: 0.9 metres HEART RATE: 72 BPM
His eyes linger on your face longer than protocol would ever require, tracing over the lifted corners of your mouth, the slight exhaustion on your face, practically mapping you. You’re staring at him too, noticing the way his outfit doesn’t scream like a typical wealthy elitist that you regularly see drifting through the gallery.
Unusual.
An awkward chuckle leaves you when your question is left unanswered.
“If you’re interested in any pieces here, feel free to let me know,” You tell him tactfully. “My name is Y/N L/N, the owner of the gallery.”
Y/N L/N. He registers your name, then holds it for a fraction too long before his system considers it as irrelevant. And yet it does not leave his memory𑁋refuses to leave his memory.
As you offer a curt smile and begin to turn around, Minghao takes a heavy step in your direction and finally speaks.
“Are you the artist?”
Through your ears, his voice sounds like it’s edged with something mechanical. It’s smooth, but not quite human. He clearly has some cosmetic augmentations installed, which you suspected the second you made eye contact with him.
You turn back to him in surprise. “I am, yes.”
Minghao’s eyes doesn’t waver from you. In your perspective, he appears more striking and almost… unnerving up close. Maybe even familiar. He’s close enough you feel the odd jumps of your heartbeat from his presence. Tall, lean muscle wrapped in a matte black trench coat that drinks in the soft neon of your displays. One of his eyes catches the light with an unnatural, faint crimson ring around the pupil. An ocular implant, clearly; subtle, but you’ve seen enough chrome in your line of work to recognise it.
His implant registers the spike in your pulse.
“The gallery is preparing to close in a couple of minutes,” You tell him as casually as possible after clearing your throat. “If you are interested in purchasing something, feel free to stop by anytime this week. My schedule is quite available.”
Then you offer your hand to him.
Minghao glances down at your hand warily, the faint crimson ring in his ocular implant flickering once as if processing an unfamiliar protocol. For a few beats, he doesn’t dare move. Then, after a long, hesitant moment, his right hand emerges from the folds of his black trench coat and stretches out toward you.
He takes your hand.
The moment your palms meet, you feel it𑁋the cool, unyielding smoothness of engineered alloy. A bionic arm. His grip is almost careful, like he’s internally modulating every servo to avoid crushing your fingers. It’s not entirely cold; the outer layer has been warmed by his body heat (or whatever passes for it in someone like him), but the weight and the quiet power hiding within the handshake sends a shiver racing up your arm.
His bionic hand engulfs yours completely. Your eyes widen slightly at the feeling. You can feel the segmented plating on his knuckles, the data cables running beneath the metal instead of veins. You can tell that it’s strong𑁋impossibly, and inhumanly, strong. Yet he holds you like you’re made of glass. For a moment, you wonder what could have happened for his arm to be put back together like this.
Minghao feels it too. It’s unlike him to hold something with so much tenderness as he’s killed many humans who deserved far less, but the warmth of your palm seeps too easily through him. His bionic arm’s feedback loops hum faintly, sending a low vibration up through his shoulder joint that he forces down before it can register as a glitch.
His systems flag it as irrelevant; his mind refuses to let it go. You’re undoubtedly human𑁋perhaps more human than others whom he’s interacted with.
You’re the first to let go before Minghao has time to fully process it. When he lets his arm fall back to his side, his fingers are still subtly curled as if remembering the shape of your hand. Then he lets eyes drift back to the holographic display.
“This art appears incomplete,” he says.
You turn towards your art, a soft laugh escaping you. “Incomplete?”
“Correct.”
“If it was incomplete, I wouldn’t have it displayed.”
Before he can respond, you step up closer to it. Minghao watches your movements carefully.
“The two people here are the same person,” You explain to him, catching his full attention. “One is who they used to be, while the other is who they’ve become.”
Minghao’s brows furrow imperceptibly. You can tell he’s genuinely thinking.
“And the mirror?” he questions curiously.
“The mirror represents memory,” You answer. “because you can’t always put yourself back together exactly as you are.”
“But people can be repaired.”
You tilt your head at him, studying him more closely now.
“I would argue against that,” You say, crossing your arms together. “I believe that people can heal.”
“Repair implies returning something to its original condition.”
“And healing means accepting that it won’t.”
The words settle in the air between the two of you like the fractured mirror on the display, and it loops through his neural code uncontrollably. His ocular implant flickers rapidly, logging every microexpression on your face, the way your arms are crossed𑁋not out of defense, but thoughtfully. Threat level: low. His systems insist on it.
But something buried beneath layers of countless Dominion technology that was placed in him, twists.
“Art is subjective.” Your words make him blink back to reality, a tight-lipped smile at your mouth. “It can come with many different interpretations and meanings. Most people who stroll don’t really care for the depth of it, you know? I guess it’s nice to hear what others think of it. Whatever you believe that real meaning is up to you, at the end of the day.”
Minghao watches you glance down at your wristwatch, a low gasp leaving you at the time displayed on it.
