The address on the paper took Ace to a noisy, run-down part of the city that was always awake at night. Bright neon signs from bars and adult clubs tried to shine through the dirt and grime on the streets. The place he was looking for was called "The Golden Cue." It wasn't a fancy casino—it was a small, cheap gambling hall squeezed between a pawnshop and an old restaurant that had closed down. Its sign, made to look like a glowing yellow pool stick, flickered and buzzed.

Ace knew this was a test from Ramos. The crime lord didn't want him to fight anyone; he wanted proof that Ace could be useful and loyal. Ace stood on the other side of the street, watching a big, tired looking bouncer checking people's IDs under the dim yellow light. Ace's stomach was in knots. He didn't want to be here. He wasn't a criminal or a bully. He was just a repairman with a strange power in his mind that sometimes controlled him. And tonight, that power was pushing him to do a job he never asked for.

A message from the System in his mind appeared, cold and direct:

<<TASK: AUDIT GAMING CLUB OPERATIONS.>>

<<OBJECTIVE: FIND FINANCIAL IRREGULARITIES. USE YOUR NEURAL-INTERFACE AND INFO-FINDER FOR DATA ANALYSIS.>>

<<NOTE: YOUR EFFICIENCY WILL BE MONITORED.>>

This cold reminder from the System pushed him forward. He could not afford to fail. Failure meant losing the fragile protection Ramos offered. It would mean being thrown back to his enemies—both the crime lord Vincenzo and the digital entity, Silica. He had to do this for Evelyn. For his friend, Silva. For the broken remains of his old life at Aegis Solutions.

He crossed the street, pulling his jacket collar up. The bouncer gave him a long look but didn't stop him from entering. The inside of The Golden Cue was exactly what he expected: the air was dim and smoky, filled with the constant clatter of pool balls and the electronic chirps and bells of slot machines and video poker games. A low murmur of concentrated gamblers filled the room. The place smelled of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and human desperation.

Ace found an empty stool at the long, sticky bar along one wall. He ordered a soda he didn't want, just to have something to hold onto. This was the observation phase. He let his eyes wander around the room, pretending to be unfocused, but inside, he was activating his skills.

<<SKILL ACTIVATED: NEURAL-INTERFACE LV. 2.>>

<<PROCESSING EVERYTHING YOU SEE AND HEAR.>>

The chaotic noise of the club no longer overwhelmed him. Instead, his mind began to sort and filter all the sounds. He picked out the specific sound of certain slot machines paying out. He counted the number of times the chip tray on a blackjack table was opened. He listened to the conversations between the staff. It was a flood of information, and his enhanced mind was built to analyze it.

<<SKILL ACTIVATED: INFO-FINDER LV. 1.>>

<<SCANNING FOR PUBLIC INFORMATION: WI-FI NETWORK NAMES, UNSECURED SECURITY CAMERA FEEDS, EMPLOYEE NAME TAGS.>>

His perception of the world changed. Faint, glowing text that only he could see appeared over his normal vision. He saw the weak password for the staff Wi-Fi: GoldenCue2023. He identified the brand and model of the security recorder behind the bar—a cheap system famous for its weaknesses. He read a waiter's name tag: Mitch.

Mitch. That was the manager Ramos had told him about. Ace spotted him a moment later. He was a man in his late forties with a tired face, wearing a suit that was a little too tight. He moved through the club with practiced ease, laughing with regular customers and clapping a dealer on the back. But his eyes were constantly moving, constantly calculating. He looked capable, but he also looked nervous.

Ace focused all his attention on him. He tuned out all the other noise, using his Audio Enhancement skill to listen only to the man's conversations.

"...need to restock the Bud Light, Tony, get on it."

"...told you, the card reader on Table 3 is acting up again..."

"...a good night, a very good night..." he said to a well-dressed man at a high-stakes poker table.

Nothing sounded suspicious. It was just a manager doing his job.

Ace knew he needed more. He needed to see the numbers; he needed to see the financial records. He watched where Mitch went. He noticed that every fifteen minutes, the man would disappear through a door marked 'PRIVATE' behind the bar.

Ace waited for his chance. When a fight nearly broke out between two drunk men over a pool game, drawing the attention of the bouncer and most of the staff, Ace made his move. He slid off his stool and, without looking like he was in a hurry, walked straight toward the private door. It was unlocked.

The office behind it was small, messy, and smelled of old coffee. A desk was piled high with invoices and delivery slips. And there, on a small table, was the club's financial brain: an old, dusty desktop computer, its screen showing a spreadsheet.

This was it. There was no time to be subtle.

He sat down and placed his hands on the keyboard. He didn't type. Instead, he closed his eyes.

<<<>>>

SKILL ACTIVATED: NANITE SWARM LV. 2.

OBJECTIVE: CONNECT TO THE COMPUTER. BYPASS ITS SECURITY. EXTRACT THE FINANCIAL DATA.

<<<>>>

A familiar warmth spread from his palms, through the keyboard, and into the machine itself. In his mind's eye, he wasn't looking at a spreadsheet; he was flying through streams of data, watching numbers flow past like rivers of light. He bypassed the simple password prompt as if it didn't even exist. He wasn't hacking in the traditional sense; he was asking the computer directly for its secrets, and the machine had no choice but to answer him.

Ace focused his mind on the club's nightly revenue reports of the past three months. The numbers flew past his consciousness as his Neural-Interface skill processed them at an impossible speed. It cross-referenced the digital numbers with everything he had observed: the sounds of the chip trays opening, the payouts from the slot machines he'd heard, and even the paper inventory slips he'd seen on the desk.

