This is a preview of the narrative that drives my game. Before the mechanics, before the systems — there’s a story. This first chapter introduces you to the world and its protagonist. Consider it a glimpse into the darkness that awaits.
Another day in the pit. The Core, they call it. As if it were the heart of something. The only thing beating down here is the shit that flows from above.
They say some people have made it out. I’ve never met any of them.
I do what I know how to do. I don’t like it. But I’m good at it. And that’s the fucked-up thing about being good at something: you can never quit.
I stop in front of the tavern entrance. Beneath the flickering sign, a mountain of muscle blocks the way. The guy’s enormous — the kind who doesn’t need to talk for you to get the message. Arms crossed over his chest, dressed in black, melting into the alley shadows. His eyes, sunken beneath a permanent scowl, scan every soul that dares come close.
I raise my chin slightly. He returns the gesture, barely a prolonged blink. My hand grazes his, I drop something small that vanishes into his fist. Not a word. Not a second longer.
He steps half a pace aside. Just enough for me to slip inside.
The tavern is submerged in an oppressive gloom. The flickering lights barely illuminate the space, revealing withered figures lost in their own worlds and murmured conversations. Intermittent holograms project the latest Imperial news, ignored by most. The floor — a faded, cracked mosaic — pulses to the rhythm of melancholic electronic music. A constant backdrop for forced laughter and broken voices.
I move between the tables. My footsteps echo as I dodge a drunk slumped in a chair. The guy clutches the bottle against his chest like it’s the only thing he has left in the world.
“…mmno… alwaysh the shaame…” he mumbles as I pass.
To my left, a girl with too much makeup and a dress that’s seen better days throws me a look that tries to be seductive. This place just keeps getting classier.
When I reach the bar, my eyes meet the bartender’s: a guy built like a cinder block, skin weathered by time, with a nose that’s been broken more times than worth counting.
“Sammy.”
“Locke.”
Sammy “The Fists.” Anyone who’s lived long enough down here knows that name. Twenty years ago, he shattered jaws in street fights for a few credits. Now people think twice before causing trouble in his place. We’re not friends, no… but we know each other from the neighborhood. In this pit, that’s already something.
He sets a glass on the bar and pours a cheap liquor with a brownish hue — one of the few that makes it down to this level.
“They saved you a table,” he murmurs without looking up. “Back corner.”
I nod. Barely.
At a nearby table, two guys with not-enough-credits faces grumble between gulps.
“…another fucking decree. Ten percent more. Like we didn’t have enough on our backs already…”
“Shut up and drink. I don’t want to hear your damn sob stories,” the other one answers.
Above them, a holographic screen vomits the news at just the right volume to be ignored:
“…the Imperial Council has approved new tax levies for the lower sectors… resources will be allocated to the colonial expansion program… the new Discovery vessel…”
Always squeezing the same people.
I take a drink. The liquor burns my throat the way it should, the way I like it.
A speaker crackles somewhere in the ceiling, spitting out the same synthetic voice as always:
”…Tired of your life in the lower sectors? The Colonial Program offers you a future. New worlds, new opportunities. Enlist today. The Empire needs you…”
“For fuck’s sake, Sammy, turn that shit off.”
He gives me a tired look but doesn’t touch the speaker. He never does.
He passes in front of me, serving a guy with his face buried in his glass. The customer mutters something about the price. Sammy doesn’t respond; he just stares at him until the guy leaves his credits on the bar and shuts his mouth.
The girl in the tattered dress slides up next to me. She smells of cheap perfume and survival.
“Hey, handsome. Looking for company?”
I don’t take my eyes off my glass.
“Not today, sweetheart.”
She nods and walks away without pushing it.
Sammy passes by again. Without a word, he refills my glass. Second drink. Third. Time crawls like everything else in this place.
In the back corner, three guys occupy a table. Two of them argue between laughs, distracted playing cards. The third has been watching me since I walked through the door. He’s got a face that doesn’t welcome company and a scar that cuts across his cheek.
Just who I wanted to see.
The group’s noise picks up. One of them, face flushed with booze, stands up, waving his cards and accusing another of cheating. The rest split between laughter and voices backing the accuser. My chance. I slam the bar.
“Hey, assholes!” I raise my voice, eyes fixed on the troublemakers. “Some of us come here to drink in peace, not to listen to you cry over a few credits.”
The group goes silent. Every eye turns to me. Scarface holds my gaze for seconds that feel like forever. A tense silence grips the tavern, broken only by the murmur of the news and the hum of the lights.
Finally, he breaks eye contact, lets out a mocking laugh, and turns back to his boys, muttering something I can’t hear. Laughter.
Sammy comes over with a look that says “I don’t want trouble here.” I raise my drink in a calming gesture and take a sip.
For now, everything’s fine.
Outside, the doorman is gone. Good dog.