“Shit𑁋it’s late,” You curse under your breath, running a hand through your hair, before realising that the stranger𑁋Minghao𑁋is still in front of you. “Sorry, I should really get to closing up. But if you’re ever willing to come back again, you know where to find me𑁋”
“Minghao,” he cuts in primly.
You pause, brow twitching up. “Minghao?”
“My name.”
“Oh.” Even though you don’t have any cybernetic modifications in you, his name settles somewhere in the back of your mind like it belongs there. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Minghao.”
Minghao inclines his head solemnly. Hearing his name from your mouth does something dangerous to his feedback loops, sending a bloom of warmth to spread through the organic parts of his chest. He detects the way your pulse has steadied, a certain relaxation to your shoulders now that your little conversation together has found a natural end. The crimson ring around his iris dims to its idle state.
SUBJECT EMOTIONAL STATE: Calm
He stores the information away without understanding why.
You offer him one last smile before stepping away.
“Goodnight, Minghao. Stay safe out there.”
Minghao gives you one last lingering look, his implant pulsing faintly as he commits your face to more than just temporary memory banks. When he watches you disappear within the shadows of your gallery, he begins to head toward the exit.
In the background, you quietly watch the doors hiss to a final close, and it only makes you imagine what kind of ghosts surround him.
But you shake the thought loose and initiate the security protocols with a simple swipe to your wristwatch. Minghao’s name still echoes in the back of your mind as you slip out of the side exit with your hood up over your head.
The streets are slick and quiet tonight, yet your thoughts are anything but.
SECTOR THREE — AETHER DISTRICTS -> SECTOR ONE — THE CENTRAL DOMINION
Minghao wipes the blood off his sleeve.
Another target had been successfully dealt with. The body of a man lay slumped against a hidden back alleyway of the Aether Districts, blood oozing from the slit across his throat, caused by the small monomolecular blade that Minghao could summon right out of his fingertip. The kill had been precise and quiet, successful under his own terms.
His ocular implant runs one final scan over the man’s body to confirm zero pulse, zero neural activity, and zero threat. Mission complete.
TARGET: Jung Minjae — TERMINATED ELAPSED TIME: 4 minutes, 31 seconds
Minghao retracts the monomolecular blade back beneath the plating of his index finger before crouching beside the corpse. He reaches into the pocket of the man’s jacket to take out a tiny metallic chip, exactly where the Dominion stated it would be. He tucks it in his own pocket to submit for evidence as later.
But he still can’t bring himself to leave.
His eyes take in the sight of the man’s shocked expression, now frozen in time after the blade had done its work𑁋mouth hanging open and eyes blown wide with that final, useless realisation that his life had ended in an alley because he had been too greedy, too loud, too alive.
Yet something twists in his chest as he stares down at the body. It isn’t exactly remorse, and it isn’t guilt either𑁋that feeling had long burned away𑁋he can’t quite name it. For a miniscule second, Minghao nearly imagines another kind of expression on the man’s face. Perhaps something of another emotion, one that isn’t plagued with fear or greed, but one in the more… positive aspect. Freedom, maybe.
Or happiness. The thought unsettles him more than the kill itself.
He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever felt happiness.
The mission is beyond complete. He should return to the nexus for debrief. But as his feet remain planted on the ground, he finds his bionic arm reaching out, his metal fingers hovering over the man’s face. With a gesture so gentle, he closes the dead man’s eyes shut to erase that final look of terror.
It was a pointless gesture. The dead didn’t care𑁋the body would get disposed of in a matter of minutes by the meat wagons after he confirms that his mission is complete, but something inside of him insisted on it.
Minghao straightens back up on his feet and fixes his trench coat, snapping it back against the damp air. The servos in his bionic arm whir softly throughout the dripping alleyway. He stares at his metal fingers for a long moment, flexing them slowly as if testing whether the motion had been a glitch or something else.
A directive pings across his ocular implant: Return to Nexus for debrief. Priority Alpha.
He accepts the directive.
But as he travels through the Aether Districts𑁋past all the neon storefronts and vibrant dance clubs𑁋his feet are slower than what protocol demands. Everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you and the art you display so passionately at your gallery.
Maybe art had once meant something to him. There was something about it that drew him in like a magnet so easily. Maybe he once wandered around galleries, or held a haptic brush instead of a blade. Or perhaps he hated art altogether. He doesn’t know.
The possibilities were endless when an entire life had been erased. Each one felt equally true. All he knew is that something inside of him shifted the moment he stepped through your gallery doors the other night and his eyes refused to stray away from your artwork… and refused to stray away from you.
When he arrives back at the nexus, The Central Dominion building looms above him like a giant monolithic blade in the heart of the city. Tall sterile white towers stained over with black Dominion insignia stand proud and tall while security drones orbit overhead. Minghao passes through the outer checkpoint without issue, his ocular implant syncing automatically with the security grid. Red beams sweep over his body to verify his identity and biometrics, before a heavy security door hisses open
“Operative X-08. Report to Chamber 47-C immediately,” a toneless, robotic voice orders him.
