From Hate to Eternity

"Guess who I just saw at the bar?"

"Who?"

The man with the chrome-plated jaw dropped heavily into the booth, his massive, bear-like frame making the synthetic leather groan and the table's metal legs buckle slightly. He mouthed a name.

His friend’s eyes widened, reflecting the strobe lights. "...Ash? Julian Ash? The ghost from the Hena Syndicate?"

Chrome-jaw let out a guttural chuckle, confirming the suspicion.

The backdrop to their conversation was a deafening wave of death metal, the heavy synth-bass shaking the floorboards. They had to scream just to hear each other over the noise.

"Isn't his turf down in Sector 4? What the hell is a high-end merc doing in a dump like this?"

Chrome-jaw rubbed his synthetic nose. "Who knows."

His friend leaned in, a sleazy grin spreading across his face. "Maybe working a special side gig?"

Chrome-jaw barked a laugh. "You bet. Mercenaries... as long as the creds are right, they’ll do anything. And looking like that? He was born for the mattress, not the battlefield."

"I heard he’s been thoroughly broken in."

"Hell yeah. That corporate suits over at Grant Tower—Victor Grant—had his fill of him. Wonder when it'll be our turn?"

The two men shared a filthy, conspiratorial laugh, their expressions looking utterly grotesque under the shifting neon lights of the club. Emboldened by downing a massive pint of synthetic malt ale, Chrome-jaw leaned further across the table.

"I’m telling you, when that pretty boy finally burns out, when Victor Grant tosses him aside and Hena kicks him to the curb... I’m gonna buy him for a night. That waist? The way he moves? Goddamn. I was just taking a leak in the bathroom, and I swear, I almost—"

He was getting worked up, entirely missing the sudden, blood-draining horror that washed over his friend’s face.

By the time he realized something was wrong, it was too late.

A hand—unnaturally cold and terrifyingly strong—slipped silently from his blind spot and cupped his lower jaw. Metal fingertips pressed into his cheeks, the faint, menacing hum of micro-servos vibrating against his skin.

A voice, chillingly calm and clear over the heavy metal track, whispered into his right ear.

"...You almost what?"

Chrome-jaw went rigidly still. The only things he dared to move were his eyes. He caught a glimpse of a human wrist resting casually on the back of the booth. From the skin down to the knuckles, it was inked with the deep, bruising blues of the Hena Syndicate's crest.

Christ. It really is him.

Chrome-jaw was a regular in the underground fight pits. He could snap a wrist that slender with two fingers. But this was Julian Ash. Right now, Chrome-jaw felt like a viper was coiled tightly around his throat. One wrong twitch, and he wouldn't live to see the next strobe flash.

The voice right behind his ear dropped a fraction of an octave, freezing the blood in his veins. "...I asked you a question. You almost what?"

A bitter, metallic taste flooded the thug's mouth. Blood rushed to his head in a dizzying wave.

Suddenly, his neck was yanked forcefully to the left.

Flash.

A brilliant flare of optical light temporarily blinded him. His sub-dermal ID chip, exposed on the right side of his neck, had just been perfectly scanned.

The heavy grip vanished from his jaw.

"You owe me a slap," Julian said, his tone utterly flat. "I'm busy right now. Don't forget to tell me what you almost did next time we meet."

Julian casually flicked his wrist. A holographic projection snapped into existence above his gauntlet, displaying a high-resolution render of Chrome-jaw's neural ID code, citizen registry, and known associates.

Julian rested a hand on the man's sweat-drenched shoulder and gave it a gentle, agonizing squeeze. The soothing motion was entirely at odds with his dead-eyed stare.

"Don't run. I know exactly who you are."

Without waiting for an answer, Julian turned and walked away. He really was busy.

A sharp, amused female voice crackled to life in his earpiece over a private comms channel. "I'll bet you a plate of real oysters he bolts before you reach the hallway."

"Let him run," Julian murmured, adjusting his collar. "I want him looking over his shoulder for that slap for the rest of his miserable life."

The woman laughed, the sound bright and ringing. "I’ve been hearing rumors about you and Victor Grant since you were eighteen, Julian. You’re twenty-eight now. I'm bored to death of them. How are these street rats not tired of the same old gossip?"

Julian headed toward a darkened corridor nestled in the far corner of the club. "I have a lot of enemies."

"Think about it, though," she countered. "When normal people make enemies, their rivals want them chopped into pieces and thrown in the incinerator. Your enemies just want to see you go broke so you have to work the red-light district. Why is that?"

"I have thought about it," Julian replied dryly. "And I've concluded that you have a death wish tonight."

The woman cackled, switching to a rapid-fire street dialect Julian barely cared to decipher, before cutting the comms.

At the corner of the corridor stood a towering mountain of a man in a tactical trench coat, casually leaning against the wall, playing a vintage game on a handheld console. As Julian walked past, the guard didn't flinch, offering only a barely perceptible nod.

Just then, a drunken patron staggered toward the corridor, mistaking it for the restrooms. Seeing Julian head down the hall, the drunk stumbled after him.