I walk, losing myself in the darkness of the alley.
The humid, dense air clings to my skin. A mix of foul smells fills the alley: chemical smoke from the factories, the stench of too many people crammed on top of each other, and that unmistakable sweetness of forgotten corpses — leftovers from the daily fights found in every corner of this pit.
You’d think that with time you’d get used to that constant smell. You’d be wrong.
In the middle of that oppressive atmosphere, I notice something that puts me on alert: the echo of footsteps behind me. I let my shoulder hit the wall — a convincing stumble.
Never show all your cards, my father used to say.
Turning my head slightly, I make out the silhouettes of several men closing in. Among them, the guy with the scar who locked eyes with me in the tavern.
“You!” the ringleader’s voice cuts the air, dragged by alcohol. “Who the hell do you think you are? Nobody talks to me like that.”
One of the guys, voice shaking, steps in:
“Boss, hold on… That’s the Executioner, man. We should get the fuck out of here.”
The ringleader spits on the ground.
“I don’t give a shit what they call him. Tonight he dies.”
I smirk.
Someone is going to die tonight, all right.
I draw.
Two blue bursts. Straight at the ringleader’s chest. His shield flares to life with an electric snap, absorbs both shots in a shower of sparks. The impact makes him skid on the wet ground, but he keeps his balance.
Shit. He’s got a shield. That complicates things.
The first thug reaches for his holster. His fingers are shaking. The second is more direct: he roars something unintelligible and pulls out a rusty machete that’s seen better days.
The ringleader recovers faster than expected. By the time I aim again, he’s already got a particle shotgun in his hands.
It roars.
I throw myself sideways. Roll behind a container. Heat on my shoulder. Way too close.
Machete guy doesn’t wait. Comes straight at me. Steel raised high. I put two shots in his chest before he finishes the arc. He stops dead. Looks down like he doesn’t understand what happened. Falls face-first. They never understand.
The ringleader doesn’t waste time. The shotgun spits another burst.
This time it hits.
The impact strikes my side like an iron fist. My shield flares to life a second before the particles tear through my jacket, absorbs the damage in a bluish flash. I grunt. The pain rolls through my ribs like whiplash.
The shield held. But not for much longer.
The thug with the pistol has finally gotten it out. Bad luck for him. I fire first. His scream echoes through the alley as he collapses, clutching the stump where a leg used to be.
Unlike me, those poor bastards don’t have shields. Down in the Core, that’s a luxury few can afford.
Stillness falls over the alley. Just the hum of the neon lights and the muffled groan of the legless one.
The ringleader has taken cover behind a rusted barrel. From there, his voice comes out raw with rage:
“Son of a bitch! You’re gonna pay for this!”
Should’ve listened to your friend.
I slide my hand under my jacket. A click. An identical figure appears to my right, so real it even casts a shadow.
The ringleader doesn’t think. He spins and fires at the illusion. The hologram flickers and vanishes. By then, I’m already moving.
I break from cover. Open fire. Amplified bursts. His shield explodes in a spray of sparks.
The first shot tears off the arm holding the shotgun. The second, the other arm. The third blows out his knee.
He crumples, screaming. A red stump bleeding from each side of his body.
The screams break into sobs.
“Please, no… I have a family, my son —” his voice trembles, pain and terror in every word.
The legless one has stopped whimpering. Dead or passed out. Same difference.
Family. They always have family. They never remember it until you point a gun at their face.
I stand in front of him with the barrel aimed between his eyes.
“Frankie sends his regards…”
The name freezes him. His eyes snap wide open. The fury replaced by something far worse: understanding. The tavern. The fight. It all clicks in his mind.
He wasn’t the one who’d been following me.
“What…? No, wait.” The voice comes out broken, pathetic. “I can pay double, triple what he’s paying you —”
The shot silences his mouth forever.
The warm blood splatters my cheek. Thick and sticky. I wipe it with the back of my hand, leaving a dark trail across my skin.
The tavern music reaches me muffled from the other end of the alley. Nobody will come to investigate. They never do.
I crouch over Rust’s body. With a deliberate blink, I activate the ocular implant. A soft click resonates inside my skull as the image is recorded: the destroyed face, the dark pool spreading beneath his head, the neck tattoo that identifies him.
Done.
As I go through the dead man’s pockets, my fingers stumble on something. A small metallic disc. When I touch it, a holographic image comes to life: a boy, five, maybe six years old, smiling with that innocence that only exists before the world breaks you.
I stare at it longer than I should.
I clench my jaw. Close my fist around the disc until the hologram flickers and dies. I drop it next to his father’s corpse.
Another orphan in this hell. That’s how it works.
After collecting some credits and a few other valuables from the bodies, I stand up, dusting off my clothes.
Without looking back, I leave. I leave behind the alley and the echo of the gunshots.