Minghao’s jaw tightens, but he complies as he steps into the large corridor, his boots echoing against the polished obsidian floors. The hallway stretches endlessly before him. He walks past scientists, engineers, executives, and military officials who move synchronously beneath the watchful eyes of the surveillance systems installed in every corner.
Nobody wastes time here.
Minghao knows this.
He was built in this place.
Inside the chamber, a Dominion handler is already waiting for him. A woman named Director Han with her back facing the entrance. She’s sharply dressed in Dominion attire, her silver hair tied in a tight updo, and her posture filled with enough authority that Minghao knew better than to question back.
“Operative X-08,” she calls coldly over her shoulder without turning around yet. “Mission report.”
“Target was properly neutralised within the termination window. I have already sent out orders to the cleanup division,” Minghao responds evenly. He reaches into his pocket to take out the chip he retrieved from the body. “I also have the evidence I was ordered to extract.”
Director Han finally turns around to meet his gaze, her gold-ringed eyes narrowing as she studies him carefully. She extends a hand out toward him without a word, and Minghao places the metallic chip directly in her palm. She turns the chip over between her fingers, then sets it into a secure scanner on the console. On the holographic display ahead, the stolen data quickly fills the screen in glowing, streaming lines.
“Clean extraction. No traces left behind. Good.” Her praise is flat, almost bored. “The Dominion appreciates your efficiency, Operative. As always.”
Minghao gives a solemn nod, however he doesn’t get dismissed right away. Director Han taps another command on the console, causing a secondary feed to bloom on the screen.
“One more thing,” she begins. “We’ve recently detected a surge of anomalies aiming to breach confidential Dominion files. Ghost hackers. While we are able to contain their attempts most of the time, they’ve been becoming more challenging to identify.”
Minghao listens with intent. Ghost hackers. He knows that they exist, and most times he’d find it ridiculous that these kinds of people would be bold enough to hack into the Dominion’s network. They were like cockroaches scuttling through the cracks of the city’s underbelly, surviving on scraps of data and dumb luck.
A small, buried part of him wonders what secrets they might uncover that even he isn’t allowed to see.
“The second we are able to identify them, their termination assignments will be sent directly to you,” Director Han instructs. “Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good. Head to the sub-levels for recalibration.” Before she leaves, she eyes him warily. “I do not want to see another deviation report on my desk.”
Minghao unclenches his fist when the door behind him slams shut.
VERNON yo ghost i managed to decrypt a bunch of the corrupted files sending them your way now be careful though
The decrypted files land in your private inbox by the time you sit down at your computer in a secret room constructed within the gallery, a hidden space tucked behind a false wall panel in the back storage room. After an entire week of working torturously hard to decrypt the file tree, it had finally been done.
You boot up your virtual machine, triple-check your jammers to ensure your signal won’t be caught, and wipe the sweat off your brow. This was it. This was the moment you’ve been waiting for. If the Dominion hid teeth inside the files, they might as well be biting into a corpse instead of you. It couldn’t possibly be worse from anything you’ve ever seen… right?
“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” You say under your breath.
Taking a deep breath, you drag the decrypted files into an isolated sandbox, and after a singular click, progress bars quickly flash across your screen. PROJECT REBIRTH splits itself into a hundred different folders and directories, all labeled with names with what appear to be procedure codes: Asset Archives, Incidents, Subject Logs, and more.
You click on Subject Logs first.
At first, the directory hesitates to open, sitting frozen as if silently taunting you. Then rows of files begin to populate your screen one after the other, each one labelled with simple numerical designations that go all the way to eight and a description underneath.
SUBJECT 01, SUBJECT 02, SUBJECT 03…
You scroll through the medical dossiers.
[SUBJECT 01] Status: DECEASED Cause of Failure: Extensive neural degradation following cybernetic integration Notes: Recover compatible components; dispose of remaining biological material
[SUBJECT 02] Status: DECEASED Cause of Failure: Complete cardiovascular collapse mid-procedure Notes: Mechanical augmentation incompatible with surviving tissue
[SUBJECT 03] Status: DECEASED Cause of Failure: Persistent identity retention; attempted to defect after regaining memories of pre-procedure life Notes: Subjected to immediate termination 48 hours after procedure; family erased for security
“Persistent identity retention?” You repeat quizzically.
That could only mean one thing𑁋some poor soul was trying to cling onto the last bit of their biological identity before the Dominion decided to solve the problem with immediate termination. And if the procedure failed, their bodies would be disposed of as if nothing even happened.
Your heart sinks into your stomach at the thought.
The more you scroll through each subject, the more grotesque the details become. One subject was terminated for killing three technicians during a calibration episode, while another one self-terminated themself in an attempt to escape from the Dominion’s controlling hands and got caught. What the hell kind of experimentation was happening? Were they forced?