Before the drunk could even pass the man in the trench coat, two heavily augmented bouncers stepped seamlessly out of an adjacent VIP booth. The trench-coated guard gave a subtle flick of his eyes. Like old friends, the two bouncers threw their arms around the drunk's neck, cutting off his airway, and dragged him smoothly into the shadows.

In seconds, it was as if the drunk had never existed.

Julian walked alone down a long, sterile corridor bathed in deep blues and pitch blacks. With the guards keeping the riffraff out, the silence here was absolute, a jarring contrast to the chaotic rave outside.

He stopped in front of a heavy soundproof door, verified the room number against his retinal display, and pushed it open without making a sound.

Inside the suite sat a pristine, bespectacled man in a tailored corporate suit. He was a mid-tier Corpo, a Class-B citizen who probably spent his life in sterile boardrooms. No visible cybernetic combat mods—just standard neural-link upgrades for data processing. He had removed his corporate lapel pin to hide his affiliation, leaving two faint puncture marks on the expensive fabric.

A lapdog for one of the Megacorps.

That was Julian's immediate assessment.

When Julian entered, the lapdog was fixated on the massive wall-screen, watching the Channel 3 broadcast of The Justice Show.

In this day and age, putting the words "Justice" and "Show" together made perfect, sickening sense.

"Tonight is the night justice takes center stage!" the manic host screamed through the speakers. "The Acid-Bath Killer, Ruskin Devon, will finally pay the ultimate price for the four young women he butchered, and the seven beautiful faces he melted away!"

"Only one hour left until the monster meets his maker... No, wait, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-six seconds!"

"In the following montage, we look back at the harrowing experiences of the victims. Viewers under eighteen or those with weak stomachs, please change the channel, activate your home's air-purifiers, and take a deep breath."

"Because the world is still a beautiful place when scum like this gets exactly what they deserve!"

Accompanying an anxiety-inducing drumbeat, images of the victims flashed across the screen. The stark contrast between their vibrant, youthful pasts and the horrific chemical burns of their present reflected perfectly in the Corpo's glasses.

After only three photos, the man grimaced in disgust and looked away—finally noticing the lethal mercenary standing in his room.

He jumped slightly. Julian found the flinch amusing.

Recovering his composure, the man noticed the faint smirk on Julian's face and let out a cold, dismissive snort.

Julian remained entirely unbothered. It was the standard look the corporate elites gave street-level mercs: a cocktail of deep caution, blatant disgust, and desperate need. Julian was so used to that specific glare he practically found it comforting. He walked over and dropped onto the leather sofa, sitting a respectable three meters away.

"Wait."

The Corpo wiped a bead of sweat from his nose with a silk handkerchief and pressed a buzzer on the glass table.

Moments later, a sleekly dressed hostess walked in, carrying a lead-lined black lockbox. Given how fast she arrived, Julian knew she had been waiting right outside. He had quickly scanned the corridor on his way in—seventeen rooms in total. It looked quiet, but every single one of those rooms could be packed with hidden backup.

"Take off your comms and your neural-bracelet," the man ordered, gesturing to the box with his chin. "This is a strictly off-the-grid conversation."

Client protocols. Julian complied without a word, dropping his gear into the box.

But the Corpo wasn't satisfied. He wanted to establish dominance.

"Now," the man demanded, "take off the right arm."

Julian was in the middle of unbuckling his bracer. He stopped, slowly lifting his head to look at the man.

On the screen behind them, the broadcast cut to a mugshot of the serial killer. The killer was unnervingly handsome—the kind of face that inevitably spawned sick fan clubs and perverse debates on the dark web, driving up the network's ratings.

The killer on the screen had eyes like glacial lakes.

Julian, sitting in the dimly lit room, had irises the color of pure, uncut emeralds.

Both sets of eyes stared at the Corpo, devoid of a single shred of human warmth.

The man shifted uncomfortably, dabbing his forehead again. According to all the corporate negotiation seminars he had taken, a show of strength was mandatory. You had to make these low-IQ street thugs fear you so they learned to "obey."

He doubled down. "Take it off. Your cybernetic arm. Now."

"My prosthetic does not have integrated recording or transmission capabilities," Julian stated, a matter of fact.

The Corpo shook his head, feigning superiority. "Tech is very advanced these days. I'm not taking chances."

It was a wildly unreasonable demand. In an era where extreme body modification was the norm, asking someone to detach a limb was like asking them to rip out an artificial lung to prove they weren't wired.

The man was the client, but Julian was the second-in-command of the Hena Syndicate. There were lines you didn't cross.

Julian didn't move an inch. "Hena is a professional outfit."

The Corpo sneered, a mocking laugh slipping out. "Professional? If you're so d*mn professional, how exactly did you lose that real arm in the first place?"

The room went dead silent. The heavy bass from the club below seemed to fade away entirely.

The Corpo felt a surge of triumph. He had silenced the infamous Julian Ash. He had won the psychological high ground. He reached smugly for his glass of whiskey.

And then, Julian smiled.

Julian stared dead at the man's right elbow joint. When he spoke, his voice was unnervingly soft, carrying a gentle cadence that made the hairs on the back of the Corpo's neck stand on end.

