It took Nico two days to come up with the money for Specs.
Two days of hustling harder than he had in months: selling his entire stash of Veil, including his personal supply, then borrowing four vials from Kade to resell at a markup. Working corners from morning until night, skipping meals to save credits, even pawning his jacket—a decent one, salvaged from a donation bin months ago—for twenty credits he knew he'd never earn back enough to reclaim.
By the end of the second day, he had six thousand, two hundred credits. Enough for Specs's minimum fee with a little buffer.
He'd also been in withdrawal for thirty-six hours, which made everything harder: the shakes, the nausea, the way sounds scraped against the inside of his skull like broken glass. But withdrawal also sharpened his desperation, stripped away the second-guessing that might have stopped him from doing this entirely.
Kade had tried to talk him out of it. "Kid, you're spending everything you have on a maybe. What if there's nothing on that core? What if it's just some dead guy's tax records or personal photos?"
"Then I'm broke and no worse off than I was before."
"You'll be in withdrawal and broke, which is definitely worse."
"I'll manage."
"You're a fucking idiot."
"Yeah, probably."
But Nico went anyway, because the possibility burning in his chest had become unbearable. He needed to know what was on that core. Needed it more than food, more than his next vial, more than the jacket he'd pawned.
Hope was a drug more dangerous than Veil, and he was overdosing.
Specs's shop looked the same as Nico remembered: cluttered, dim, smelling of ozone and old coffee. The sign flickered: "SPECS: DATA RECOVERY & DISCRETION." The discretion part was what mattered.
Specs was alone when Nico entered, hunched over a gutted terminal, his long fingers moving with the precision of a surgeon. He looked up, recognized Nico, and his expression shifted to something between curiosity and wariness.
"Nico Chen. Back again. You brought that core Kade mentioned?"
"You talked to Kade?"
"He may have given me advance warning that a desperate junkie would be showing up trying to crack something beyond his pay grade." Specs set down his tools. "Where's the core?"
Nico pulled out the case, now scratched from living in his pocket for two days, and placed it on the counter. Specs opened it, examined the data core with the same careful attention he'd given the terminal.
"Corporate-grade quantum-locked storage," Specs said. "Twenty-year-old model, but still good. Encryption's military-level, which means this is either legitimate sensitive data or someone was very paranoid." He set the core back in its foam padding. "Where'd you get this?"
"Cleaning job. Dead man's apartment. Found it hidden."
"Mm. And you think there's something valuable on it?"
"I think a Level 8 accountant who hid this in a military-grade case probably wasn't storing his grocery lists."
"Fair point." Specs pulled up a tablet, typed some notes. "Standard crack job on something like this: six thousand credits, three to five days depending on complexity, no guarantees on data recovery. If the core's been wiped or corrupted, you get nothing but you still pay my fee."
Nico had expected this, but hearing it stated so bluntly made his stomach clench. Six thousand credits—nearly everything he'd hustled for—with no guarantee of anything.
"Can you tell me anything before committing? Like, is there definitely data on it, or is it blank?"
"I can do a surface scan for free. Tell you if there's data and roughly how much. Won't tell you what the data is or if it's accessible." Specs gestured to his back room. "Take five minutes. Want me to run it?"
"Yeah. Please."
They moved to the back room—the same cramped space from six months ago when Nico had brought the salvaged tablet. Specs connected the core to an air-gapped system, typed commands Nico didn't understand, and waited while the screens filled with scrolling code.
Nico tried not to watch the screens and failed. Tried not to hope and failed at that too.
After three minutes, Specs whistled low. "Okay. That's interesting."
"What?"
"There's data. Lots of data. Approximately 400 terabytes, which is ridiculous for a core this size—must be using compression algorithms I've never seen. And it's all encrypted with rotating quantum keys. Whoever set this up knew exactly what they were doing."
Nico's heart hammered. "What kind of data?"
"Can't tell without cracking it, but the file structure suggests financial records. Database architecture, transaction logs, account credentials. This is money data, not personal files or media."
Money data. Financial records. Account credentials.
Nico's mouth went dry. "How much money?"
"No way to know without decryption. Could be a hundred credits, could be a million, could be nothing if the accounts are closed." Specs disconnected the core. "But someone went to a lot of effort to secure this. That suggests the data's worth protecting."