However, there was one subject that stuck out to you.
[SUBJECT 08] Status: ACTIVE Reconstruction Summary: Full skeletal lattice integration; bilateral limb replacement; cranial, ocular, and spinal reinforcement; neural core reinforced; full neuromuscular overrides Model: X-08 Loyalty Index: 98.7% Observed Anomalies: Recurrent cyberpsychosis episodes that often become violent, cooldown periods and memory suppression recommended Field Performance: Exceptional, has terminated multiple high-profile targets Notes: Continue routine deployment; monitor for emerging behavioural deviations
A survivor𑁋no, a victim. A victim who had survived through this so-called procedure and became a puppet meant to serve under the Dominion.
Your gaze drifts lower through the rest of the description, but nothing else informative comes up. There isn’t a name, age, photos, or any family history. Only body measurements, height, weight, and blood type. Whoever Subject 08 was had been reduced to nothing but numbers on a screen.
And it appears that they are the only person to have survived the procedure so far.
That’s when the file titled Incidents catches your eye next. You hover your mouse over to click on it, and the page expands into what seems to be an official redacted report.
Date: [REDACTED] Location: Sector Four — The Bastion Districts Classification: Level 5 Summary: Eight soldiers operating in an internal resistance cell were involved in a catastrophic accident that declared all KIA. Key evidence shows that a malfunction occurred within the building’s power core, causing an inevitable explosion to erupt over the surrounding area. Intelligence reports indicated they were planning a coordinated defection and strike against key Dominion infrastructure. In the aftermath of this event, the families of the soldiers were offered condolence packages and gifts of remembrance.
Eight soldiers. Eight rebels. Eight subjects. You continue reading.
As kept confidential, the Dominion orchestrated a detonation in order to eliminate the threat. All bodies were recovered from the scene and immediately placed under inspection for PROJECT REBIRTH. Memory engrams were overwritten with a fabricated narrative to foster gratitude and loyalty. All references to the resistance cell were buried under repeated sessions of memory suppression. If any subjects experienced symptoms beyond recalibration, a lethal safeguard was to be deployed. The goal of PROJECT REBIRTH is to become what the future requires. Humanity cannot survive as it is with rebellion propaganda spreading. Peace is impossible when choice is presented. If successful, the subjects would be hired to serve permanently under Dominion cause in eliminating threats of rebellion and preserving harmony.
What the fuck? Your eyes widen in pure shock as you reread the paragraphs once, twice, even three times. The Dominion staged an attack on a group of rebels, used their bodies for experimentation, and forced the subjects to serve under them in order to… preserve peace? To believe that eliminating free will is essential for humanity to survive?
The irony punches you in the gut. What kind of sick minds thought of this?
Judging from the subject logs, seven of them did not survive PROJECT REBIRTH. On the other hand, the final subject is… somewhere out there roaming the city and serving the Dominion like a slave, silently eliminating threats that stand in the way of their ruling.
Just like the surveillance footage that Vernon showed you.
The next file that you click on is Asset Archives. Your heart is already in your stomach from what you’ve just read from the report, and it only drops even further when a plethora of photos suddenly fills your screen.
The images are beyond brutal. You find high-resolution stills captured in the aftermath of the explosion. Twisted metal beams jutting from collapsed walls. Charred remains fused to concrete. There are pictures of the bodies𑁋or what was left of them at least𑁋scattered across the rubble. One frame shows a gloved hand reaching out from under a fallen support column, fingers frozen mid-grasp. Another captures the moment med-teams in Dominion black pulled a barely-living figure from the wreckage: half his body crushed, left arm and leg gone with his face burned beyond recognition.
You feel like you’re going to puke.
Photos of the reconstruction procedures follow. The bodies of the soldiers scattered across operating tables surrounded by ripperdocs, photos showing a before shot, with some almost mutilated beyond repair you’re surprised that the procedure had worked, if only for a moment. Then photos of the after shot, where missing limbs were replaced with bionic prosthetics and cranial platings inserted into skulls.
You force yourself to look away from the screen for a few seconds, bile rising in your throat like a parasite. Sure, you’ve seen some heavy shit while being a ghost hacker, yet this was basically incomparable to everything you have ever seen.
There is one photo in particular that catches your attention. Although it was a wider shot, you spot the blurry outline of one of the subjects sitting upright on the operating table post-procedure. He’s draped in patient wear, a ripperdoc standing in front of him blocking the view of his face seemingly testing out the new cybernetic modifications on his body.
You lean in closer, attempting to sharpen the image. There was something about the subject’s body figure and the shape of his shoulders that strikes a nerve of familiarity through you. Subject 08… and the man in the surveillance video…
But before the realisation can sink in, your entire terminal suddenly explodes with red alerts.
SECURITY BREACH DETECTED PRIORITY: ALPHA
Panic floods through your senses, your fingers instinctively flying over your keyboard to counterattack the breach.