And he found the problem. It wasn't a massive, obvious theft. It was clever and sophisticated.

On the surface, every night's numbers added up perfectly. The amount of cash in the drawer always matched the revenue reported by the computer. But Ace could see the truth. The reported revenue itself was wrong. The manager, Mitch, was stealing money, but he was doing it before the numbers were ever typed into the computer. He was manipulating the source information itself.

Ace saw the clear pattern. On the nights when a particular high-roller—the well-dressed man Mitch had spoken to—was playing, the reported income from that high-stakes table was exactly ten percent less than what it should have been. Ace's enhanced memory of the sounds from the table and the mathematical probability of the game proved it. Mitch was pocketing the cash and then faking the records to hide the theft. He was stealing from the crime lord Ramos, but he was doing it so well that the accounting books always balanced perfectly.

It was a brilliant scheme. And if discovered, it would be a death sentence for Mitch.

Ace pulled his consciousness back from the computer, withdrawing the tiny nanites he had used to interface with it. The entire process had taken less than sixty seconds. He stood up, left the office, and slipped back into the main club just as the commotion at the pool table was dying down. He returned to his stool, where his soda was still sitting, condensation forming a wet ring around the base.

He had his proof. The task was complete. He could leave, send a text to Ramos, and be done with this awful place.

But then he saw Mitch again. The man was laughing with a waitress, but his eyes were shadowed with a deep, permanent anxiety. Ace realized he wasn't looking at a greedy monster; he was looking at a desperate man. Maybe Mitch had overwhelming debts. Maybe he had a family to support. Ace saw the way Mitch's hand trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette behind the bar.

Handing this man over to Ramos felt completely different than sabotaging a truck. That was property. This was a person. By reporting the truth, Ace would be signing Mitch's death warrant for stealing a few thousand dollars.

A message flashed in his mind from the System:

<<TASK COMPLETE. FINANCIAL DISCREPANCY IDENTIFIED.>>

<<METHOD: CASH SKIMMING AT HIGH-STAKES TABLE, FOLLOWED BY DATA ALTERATION. ESTIMATED LOSS: 10% OF TABLE REVENUE.>>

<<RECOMMENDATION: REPORT FINDINGS TO VICTOR RAMOS.>>

The System was clear, logical, and utterly merciless. It saw a problem and a solution. It did not see a tired man with trembling hands.

Ace's own hands were clenched into fists on the bar. He thought of Kaito Chen, who was only trying to protect his grandmother. He thought of himself, doing whatever it took to protect Evelyn and Silva. Was Mitch really so different?

But the alternative was defying Ramos. That was a different kind of death sentence, one that would fall on Ace and his friends.

He made a choice. It was a terrible, dangerous choice.

He stood up and walked directly to Mitch at the bar. The manager looked up, a fake, professional smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. "Can I help you, son? Is everything alright with your drink?"

Ace leaned in close, his voice low enough that only Mitch could hear him over the club's noise. "He knows."

The fake smile vanished instantly, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror. Mitch's face turned ashen white. "I... I don't know what you're—"

"The high-stakes table," Ace interrupted, his voice cold and flat. "The ten percent you've been taking. The fake numbers you put in the computer. He knows."

Mitch stared at him, his mouth slightly open. He looked like a man who had been waiting for this moment for a long time and was now completely frozen by it. He believed he was looking at his executioner.

"Please," the manager whispered, his voice tight with fear. "My daughter... she's sick. Her medical bills..."

Ace didn't let him finish. "Listen carefully," he said, his voice low and serious. "You have one chance to fix this. Just one. When Ramos's people ask you what happened, you will tell them it was a computer error. A mistake in the software that made it look like you took less money than you actually did. You will say you found the problem yourself and were about to tell them. You will put every single dollar you took back into the account tonight, even if you have to use your own savings. And you will thank them for sending me to find the mistake before it became a bigger issue."

Mitch stared at him, completely confused. This wasn't what he expected. Where were the threats? The violence? Instead, this stranger was giving him a way out.

"Why are you doing this?" Mitch asked, his voice shaking.

"Because everyone is just trying to get by," Ace said, the words feeling heavy and bitter. "Don't make me sorry I helped you. Fix it. Now."

Without another word, Ace turned and walked out, leaving Mitch standing behind the bar, shocked and trembling.

Outside, the cool night air felt harsh against Ace's skin. He took out the cheap phone Ramos gave him and sent a text:

The audit is done. There was a computer problem in the money-tracking system. It was counting the money wrong at the high-stakes table. The manager, Mitch, found the mistake while I was there. The missing money has been put back. The system is working correctly now.

He pressed send. The lie was on its way.

He waited, his heart beating fast. Five minutes later, a single word came back:

Efficient.

That one word meant Ramos believed him. It meant Mitch would be safe. Ace had passed Ramos's test without getting anyone hurt.

But as he walked away, Ace didn't feel good about what he'd done. He had just lied to a dangerous criminal to protect another man. He had used his special skills to hide the truth. He was becoming a part of Ramos's world, not as a fighter, but as someone who fixed problems quietly in the background.

They were building a digital shield to protect themselves from hackers, but Ace was starting to realize the biggest danger might be the slow change happening inside himself every time he made a deal with a bad person just to stay alive. He had saved a man tonight, but he worried about what he was becoming in the process.

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