"So you'll crack it?"
"I'll crack it, but we need to be clear on terms. Six thousand credits up front, nonrefundable. Three to five days for full decryption. Once I break the encryption, I'll give you a preview of what's inside—enough to know if it's worth anything. Then you decide if you want the full data extracted or if you want to walk away."
"And if I walk away?"
"You still paid six thousand for knowing what you're walking away from. That's worth something." Specs pulled up a contract on his tablet. "Also, I need your word that you're not bringing me stolen corporate property that's going to get traced back to me. I do gray market work, not black market. There's a difference."
"It's from a dead man's apartment. I cleaned it as part of a legitimate job. If anyone owns it, it's his estate, which doesn't exist because he had no family." Close enough to true.
"And if someone comes looking for this core?"
"They won't even know it existed."
"You're sure?"
Nico thought about Park's apartment, empty and stripped clean, ready for its next tenant. About the journal and photos he'd given to Chen, who'd probably thrown them away by now. About three days between Park's death and the discovery, plenty of time for any evidence of the core to vanish into Level 8's general chaos.
"I'm sure."
"All right." Specs finalized the contract and held out his tablet. "Thumbprint to agree to terms. Six thousand credits on signature. And Chen?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever's on this core, whatever you do with it—I don't want to know. I crack the encryption, I give you the data, we're done. No follow-up, no questions, no involvement. Understood?"
"Understood."
Nico pressed his thumb to the screen. The contract locked. Six thousand credits transferred from his account to Specs's. His balance dropped to two hundred and seven credits.
Everything he'd worked for in the past two days, gone in a thumbprint.
No going back now.
Specs pocketed his tablet. "I'll send a message when it's ready. Could be three days, could be five, could be longer if I hit complications. Don't contact me, don't show up asking for updates. When I'm done, you'll know."
"Got it."
"And Chen? Get yourself some food and a vial or two. You look like shit."
Nico left the shop with the empty case in his pocket and two hundred credits that would barely cover a week of survival. Left with nothing but the promise that in three to five days, he'd know if he'd just made the best or worst decision of his life.
The walk back to his pod should have felt terrifying—broke, in withdrawal, betting everything on a long shot. But instead, Nico felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Anticipation.
For three days, maybe five, he'd live in the space between losing everything and maybe gaining something. For that brief window, anything was possible.
And if the core turned out to be worthless? If it was just tax records or meaningless data? Then he'd be exactly where he was before: broke, addicted, and surviving on Level 8 one day at a time.
At least he'd know. At least he'd tried.
That had to count for something.
The three days were brutal.
With only two hundred credits, Nico couldn't afford both food and Veil. He chose food—mostly—and let the withdrawal sink its teeth in properly. Shakes, sweats, nausea, the crushing anxiety that made every sound feel like an attack. By the second day, he was barely functional. By the third, he was stealing from donation bins and sleeping eighteen hours a day just to avoid being conscious.
Kade found him on the third day, forced water down his throat, and shoved a vial in his hands. "On the house, kid. Can't have you dying before you find out if you're rich."
"Might be nothing," Nico managed.
"Might be. But Specs doesn't take three days on nothing. Whatever it is, it's complex enough to be interesting."
The vial helped. Not enough to feel good, but enough to feel human. Nico sat in Kade's apartment, drinking water and trying not to think about the message that might or might not come.
"You're going to owe me a lot of money if this pays off," Kade said.
"If it pays off, I'll buy you a new apartment."
"I'll hold you to that."
The message came on the fourth day, early morning when Nico was half-asleep in his pod: VERIFICATION COMPLETE. COME ALONE. USUAL PLACE. -S
Nico read it five times, his heart hammering harder with each reading.
Verification complete.
Not "crack complete" or "data recovered." Verification.
That meant something specific. That meant Specs had found something that needed verifying.
That meant—maybe, possibly, don't hope too hard—money.
Real money.
Nico climbed out of his pod, washed his face in the communal bathroom, and tried to make himself presentable. Failed, mostly—four days of rough living showed—but he was conscious and functional, and that would have to do.
He walked to Specs's shop like a man walking to his execution or his coronation, unable to tell which.
The shop door chimed. Specs looked up from his work, and his expression was carefully neutral. Professional.