“No, no, no𑁋fuck!” You seethe out angrily.
You slam with every countermeasure you have against the poison beginning to rot through your systems𑁋ghost reroutes, signal jammers, false data floods, even a desperate worm meant to fry the incoming trace. For a few heart-stopping seconds the alerts flicker and slow, slow enough to let you hear violent pounding of your heart in your ears.
Endless lines of code scroll past in a blur as you reroute your signal through three dummy nodes in random locations within the Undercity. The breach starts to slow and the red alerts begin to stutter in panic. When the progress bar on your worm reaches 61%, you think you might actually win.
Then everything collapses in the snap of a finger, and the worm begins to count backwards.
61%... 54%... 47%...
“Shit!” You pivot instantly, slamming your hands to induce another layer of heavy encryption and flooding the trace with junk data. “Come on, you bastard! Work with me here!”
But the alerts only begin to frantically multiply across your screen, your last clean proxy is burned through, and your worm inevitably flatlines at a heartbreaking 19%.
You desperately try to initiate the self-destruct sequence on your sandbox, hoping it could corrupt everything the Dominion is trying to pull. Your fingers hover the execute command, ready to destroy your entire set-up with just the click of a button.
However, your finger lands on the button a millisecond too late. The entire screen of your computer goes black, shrouding the entire room in a permanent silent darkness. The entire system powers down with a final, defeated whine, leaving you with nothing but the imminent dread crawling up your spine.
Your entire system is fried. There’s nothing left that you can do.
With shaky hands, you flick your wristwatch on.
Y/N vernon i think i’m fucked.
VERNON what the fuck did you do y/n?? hello?? shit
NEW TARGET ASSIGNMENT COORDINATES: Aether-03 | X: 483.637 | Y: -115.092 | Z: +02.500 TARGET ASSIGNMENT: Unknown Name | Alias: “Ghost” TERMINATION WINDOW: 3 Hours
Minghao rids of the ocular interface with a flick of the finger as he marches down the Aether District with determination in his step. It’s comical, really, from how often he’s been finding himself drifting to this particular sector of the city. Most times it’s been out of habit, like there’s some sort of half-buried pull toward the curated streets hiding within whatever is left of consciousness.
He can definitely agree that this is the most beautiful sector of the entire city. The only part that feels more alive.
The distance to the coordinates continues to grow smaller as he approaches the destination. The sector is mostly empty from how late it is, but he’s learned that the best time to strike his targets is during the depths of the night. His targets don’t sleep because they already know their inevitable fate is coming due to the consequences of their own actions. The Dominion always aims to make that known whenever someone breaks their rules.
Minghao’s footsteps begin to slow when he realises the familiarity of the area that he’s in. He followed the coordinates precisely, and yet… how is it possible that it managed to land him here?
In front of your gallery?
He faces his body toward other directions, thinking it was just some bug or error. The coordinates refresh in his implant and his systems run a forced diagnostic, but it all comes out clean. Same numbers. Same location. No glitch. No error. No misread.
The target is inside your gallery. You’re probably at home during this point, and someone might be attempting to seek refuge inside.
The monomolecular blade at his fingertip extends as he peers inside through the window. It appears closed for the night, with only a handful of lights illuminating the walls and holographic art displays inside. In the several seconds that pass, he calculates fifteen different entry routes he can use to get inside.
Front entrance, roof access, maintenance shaft… He could force any of them open; he’s done more destructive things before. Every simulation that runs through his code ends the same way: locate and terminate Ghost; mission success probability of 99.2%.
Yet his feet remain planted to the ground. The blade stays extended at his side but idle. Minghao never hesitates during a mission. He’s always been the type of operative to get the job done clean and quickly.
Something about this feels wrong.
That is, until he catches a heat signature spike moving from inside the rear-end part of the building. The termination window continues to tick down in his implant, causing him to click his jaw. He shakes away the hesitation coursing through him and walks over to the side of the building. The mission comes first always.
Silently as a ghost himself, he scales up the wall until he lands directly on the roof, his boots making no sound. A light drizzle of rain patters softly against his trench coat as he runs a scan over the roof, detecting a reinforced maintenance hatch near the western corner. Bingo.
Minghao drifts between ventilation units before kneeling beside the hatch. The biometric lock flashes with warning, waiting for an authorised employee to access it. But he lifts up the monomolecular hiding underneath the sleeve of his trench coat and begins to trace a delicately perfect circle around the locking mechanism.
The thin blade passes through the reinforced steel as effortlessly as pen on paper. He catches the damaged section before it can hit the floor below. Below lies nothing but darkness as he begins to descend into the shaft, night-vision clicking on instinctively, his nose catching the faint scent of ozone and dust.
By the time he reaches the bottom of the shaft, he finds himself standing in a cramped utility unit corridor hidden between the gallery walls.