"Do you really want to know?" Julian whispered. "Because if you want to know... I'll gladly show you."

The man's blood ran cold. Sh*t.

He suddenly remembered the rumors. Before the whispers about Julian being a rich man's pet, there were the other stories. The ones about the "Cyberpsycho of Sector 4." The threat level on Julian's file was rated S-Class for a reason. He had been acting so calm and professional that the Corpo had entirely forgotten he was sharing a locked room with a apex predator.

He swallowed hard. He just wanted to exert control; he didn't actually want to blow the deal or get his throat ripped out.

"Never mind," the man said, forcing a magnanimous wave of his hand. "Leave it on."

The hostess took the lockbox and glided out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind her.

The Corpo downed half his whiskey in one deeply unprofessional gulp, desperate to soothe his dry throat. It took a few moments for his corporate facade to slide back into place.

"You can call me Mr. Ross," he said finally.

He slid a heavy, encrypted key fob across the glass table.

"Tonight. Midnight sharp. Go to a location two hundred meters east of the Apex Ridge. There’s an 'Iron Maiden' heavy transport parked there. The cargo is already loaded. The nav-system has a pre-programmed route. You do not deviate from it."

Apex Ridge. Located in Elysium Heights, strictly the domain of the ultra-rich and the corporate overlords. It was also the operational headquarters of Aegis Security.

Julian pocketed the fob. "Clean cargo or black cargo?"

"Black," Ross replied.

Julian nodded. That meant no inspections, no questions asked. Just drive.

"Give me the route," Julian said. "I need to run tactical risk assessments for the road."

Ross hesitated, clearly reluctant, before finally spitting out a single district name. It was near a coastal fishery currently in its off-season lockdown. That was the destination. The exact route was classified.

"How much time do I have for the drop?" Julian asked.

"Two hours," Ross said.

"Impossible," Julian shot back immediately. "If I take the bypass routes, there isn't enough time. If I take the direct route, I have to cross through Silas Wilde's territory. And Silas is..."

Julian paused, searching for the right word.

"...Complicated."

"...Silas Wilde?"

Ross looked genuinely surprised by Julian’s encyclopedic knowledge of the gang borders, but at the mention of the name, his lips twitched into a fleeting, dismissive smirk. It was as if he had just heard a mildly amusing joke.

"Don't worry about him," Ross said lightly. "He won't be a problem tonight."

It was a deeply strange guarantee. But Julian didn't press the issue. Instead, he pivoted to the logistics.

"Can I bring a crew? Driving an armored transport solo leaves me zero flexibility if we hit an ambush."

Ross looked pleased with Julian's rapid-fire professional focus. He took a much slower, elegant sip of his whiskey. "No. Just drive. Too many bodies attract unwanted attention."

Julian glanced at the digital clock embedded in the wall.

It was 10:00 PM.

From the very beginning, the contract specified he had to come alone. Even if he sprinted to his hyper-bike right now and broke every speed limit, it would take him an hour and forty minutes just to reach Elysium Heights. Calling backup from the Hena Syndicate base would take at least three hours. It was completely out of the question.

This cute little corporate lapdog might not understand the logistics of mercenary operations, but whoever was holding his leash had planned this to the second. They were offering an astronomical payout, but absolutely zero preparation time.

After a brief calculation, Julian nodded. "Solo it is." He stood up. "Are we done here?"

Ross shook his head in admiration. Julian really was a pro. No unnecessary questions, no moral hesitation. A perfect tool.

Feeling completely in control again, Ross lifted his glass in a mock toast as Julian turned toward the door. He couldn't resist one final, patronizing warning.

"That cargo is exceptionally precious, Mr. Ash. If anything happens to it... you couldn't pay for it with your life. Do you understand me?"

Julian stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned around.

Ross met his gaze, utterly confident in his corporate sanctuary.

Julian stared at that smug, unblemished face and tilted his head. "The cargo... it's a person, isn't it?"

The muscles in Ross's face locked up instantly.

Catching the micro-expression, Julian nodded to himself. "Right. It's a person."

Julian took a step forward, the temperature in the room plummeting. "If you keep lecturing me on how to do my d*mn job, Ross, I'm going to put a bullet in that person's head myself. I'll pay for it with their life, and I'll make sure everyone knows you ordered the hit."

Julian tapped his knuckles against the heavy metal of the door. "Now, Mr. Ross... I'm on a tight schedule. Is there anything else?"

As Mr. Ross sat frozen, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish, Julian suddenly smiled.

"Just a joke," Julian said, casually reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. "One last question, though. If your people decide to cancel the contract at the last minute... do we need to refund the deposit?"

Ross stared at him as if he were looking at a certified psychopath. A low, trembling "No" scraped its way out of his throat, the final syllable wavering unprofessionally.

Julian nodded once. Just as silently as he had arrived, he vanished through the heavy door, a ghost slipping back into the neon tide.

Ross held his breath for a full ten seconds, making absolutely sure the mercenary wasn't coming back. Once he felt safe, he let out a long, shuddering exhale. He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a liquid-gold badge shaped like an eagle resting on a shield. He rubbed his thumb over it reverently before picking up the remote and unmuting The