The corroded door to my flat exploded inward, not with a bang, but with a wet *splat*. Four hulking figures, clad in reinforced durasteel plating and wielding energy rifles, piled into the living room like over-eager patrons at a buffet opening. Their helmets, shaped like stylized butcher blades, left no doubt about their affiliation. Iron Skillet. This was not a casual visit. “Rival couriers,” I grunted, spinning the stun-stick in my grip. Corso, surprisingly quick, had already drawn a sleek mono-filament wire from his wrist, its tip glowing faintly. He looked less like an assassin and more like a high-end chef preparing to carve a particularly tough roast. Minna, strapped securely into her stroller, simply blinked at the sudden influx of guests, a half-chewed synth-noodle dangling from her mouth. She liked company, especially when it involved loud noises. “Target acquired,” one of the blade-heads rasped, his rifle swiveling to point directly at my forehead. “Apex Predator, you’re past your expiration date.” Expiration date? These guys were definitely trying to mess with my metrics. Liro’s voice cut through my comm. “Nura, unit schematics are up. North wall panel connects to the primary waste disposal chute. Heavy gauge. And that overhead ventilation shaft? Untouched since the building’s reconstruction in ’77. Might be… dusty.” Dusty meant a potential distraction. I dodged the incoming plasma bolt, feeling the heat sear the air where my head had been moments before. “Corso, distract the two on the right. Liro, lights out in ten seconds. Then vent dust.” Corso didn’t question. He moved with a dancer’s precision, the mono-filament wire a blur. One raider's gun clattered to the floor, bisected clean through the barrel. The other found itself suddenly entangled, its armored limbs flailing uselessly as Corso tightened his grip. He was efficient, I’d give him that. He understood the nuances of resource management during a rush hour conflict. The lights flickered, then died, plunging the room into near-total darkness, save for the emergency floor-strips and muzzle flashes from the remaining two syndicate goons. Then came the dust. A thick, choking cloud of seventy-year-old vent grime billowed from the ducts, instantly blinding the room. The syndicate enforcers started coughing, their frantic shouts muffled by the airborne debris. Perfect. “Minna, cover your face,” I instructed, even though her helmet visor was already sealed tight. I moved through the dust, my enhanced senses honed by years of navigating blind alleys and unlit service tunnels. The first one I found by the scent of cheap synth-fabric. A swift kick to the knee, a crack, and he crumpled. I followed up with a precise stun-stick jab to the neck-seal of his armor. He seized up like a faulty android. The second was harder. He flailed wildly, firing his long-arm in desperate, random bursts. One shot singed the edge of Minna’s stroller, leaving a small, glowing scorch mark. That was it. No one touched Minna’s ride. I moved faster, a blur in the particulate-laden air. I disarmed him with a clean wrist-break, the heavy weapon skittering across the floor. He tried to grapple, his armored fist connecting with my shoulder. It felt like being hit by a small, angry truck. My retaliatory strike was a knee to the groin, followed by a stun-stick to the solar plexus. He wheezed, collapsing to the floor with a metallic clang. Liro brought the lights back up. The living area was a disaster. Charred walls, a broken table, and four unconscious goons sprawled among the debris. Corso stood over his two, looking entirely unruffled, his mono-filament wire now coiled neatly back into his wrist-sheath. Minna, meanwhile, had finished her noodle and was now happily gnawing on the leg of one of the fallen thugs, oblivious. A good kid. Fearless, like her mother. “Well, that was… invigorating,” Corso said, his tone a little too enthusiastic. “Your tactical acumen is truly unparalleled, Nura. The ventilation strategy was inspired.” “They were trying to sabotage my five-star score,” I said, walking over to the nearest blade-head. “Aggressive rivals. Always trying to ruin your perfect run.” I started patting down his armor, looking for any lingering tracking devices, or maybe their 'confiscated' high-priority order. Instead, my fingers brushed against a thick, vellum-like packet tucked into an inner pouch. I pulled it out. It wasn't a requisition form for a spicy miso or a receipt for a high-end ramen. It was a property deed. For a luxury sky-villa in the Vertigo Spires. And another, for an entire block of commercial real estate in the upper district’s gilded High-Spire Ward. All registered to various shell corporations, all ultimately traceable back to Skillet leadership. A cold, hard realization settled in my ribs. My goal – the fortified penthouse, the good schools for Minna and Liro – it wasn’t just about earning enough points. It was about who controlled the very foundations of the city. The syndicate didn’t just deal in illicit food trade; they owned the city. They owned the real estate. They *were* the real estate. “These aren’t rival drivers, Nura,” Liro’s voice came through the comm, softer now, his usual bravado replaced by something more somber. “My decryption on the tactical channel mentioned a ‘hostile takeover.’ Not of your score, but of your *residence*. They wanted this apartment.” My grip tightened on the property deeds. They wanted my home. My family’s sanctuary. And they controlled the very thing I was working so hard for. Earning points wouldn’t be enough. I couldn't just beat delivery rivals; I had to liquidate their entire infrastructure. Every single one of them. Corso, observing my intense focus on the documents, spoke. “A bold move, establishing control over key urban assets. Strategic. I admire a thorough approach to market domination.” He thought I was planning a hostile corporate takeover. Let him think that. [Excellent resourcefulness, driver. Your flawless defense of essential cargo – in this case, a domicile of significant sentimental value – exemplifies true dedication to service. You have successfully fended off competitive interference and secured your domestic tranquility. Awarding: Platinum Delivery Rating.] “Hostile takeover,” I murmured, looking at the pristine deed for a sky-villa I would never be able to afford if these bastards were still running the show. “I understand.” [New Assignment: Urgent. The Iron Skillet Cartel’s primary headquarters – the ‘Cleaver’s Den’ – has placed a massive catering order. Mission: Banquet Termination. Proceed immediately.]

Hostile Real Estate