Exposed wiring runs along the ceiling as he moves silently through the space. His implant focuses on the heat signature pulsating more strongly through the walls. He pushes open through a useless door that opens into a back storage room, seeing dozens of empty projection rigs and holotanks scattered across the floor.
When Minghao nudges another door, he’s finally standing in the main gallery.
He steps into the silence.
The murmurs of wealthy patrons are long gone by now. The holographic installations have dimmed into their nocturnal state for the night, light lazily rippling through the translucent displays and washing the polished floors in shifting shades of purple, blue, and red. His boots whisper against the ground as he continues walking.
His gaze tracks the heat signature as it slips silently behind columns and installations before coming to a halt. The silhouette shifts into a kneeling position, its face appearing to be covered heat-to-toe by some thick garments to shield their facial features. The corner of Minghao’s lift slightly into a smirk.
Behind one of the towering holographic installations, your breathing remains perfectly even. A gun is tightly clenched in your hand underneath your sleeve. Your pulse hammers wildly in your ears. The gallery had never been built to withstand a siege𑁋now it has become a living battlefield. And if the battle has lost, you have another secret weapon hidden directly in the pocket of your coat.
Earlier, you had killed every power source connected to your hidden room the second the system fried.
You knew the Dominion would come, but you hadn’t expected them this quickly.
Through a narrow gap between two suspended sculptures, you catch your first glimpse of the intruder, and you spot a tall figure standing in the middle of the vast gallery. You’d recognise him anywhere𑁋the Dominion’s one and only shadow executioner is now standing in your territory, scanning for the prey he was assigned to hunt: you.
Subject 08.
The next breath that leaves you comes off shaky, and the man’s head tilts curiously as if he hears your heartbeat.
Shit. You can’t stay in this spot any longer. You need an opening.
Minghao starts walking measuredly in the direction the heat signature is taking him, his implant catching the faintest fluctuation of body temperature. His head turns towards the particular holo-display that seems to be the final boundary in the way of accomplishing his mission.
The moment your eyes meet through the narrow gap, you fire your gun.
The bullet slices through the air with a sharp crack, causing Minghao to inhumanly twist away immediately. The round punches through the holographic installation behind him, shattering its projector into a shower of blue sparks. And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.
Sweat beads at your forehead as you fire and fire again, scrambling backward as you squeeze the trigger. A nearby holographic frame splinters in the background from another shot, while a few other bullets clip his bionic arm, causing them to ricochet off it and slam through another pillar.
Minghao continues weaving and ducking from the onslaught of bullets raining at him, but the distance between him and the target only becomes smaller and smaller. He spots the clothed figure roll behind a pedestal, and in a quick, fluid motion, he vaults over it. The next bullet fires at him point-blank, catching him in his side, a low grunt leaving him as his system registers it as damage, but he shoves it down.
He surges forward like a predator and swings his bionic arm to knock the gun out of the target’s hand, skidding it across the floor and into the shadows.
Your elbow suddenly slams at his jaw and a knee is driven up into his ribs. Most of the impact is blocked from his strength, but jars him enough for you to wiggle free enough to reach a hand into your coat before letting your other hand drive another punch to his face.
But a painful, strong, mechanical grip grabs your hand mid-punch and drives you down hard. The world spins all in that singular moment.
You find your body completely pinned to the polished floor and your wrist is slammed above your head. A knee is pressed deeply into your stomach, and no matter how much you try to push him off, you realise you’re completely immobile. A blade hovers just mere inches from your throat, and you feel the hot, unsteady breath of the man above you fanning across your face.
The position causes your hood to fall back in the struggle. The dim, flickering lights of the gallery illuminates your face clearly. And when your gaze draws up to meet the eyes of your killer, your breath catches, and the blade at your throat trembles subtly.
Minghao?
“...Y/N?” Your name glitches out of his lips.
For a split second, the Dominion’s perfect weapon freezes and hesitates.
You don’t waste it.
With every ounce of strength left, you twist yourself out of his hold beneath him, slamming your knee upward and using the momentary distraction to buck him off-balance. Minghao’s grip loosens just enough to let you roll over on top of him. Now you pin him down, straddling his waist, one knee on his bionic arm to keep the blade away from your body, even if you’re aware he has all the power to snap you in half if he wanted.
You yank out a small cylindrical self-destruct trigger and press it firmly into his chest, thumb hovering over the activator. Just a singular press and the hidden charges throughout the gallery would render the entire building into nothing but a blazing tomb.
Minghao could only stare up at you. His ocular implant flickers erratically, like his entire system is screaming at him to finish this mission. He knows that he can𑁋knows that he can empower you and add you onto his endless list of accomplished directives𑁋but the monomolecular blade at his fingertip twitches useless at his side.
DIRECTIVE: TERMINATE TARGET LOYALTY INDEX: 91.5% TERMINATION WINDOW: 2 Hours, 21 minutes remaining
“If you kill me, then we’ll both die,” You whisper fiercely, staring at him dead in the eyes as your fingertip lingers over the button. “The whole building, my art, everything, including the Dominion’s favourite puppet.”
