Sol stepped through the rusted metal doorway of the underground arms shop, the thick scent of oil and metal filling his nose. The store was a mess of dimly lit shelves stacked with crates of weapons, old tech, and dangerous contraband. A few goons loitered nearby, their eyes tracking him with suspicion, but none made a move. They knew better than to start something in a place like this.
Behind the counter, a man with cybernetic fingers tapped against a datapad, his sharp eyes glancing up as Sol approached. "Lloyd told me you'd be coming," the dealer said, his voice laced with curiosity. "Didn't expect you to look so... clean."
Sol smirked. "What can I say? I have a talent for delegation."
The dealer snorted, sliding a reinforced case onto the counter. "EMP bombs, just like you asked. Short-range disruption, fried electronics within a 10-meter radius. Military-grade, no serials. Hard to get your hands on, but for the right price... anything's possible."
Sol flipped open the case, inspecting the small but deadly devices. Compact, unassuming. Perfect.
"And the other thing?" Sol asked, raising an eyebrow.
The dealer pulled out a second case, clicking it open with a grin. Inside were several palm-sized, disc-like gadgets with intricate wiring and a faint blue glow. "These beauties? Think of them like EMPs, but instead of frying circuits, they rewrite security feeds. Thirty seconds of pure ghosting—plenty of time to slip past any cameras or sensors undetected."
Sol whistled, impressed. "I'll take the lot."
"Figured you would." The dealer named his price, and Sol transferred the credits without hesitation. He didn't haggle. Good weapons cost good money.
As he secured his purchases, the dealer leaned forward. "Lloyd must really think you're something, sending you here. DreamCorp's jumpy, the underworld's talking, and whatever he's mixed up in? Let's just say people are getting curious."
Sol chuckled, picking up the cases. "That's the idea."
With his new tools in hand, he stepped back into the neon-drenched streets, the first phase of his plan now ready to unfold.
As night fell over Zenith-5, the artificial lights dimmed into a low glow, and the pulse of the city shifted. The higher districts remained dazzling, untouched by the encroaching shadows of the underworld, but below—where the air was thick with smoke, neon lights flickered ominously, and hushed voices carried unspoken threats—his work had already begun.
He walked the streets unnoticed, his presence woven into the fabric of the city, a ghost among the living. Every DreamCorp enforcer stationed in the district would soon begin to feel it—the eerie sensation of being watched. He layered subtle illusions, imperceptible to the untrained eye but maddening for those expecting danger.
The first signs were minor. A creeping chill down their spines. The sound of footsteps echoing just a half-step behind them, only for them to find empty space when they turned. Then, whispers—soft, unintelligible murmurs curling around their ears. At first, they would dismiss it. A trick of the mind. The effects of exhaustion.
Then he escalated.
Civilians passing by suddenly bore familiar features, flashes of his own likeness in the crowd. The illusion was crafted to be imperfect, just enough for second-guessing. A glint of green eyes here, the sharp smirk there. DreamCorp operatives stopped pedestrians, shoving them against walls, scanning them, questioning them. Nothing. Again and again. The frustration set in. Suspicion festered. The crowd grew agitated. The undercurrent of tension between authority and the city's people deepened.
Sol sat perched on the ledge of a building, watching the cracks form in real-time. He smirked. They're getting sloppy.
The paranoia of DreamCorp's forces worked beautifully in the upper city, but for the underworld… Sol needed something more visceral.
He shifted his attention to the DreamCorp enforcers stationed in the lower districts. The men and women here were hardened, used to danger, used to facing down crime syndicates and hired killers. They wouldn't flinch at shadows.
So he would give them something worse.
He crafted illusions with precision—dark figures flickering in alleyways, moving with unnatural speed just beyond their reach. The occasional glint of a weapon raised in the darkness, a phantom assailant waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Then, he let their own instincts do the rest.
It wasn't long before the first shot rang out.
A DreamCorp enforcer, already rattled, reacted too fast, too aggressively, gunning down a silhouette that wasn't really there. The problem? He wasn't alone. Others heard the shot, turned, saw a body drop—or what they thought was a body. Illusions layered over reality, bending their perception just enough to make them see an enemy when there was none.
