Amid a holographic projector filled with green and blue, a virtual beauty—lacking substance—smiles seductively, reciting ads in order of payment. Countless false advertisements and scams, with only a sliver of truth, swirl around. Unconcerned with good or evil, the program-driven figure broadcasts the highest bidders’ info to passersby, waiting for weaklings—fools swayed by visible bait—to take the hook.

  The undercity’s Commercial District is a cesspool of desire, lined with squat buildings and shops peddling every kind of ware. With enough credits, you can buy cultured vegetables, low-grade pork, chicken, or beef raised in cramped pens—even human flesh is for sale.

  The rich grow fat, the poor waste away, their skin clinging to bones like living corpses. Penniless souls are forced into deadly, low-wage jobs, dissected the moment they die, and displayed as merchandise in shopfronts—a hell of consumption and demand. This is the Commercial District, ruled by the organization called the Parade of the Dead.

  Shabbily dressed passersby shuffle, eyes downcast like walking corpses. Full-body mechanoids, tattooed freaks, and gangsters guarding bloated kids weave through. Armored vehicles—cars in name only—race down the main street, crushing exhausted pedestrians. A driver’s window rolls down, a merchant bellowing, “Where you looking, idiot?! Can you cover my deal if I’m late?!”

  If lives are lighter than bullets across the undercity, in the Commercial District, credits outweigh lives. Every second, the strong prey on the weak, using information and force to amass wealth in a bottomless swamp of desire. Pale neon and a fog of misinformation are spider threads spun for survival, bluffs to drag others back into the mire. Truth is buried, lies flood the electronic sky, cloaked in white dew, manipulating the virtual beauty.

  Merchants’ shouts, screeching brakes, dizzying data overload, and ruthless efficiency run amok. Exhaling a weary sigh at the chaos—so unlike the Pleasure District—Eve tugged Danang’s coat, halting him.

  “Danang, hold on a sec,” she said.

  “What’s up?” he replied.

  Glancing at her, Danang calmly eyed an oncoming runaway vehicle, raised his assault rifle, and shot out its tires.

  Skidding loudly, the car crashed into a pole. A bleeding mechanoid man crawled out, frenzied, grabbing Danang’s collar. “What outfit you with, punk?! Got some guts—” he roared, only to be shot in the gut, collapsing.

  “Shut it, merchant,” Danang said.

  “K-kill me, and the Parade of the Dead won’t stay quiet…!” the man gasped.

  Silently extending his mechanical arm’s hack cable, Danang plugged it into the man’s arm socket. “Sure, if you paid your overdue turf fees, they’d raise hell,” he said quietly.

  “Think the Parade moves for deadbeats? Don’t be stupid, merchant. They don’t serve people—they worship credits,” Danang added.

  “B-but, the gangsters—” the man stammered.

  “Money runs dry, ties get cut. Your threats are empty. You haven’t paid the gangsters either, have you? I don’t need to kill you—they will.”

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  Look—Danang pointed. Armed gangsters, their mechanical eyes glowing red, approached.

  “Eve, let’s go,” Danang said.

  “…Yeah,” she replied.

  As the man screamed for help, gangsters stripped his valuables and dismantled usable parts. The merciless teardown ended swiftly. Kids and weaklings swarmed the crawling man, ripping out any remaining salable bio-components.

  A bleeding girl crawled from the smoking, pole-impaled vehicle, searching for her father. But he was already a mutilated heap. Letting out a small scream, she rushed toward him, only to be grabbed by a drug-addled Flesh Crucible grunt.

  “Danang, that girl—” Eve started.

  Glancing at the girl struggling against the man, Danang said coldly, “Leave her,” and moved to walk on.

  “But it’s obviously not right! We have to help—” Eve protested.

  “No need. Watch if you care,” Danang said.

  The girl’s father had massive debts and unpaid fees, with his daughter’s body and mechanoid parts as collateral, backed by electronic contracts for compensation. Hacking the data with his mechanical arm, Danang shared it with Eve via her silver wings, holding her back as she moved to act.

  “…Even so, she’s done nothing wrong—” Eve argued.

  “No crime, but that’s beside the point. Can’t earn credits? Can’t pay? Give up. Eve, you want to save her?” Danang asked.

  “Obviously! Kids shouldn’t pay for their parents’ sins—” she said.

  “Then cover her father’s debts and fees. Got the credits? A plan to pay? Even if you save her, what’s next? Unwanted kindness can be reckless,” Danang countered.

  Even so—Eve hesitated. A man’s head exploded, blood and brains splattering the girl. Eyes wide, she screamed shrilly as a steel-clad gangster lifted her effortlessly.

  A fight over collateral. Strong killing strong, devouring the weak—a hellish tableau. Sensing the brewing conflict, shopkeepers lowered bulletproof shutters with practiced ease. Passersby eyed the scene hungrily, hoping for scraps.

  A palpable unease, the air taut with death. Eve spread her silver wings, ready for combat, while Danang, oddly calm, pulled her toward a grocery store.

  “Danang? Isn’t this dangerous?” Eve asked.

  “It’s fine,” he said.

  “But, like earlier, if security forces show up—” she pressed.

  “The Parade of the Dead will handle it,” Danang replied.

  “The Parade of the Dead?” Eve echoed.

  What’s that?! Grabbing Danang’s hand, Eve leaned forward as a tattooed man stepped between the gangsters and Flesh Crucible grunts.

  Freakish—that word summed him up. His thin black robe fluttered in the exhaust vent’s gusts. Extending a bare, ink-black arm, he snapped his fingers, diffusing the murderous tension.

  “That’s the Parade of the Dead,” Danang said.

  “…”

  “Probably mediating or directing where the girl goes. Disputes here—big fights—are settled by them, balancing both sides’ profits. Basically, the district’s overlords. So, no need to freak out… Eve?” Danang trailed off.

  Following Eve’s intense gaze—not at the man, but slightly off—Danang saw a girl in a white dress, flickering like a choppy video. She had no presence yet undeniably stood there.

  His eyes weren’t mechanical; they were biological. So why did she appear distorted? Rubbing his eyes, Danang looked again, shaking his head, blaming fatigue.

  “That girl…” Eve murmured.

  “Know her?” Danang asked.

  “I saw her in the Pleasure District before. Don’t know her name, but she seemed to know you,” Eve said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know her,” Danang scoffed.

  The girl stared at Danang and Eve, bowing slightly with a faint smile.

  We meet again, guests.

  With that, she vanished alongside the man. Danang and Eve exchanged glances, their faces dazed, as if tricked by a fox.

  “Hey,” Eve said.

  “What?” Danang replied.

  “Believe in ghosts?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  “Funny, me neither. But…” Eve hesitated.

  “No buts. It’s gotta be some perception-jamming tech. The Parade of the Dead are elusive anyway. That girl’s probably one of their operatives,” Danang said.

  “Really?” Eve asked.

  “It’s the only explanation without proof or confirmation,” he said.

  But why didn’t she have the tattoos—the mark of life and death that branded their members? Swallowing the nagging unease, Danang headed toward the grocery store.