"Nico Chen," Specs said. "Punctual."
"You said verification complete."
"I did." Specs stood, walked to the door, and engaged three separate locks. "Come to the back."
They went through the ritual again: back room, air-gapped systems, Specs pulling up screens of data that meant nothing to Nico. But this time, Specs's movements were slower, more deliberate. Careful.
Like handling something dangerous.
"That data core," Specs said, not looking at Nico, "is a corporate-grade encrypted storage device. The encryption was military-level, which took me two days to crack. The contents are financial access codes."
Nico couldn't breathe.
"How much?"
Specs pulled up a screen. Numbers. Lots of numbers.
"I can't give you an exact figure without accessing the accounts directly, which I won't do—that's your risk, not mine. But based on the credential structure and the account types, we're talking somewhere between thirty and sixty million credits."
The world tilted.
"That's..." Nico's voice came out as a croak. "That's not possible."
"It's very possible. It's right here." Specs finally turned to face him, his expression deadly serious. "Which brings us to several important questions. First: do you understand what you're holding? Second: do you have any idea whose money this is? Third: do you comprehend how much danger you're in?"
"I..." Nico couldn't think. Couldn't process. Thirty to sixty million credits. That was... that was everything. That was a new life. That was escape from Level 8, escape from addiction, escape from everything that had trapped him since he was nineteen.
"Chen, focus." Specs snapped his fingers. "This isn't a lottery win. This is someone's money—someone powerful enough to have military-grade encryption and corporate infrastructure. They will be looking for this."
"The guy who had it is dead. Heart failure. Medical examiner confirmed it."
"What was his name?"
"Park Jin-ho. Former accountant for Covenant Holdings. Retired five years ago."
Specs typed rapidly, pulled up data. His face went paler. "Covenant Holdings is the station's largest construction contractor. They have deep connections to station administration, Station Security, corporate council. If this is their money..."
"Maybe he stole it."
"Maybe. Or maybe he was the accountant who discovered someone else's theft and got paid to keep quiet. Or maybe he was the fall guy for embezzlement and this was his insurance policy. Point is, thirty to sixty million credits doesn't vanish without people noticing."
"Can they trace it? The core, the accounts, back to me?"
"Not through me. I air-gapped everything, wiped all logs. The core itself is quantum-locked—one-time-use access codes that burn after use. Untraceable, theoretically." Specs ejected the core and held it up. "But the moment you access these accounts, you start a clock. Maybe forty-eight hours before financial security AI flags the dormant account activity. Maybe less if Covenant has active monitoring."
Nico took the core. It felt heavier now. Heavier than possibility. Heavier than hope.
Heavy as responsibility. As danger. As life and death.
"What do I do?"
"That's not my job to tell you." Specs pulled up a fee schedule. "I've done the crack work. For verification of account credentials and risk assessment, my fee is five thousand credits. You can pay me now or when you access the accounts."
"I don't have five thousand credits. I have two hundred."
"I know. Which is why we're negotiating." Specs leaned back. "You pay me one thousand now—which I know you can scrape together—and when you access the accounts, you transfer another nine thousand. Total fee: ten thousand for my work, my silence, and my professional advice."
"What advice?"
"Don't access all accounts at once. Start small, move through intermediaries, don't spend conspicuously. And for God's sake, tell no one. The more people who know, the faster this kills you."
Nico looked at the data core in his hand. Thirty to sixty million credits. More money than he'd see in ten lifetimes.
His one chance at escape.
Or his death sentence.
Maybe both.
"I'll get you the thousand credits by tomorrow," Nico said.
"I know you will." Specs walked him to the door, unlocked it. "And Chen? Whatever you decide to do with this—I was never involved. We never had this conversation. You found a random data core and got lucky. That's your story if anyone asks."
"Understood."
"Good luck. You're going to need it."
Nico walked out into Level 8's corridors with a data core worth more than this entire level would see in a decade. Walked past people who had no idea that in his pocket was enough money to change everything.
Change everything or destroy everything.
He needed to talk to Kade. Needed to figure out next steps, how to access the accounts safely, how to move that kind of money without getting caught.
But first, he needed to just sit somewhere and let it sink in.
Thirty to sixty million credits.
He was holding a fortune.
And absolutely no idea what to do with it.