And in a place like this? You didn't hesitate.
The gangs retaliated. Gunfire cracked through the streets, screams followed. In the span of minutes, a small skirmish had erupted, DreamCorp enforcers forced into a position where they had no choice but to defend themselves.
Sol watched from the shadows, tilting his head as the streets descended into chaos. He'd barely even started.
The longer DreamCorp remained in Zenith-5, the deeper this would go. The more their authority would slip between their fingers.
He smiled.
And this was only the beginning.
Two days had passed, and Sol had pulled back from his illusions. The strain on his mind had been significant, but it hardly mattered now—DreamCorp's paranoia had taken root. Even without his interference, the city had become an unstable, simmering pot of tension ready to boil over at the slightest nudge.
Zenith-5 was no longer the bustling metropolis it had been before his arrival. Civilians, wary of the sudden escalation, had started staying indoors. Shops in once-busy districts now sat half-empty, their owners keeping their doors locked, lights dimmed. The markets, once loud and filled with the hum of bartering, had dulled into a whisper. People no longer trusted the presence of DreamCorp's troops, their so-called protectors. The fear of wrongful arrest, or worse, had settled in deep.
In the underworld, the chaos had slowed but never truly stopped. The gangs weren't foolish enough to engage in outright war—not yet. But they had drawn their lines. Armed figures patrolled their claimed territories, leaning against walls, perched on rooftops, fingers itching over triggers. Any DreamCorp enforcer wandering too close to gang-controlled zones now had to think twice. They could still move, still function—but never freely. One wrong move, one perceived sign of aggression, and it could all explode in an instant.
The station had transformed into a pressure cooker, an unrelenting storm of unease. It was no longer a question of if it would break, but when.
Elsewhere, in the higher, polished offices of Zenith-5, the atmosphere was anything but calm. Inside a sleek conference room, the higher-ups of DreamCorp sat in tense silence, their faces carved from frustration and barely-contained fury. Reports flashed across holo-screens, confirming what they had already suspected but refused to fully accept. The images on display painted a picture none of them liked—scattered skirmishes, increasing hostility from the station's criminal factions, and a population that no longer viewed them as authority figures, but as oppressors.
"It's him," one of the officers spat, slamming his fist on the table. "We know it's Sol. Everything started the moment the ship docked. But what we don't know is how he's doing it." "We're losing control, and no one can even tell me why? What the hell are we fighting?"
A man in a sharply pressed uniform, his expression cold and unreadable, leaned back in his chair. "We knew the kid was dangerous, but this? It's not a direct attack—it's something worse. He's making us attack ourselves." They're making us attack ourselves. Turning the city against us. We're reacting to ghosts."
A woman on the opposite side of the table exhaled sharply. "Our intel on him is outdated," another officer muttered, glaring at the incomplete dossiers on the screen. "Everything we knew about Sol is based on scraps from Galvaris Prime. Nothing in our files suggests he had these capabilities. Either we miscalculated back then, or he's evolved into something beyond our expectations." We can't keep this up. We've already arrested over fifty civilians under suspicion of sabotage, and now public trust is collapsing."
Silence followed. Then, another officer muttered, "We need to find the source. Whoever is behind this—flush them out."
The commander exhaled sharply, his fingers drumming against the table. "We need new intel, and we need it fast. Find anyone with ties to him, anyone who might have dealt with him in the past. Information brokers, mercs, black-market tech dealers—shake them down, pressure them. Someone has to know something." "We already have a list of suspects. The underworld is full of people with grudges, and this station has no shortage of information brokers. We push harder. More interrogations, more raids. Someone has to know something."
"And if they don't?"
The commander's eyes darkened. "We underestimated him once, and now we're watching a single person dismantle our presence here piece by piece. If we don't put an end to this soon, we'll be the ones forced to retreat." "Then we make an example. Fear is just as effective a tool as order."
The room remained quiet, the weight of the situation pressing on all of them. They weren't just losing control.
They were already at war.
And the worst part? They didn't even know who they were fighting.