The industrial park of Cebu is abandoned at this time of night. The only signs of life are the rats scurrying through the shadows along rusted metal walls and broken concrete roads. The silence makes me uneasy—this feels like a setup.
Perched on the roof of a warehouse, I remember the briefing. Everyone working the port avoids this place like a curse. The company that owns it? A powerful foreign tech syndicate from old America. My superior, Finn, warned me to be careful. So I intend to be. I focus deep within, feeling the hum of metaplasmic energy ripple through me.
My body becomes intangible. A tingling sensation travels across my skin as I phase through the glass skylight and grab a beam to slide silently to the ground.
The warehouse is pitch dark, save for moonlight filtering through the windows. Despite the maze of metal containers, I find enough space to maneuver. I leap between crates, using acrobatic techniques from my AGON training. Some movements I refined from watching parkour enthusiasts on websites—creative, reckless, but effective. I was a gymnast before. Now I'm just a phantom trespasser.
I head upstairs to the office. The door is locked, but that's not a problem. I phase through it like a curtain.
Inside is spotless—too clean for an abandoned facility. Desks, filing cabinets, computers—all precisely arranged. I flick on the light. One image stands out: a poster of a golden triangle on a white backdrop. Stylized lines radiate upward like supplicating fingers. Pinnacle. A corporate titan in infrastructure and tech. They've expanded aggressively into Southeast Asia, challenging local and Chinese companies alike. My homeland doesn't trust them. I don't either.
A nearby mirror catches my eye. I approach and examine my reflection. Black hoodie, sweatpants, bandana across my lower face. My mark is visible—serpentine and skull-shaped, etched near my left eye. I don't know what it means. I didn't ask when I got it. Didn't want to know.
My skin is ghostly pale—not albino, but like ash clinging to old bones. My eyes are even worse: crimson irises against jet-black sclera. My agency physician once said they looked like rubies set in obsidian. The glow makes stealth difficult, so I usually wear contacts to dim it. Enchantments don't work on me—they flicker out when I phase.
I started searching. Finn told me the data I need is on their computers, but I want to be thorough. File cabinets yield forgotten schedules, shipping logs, memos. One stands out—a manifest detailing cybernetic implants and bodies. Dozens of corpses. Something was done here. Something wrong.
I sit at the terminal and plug in the USB Finn gave me. I entered the search term: MANIFEST 64. Files appear. Schematics. Shipments. Locations. Names in Tagalog and Cebuano. The pattern is disturbing.
Cebu is a hotspot. Crime has surged. The supernatural threatens to burst into full view. If Pinnacle is involved, this could get worse fast.
A prompt requests a password. I phase my hand into the computer, diving through the code, skimming paths like static pulses through fiber. I found it.
5-7-3-8-0-8-1-9.
The file unlocks. I began the download.
Then—
"hhhhhhhhh"
A rasping, mechanical howl pierces the air. Red lights flicker in the dark.
Something else is here.
I grab the USB and back away slowly.
I was supposed to be in and out. No resistance. No witnesses. But now… I hear crying. A woman. It's coming from one of the large containers.
I hesitate. Finn warned me not to deviate. But this could be one of the missing victims. People we found before—what was left of them—weren't just killed. They were gutted. Transformed. Used.
I creep toward the sound.
The woman is curled in the corner. Huddled. Sobbing.
Something feels wrong.
Her cries cut off.
She turns. Her face is ravaged—rot mingled with cybernetic implants. Her eyes flare red. Then—
"HHHHHHHH"
She screams. Not human. Not anymore. The warehouse echoes with more howls.
I spot movement above—glint of a sniper scope.
Instinct jolts me. I dive.
Bang.
A green-lit bullet grazes my jaw.
Karambit blades out. The warehouse lights snap on, revealing them.
Dozens of them.
Cybernetic ghouls. Unholy fusions of machine and corpse. Wires spilling from rotting flesh. Lasers flickering in their dead eyes.
They charge.
I sprint into motion, sliding beneath a crate, then vaulting off a container wall with one foot to redirect into a spinning heel kick that knocks a ghoul clean across the floor. I land and pivot into a low sweep, toppling two others. Before they can recover, I follow through with a sharp elbow drop to the skull of the nearest.
A ghoul lunges at me with a slash. I parry with a blade, catch its wrist, and redirect its momentum into a judo throw—its body crashes through a pile of crates.
More ghouls come at me from different angles. I switch to close-quarters mode. My left fist delivers a sharp cross to one's throat. My right blade slices under another's chin. A third grabs my arm, but I twist out, roll over its back, and snap its neck with a swift scissor hold.
I try phasing through a wall—an invisible barrier stops me, hurling me backward. Anti-metaplasmic field. Great.
A ghoul leaps. I intercept it mid-air with a knee to its chest, then roll into a back stance and slice upward, cleaving through wires and bone. Two more flank me. I duck under the first swing and counter with a spinning backfist. The second grabs me—I respond with a sharp headbutt, break free, and drive my karambit into its side.
Another prepares to fire a laser. I duck and slide beneath it, the beam vaporizing a chunk of the wall and disintegrating two of its allies behind me.
They keep coming.
I shift into a defensive Jeet Kune Do stance—economy of motion. I slice in tight arcs, redirect their weight, break joints, rupture circuitry. Elbows and knees become my hammers. Precision and brutality, intertwined.
But the sniper is still out there. I can't keep this up.
I scramble toward the window.
Bang.
A second shot. My left arm explodes in pain. Bone exposed. Muscle shredded.
Doesn't matter. I push myself through the window, crashing onto a tarp pile below.
Rolling off, I stumble into the industrial zone, weaving between shadows and rubble.
The ghouls don't pursue far.
Eventually, I stopped. Safe. For now.
My jaw wound is healing. The scar is fading. But my arm… I spray ectoplasm. Set the bone. Snap.
"Stupid, Fei," I mutter. "You're better than this."
Finn is going to lecture me. Again.
The file was mine. The intel we needed was in my pocket. And whatever Pinnacle had buried beneath this facility—it's just the beginning.
This city has no idea what's coming.