The words snake through his system like venom. The servos in his body whine at the conflicting directives tearing at his neural core, his body trembling with the effort. His eyes flicker rapidly over your features, taking in the determination in your eyes and the quiver of fear at your lips. His loyalty index plummets another notch.
“And if that doesn’t work, the entire gallery is rigged into your neuroport.” A brittle smirk runs across your face. “I could fry you within seconds and you wouldn’t even know.”
Minghao’s jaw clenches tightly. You can tell he’s internally trying to fight himself𑁋a ravenous battle between human and robot. The servos in his bionic arm gripe under the pressure of your knee, but he forces it to keep still. His human hand digs into the fabric of your coat as if he’s trying to cling onto you. The space between your bodies closes even more when your face hovers over his, watching him struggle like you’re both his saviour and executioner.
LOYALTY INDEX: 86.3%
“But I won’t kill you.” You shove the trigger back into your pocket. “Unless you give me a reason to.”
You carefully stand back up on your feet and retrieve your gun from the floor, pointing it directly at him. You cock the gun back, and with a small motion, you silently tell him to stand up. When Minghao lifts himself from off the floor, you notice a small pool of blood on the floor. The shot you landed on him earlier seemed to have got him clean. His human side is still there, just leaking out onto the floor.
Something about it tugs at your heart.
You gesture with the barrel toward the back storage room. “Move. And don’t even think about testing me.”
Minghao starts walking to where you’re directing him. You keep a respectful distance away, gun never wavering as you follow him into the backroom.
The room feels as if it’s shrunk ten times in size when you both step in together. You point toward an empty reinforced crate with the barrel of your gun. He settles himself on top of it with his back against the wall, watching you disappear for a minute to grab a first-aid kit from a nearby shelf.
You hesitate briefly before lowering the gun slightly. “Take it off. Let me see the wound.”
Minghao studies you with a wary look, then glances down at his side. He runs a finger over the wound, seeing real human blood leaking through his shirt. His pain receptors must be dialed down due to whatever the hell the Dominion implanted on him, but the sting still registers somewhere deep in what’s left of his nervous system. To remind him that he’s not entirely a machine.
He shakes off his trench coat and peels off his undershirt without a single word. A lump forms in your throat as your eyes rake over his toned, bare-chested form. The dim lighting of the storage room illuminates his muscles and old scars plastered over his skin𑁋some clearly surgical, others from targets who wasted their time trying to take him down. His bionic arm gleams coldly from his shoulder and down to his fingertips, twitching against his thigh like he’s physically trying to hold himself back from grabbing you. Though the human side of him… that side is breathing a little harder now.
Forcing your focus back on the wound, you grab an antiseptic wipe from the medkit and begin to clean the bullet graze. His abs tense involuntarily from your touch on the raw flesh, and he keeps his eyes trained on you as you carefully smooth down a patch over the wound, lingering on the warm skin a little longer than needed.
“Ghost,” he calls out softly.
You visibly wince at the mention of your alias, shooting him a dry look. “Ouch. Please do not call me that.”
“Y/N.”
You finally meet his eyes. He seems almost… exhausted.
“You’re wanted by the Dominion.”
A humourless smile crosses your face. “And you were sent to kill me, what a way to end the night, am I right?”
Minghao’s implant runs a subconscious scan over your face.
IDENTITY: Y/N L/N THREAT LEVEL: ??? HEART LEVEL: 91 BPM
“Why are you helping me?” he suddenly asks.
You sit back on your heels, gun still within easy reach but pointed loosely at the floor now. A bitter little laugh escapes you.
“I wouldn’t call this ‘helping,’” You remind him, deftly tearing off another piece of medical tape before smoothing it across the patch. “I’m making sure the idiot who was sent to kill me doesn’t bleed out on my floor. I bet you’ve forgotten that you can bleed like a human.”
Minghao’s eyes narrow down at you. “I’m not human.”
“No?”
“No.”
The reply comes off automatically, like some pre-programmed response engraved in his system. You tilt your head at him and stand back up on your feet, stepping closer to the point you’re almost positioned between his legs. Close enough that he could probably analyse every single tiny crack in your guarded expression.
Without thinking, you reach in to brush a fingertip over a raised scar on his collarbone. Seductive in the slightest, but more so out of curiosity.
“Right here… this is human,” You tell him as your hands wander again, hesitating momentarily before flattening against the centre of his chest. His breath catches imperceptibly. “And this… still beats. Do you still think you’re not human?”
Minghao looks down at your hand as if he’s never once noticed the sound sitting beneath his ribs. Ever since the Dominion brought him back, he hardly ever worried about the human heart still beating in his chest. It was just another component of him or another system to monitor. Another thing they could shut off if he ever became too inconvenient.
But right now, he feels it𑁋that rhythmic thump of his heartbeat slamming against your hand that’s still pressed firmly to his chest, daring him to feel the truth.
Perhaps that remnant of humanity was still part of him. Somewhere, somehow.
“I’ve hurt people too,” You admit to him, drawing your hand away from his chest but allowing your body to loom over his. “I’ve smiled at monsters to drain their pockets clean. I’ve hacked countless bank accounts, exposed trafficking rings, blackmailed executives, and sold secrets to people who could afford them. My hands aren’t exactly clean either.”
Minghao absorbs your words carefully. There was something about you that his systems couldn’t exactly process. Usually, a target should be simple, a target should have a weakness. Every person the Dominion has placed on him were always separated into binary categories of morality.
But you don’t seem to fit into either.
“You’re human, Minghao,” You remind him again, more sharply this time. “I’ve read the files. I know who you are, who you were.”
His ocular implant flickers once.
“Files?” he echoes.
“Yes,” You answer matter-of-factly. “I’ve read all about it𑁋about what the Dominion did to you, how they killed you and made you their slave. PROJECT REBIRTH. Does it ring a bell?”
Minghao’s entire body suddenly goes completely rigid beneath you. The name hits like a kill-switch.
For a fraction of a second, his entire vision flares red. The human warmth in his gaze vanishes and his bionic fingers snap up to grab at your wrist like a vice. He moves like lightning𑁋pain surging through you when your back meets the wall behind with enough force to rattle the surrounding shelves. The monomolecular blade extends out of his fingertip and hovers at the soft skin under your jaw.
“You𑁋” His voice comes out like a glitchy, guttural snarl. “That name𑁋you can’t𑁋”
LOYALTY INDEX: 95.4%
The pressure around your wrist is almost bone-crushing that you feel the tears sprouting at the corners of your eyes. The blade presses a little deeper into your skin, just enough to draw a thin line of blood, before he forcibly wrenches it away. Raging tremors run up and down his body, like thousands of corrupted and suppressed memories have flooded his system all at once.
“Fuck, get out𑁋get out of my head𑁋” Minghao grits out hoarsely. “Eliminate𑁋need to eliminate𑁋”
His vision distorts fleetingly𑁋a silhouette, a flash of an explosion, then darkness𑁋causing him to claw at the side of his skull as if trying to rip the implant out of his head. Your body is still pinned to the wall behind, completely frozen and trapped from his weight.
After a few moments, the violent surge of cyberpsychosis ebbs away as fast as it came.
Both of your breaths come out in heavy pants. The thin cut at your throat stings, a warm trickle of blood sliding down your neck. Minghao’s head slowly comes back up, and when he catches the fear in your gaze, something inside of him fractures.
For the first time since he’s stepped foot into your gallery, you see him as less the executioner and more the survivor.
Every instinct within you is screaming to pull away from him before something worse could happen. But your feet remain planted to the floor below; if anything, you inch your face closer to his, your trembling lips hovering just over his. The corners of your mouth rise ever so slightly with a smile that he can’t quite decipher. Compassionate in a way, yet taunting at the same time.
“If I told you everything the Dominion took from you…” You begin, dragging your words slowly, refusing to break eye contact with him. “...would you still kill me to accomplish your mission, or let me help you get it all back?”
For once, Minghao doesn’t answer right away because he can’t. It’s as if he isn’t built or programmed to handle a question that cuts straight through every layer of conditioning that was forced upon him. The war plays out visibly across his face, and you notice the sharp twitch of his jaw and how the pupil in his eye widens with something painfully close to recognition.
The crushing grip on your wrist loosens, only to curl around it again almost… possessively. His touch sends a shiver racing up your arm and the heat of his solid body seeps through the crevices of your coat.
In his implant, the termination window continues to tick down. His loyalty index plummets once again.
LOYALTY INDEX: 79.7%... 73.5%...
The thrill of the chase has just begun.
perm taglist (open) ʚɞ
@sn4psh00t @slytherinshua @seungkw1 @etherealyoungk @bananabubble
@parakissss @eskoupe @gent1es3xy @cherryophile @jaja-salute
@mellow-wishes @eternalse7en @hongyinujiang @ts19009 @boxofchocolatessss
@ayerinred
please validate your tag by reblogging this fic
@kuromingoo @sourkimchi @haoluver @ts19009 @bobathi
@soonyouastra @wonu13 @pleasetellmenow @mikrokosmos530 @noble-17
@foxlovessun @frayaatiny @scoupsahoy @woo-wonwoo @fancypeacepersona
@questionableppls @zdgx1 @juniper-flour @@bramos91 @hoshisliltiger
@hongyinujiang @therealmrsbahng @jeonghoneyoon @isadorawoodz @in-somnias-world
@prettyuwonwoo @sn4psh00t @lukaswong2017 @lovekyr @sojuxxi
@Leigh-darling @horahae @asparagushaerin @zyobestgirl @ayerinred
@insannities @Littlebluhellfire @aracy
@noniesgummysmile @smiileflower @severeanxietyissues @fairwanda
