Rain lashed down, a cold, indifferent curtain across the chrome and glass of Neo-Bangkok. Alleyways, usually choked with market stalls and illicit transactions, were now slick, reflective tunnels, mirroring the garish neon signs above. Sam Rachatiwat Rathikun pushed harder, each stride jarring his weary muscles. Ahead, the runner, a lean figure in a threadbare grey hoodie, skidded on a loose grate. He recovered with a desperate scramble, his breath a ragged gasp in the humid air. Gritty alleyways offered no easy path. Water pooled, ankle-deep in places, smelling of oil and refuse. Sam’s boots splashed, the sound amplified in the narrow confines, a relentless drumbeat against the city’s low hum. Neon signs bled their lurid colours onto the wet pavement: electric blue, violent pink, sickly green. They painted the chase in an unstable, flickering light, making shadows twist and writhe. His target, known only as 'Ghost', was a low-level Phymonation Syndicate courier. Not a fighter, but slippery, like a wet fish. This was his third attempt to corner the punk. A high-pitched whine from Ghost's augmented leg gave him away. The cheap cybernetics, a common upgrade in the city's underbelly, always betrayed their users with that tell-tale buzz. Sam closed the distance. Forty meters. Thirty. The air grew thick, not just with rain, but with a faint, acrid scent – something chemical, metallic, like burnt circuitry and ozone. Another corner. Ghost veered right, into a dead-end street. A warehouse, its corrugated metal walls scarred with graffiti, loomed at the end. Its single, grimy loading dock door stood ajar, a sliver of darkness promising escape. This low-level courier wasn't just running; he was leading Sam somewhere. A trap, perhaps. Or a rendezvous. Sam felt a familiar prickle of unease, but it was quickly overridden by the thrill of the hunt. He didn't do caution well. Phymonation. The word tasted like ash in his mouth. They were a festering wound on the city, trafficking in bio-chemicals and human experimentation. Every lead, every broken body, pointed back to them. Every stride burned. His lungs ached, the cold rain doing little to cool the heat radiating from his body. He ignored it. He always did. Adrenaline surged, sharpening his senses. The distant rumble of the monorail, the distant blare of a synth-pop club, the specific rhythm of Ghost’s stumbling footsteps – all clear. He saw the flicker of Ghost’s eyes, wide with panic, as he pushed through the loading door. His comms crackled in his ear, a persistent, tinny buzz. His partner, Detective Kaito, was likely calling for a status update. Sam ignored it, his focus absolute. "Rathikun, status!" Kaito's voice, distorted but urgent, finally broke through. "You’re off grid. Where are you?" The NID protocols were strict. Sam hated them. A harsh static answered Kaito. Sam had been forced to disable most of his tracking tech. Ghost had a scrambler, a cheap piece of kit that could hide signals for a few blocks. Sam preferred to keep his movements unpredictable. "Almost there," Sam grunted, pushing through the half-open door. The interior of the warehouse was dark, save for a few emergency lights casting sickly yellow pools. The air was heavy with the chemical smell, now sharper, almost stinging. A sudden, blinding white flash erupted from deeper within the warehouse. It tore through the darkness, an instantaneous, impossible sun. Sam’s world dissolved into pure, searing light. White light obliterated his vision, burning behind his eyelids even as he squeezed them shut. He felt it, a physical presence, pressing against his eyes, his skin, his very bones. Sound vanished, replaced by a deafening roar that vibrated through his entire body. It was a concussive wave, a monstrous, invisible hand that slammed into him with brutal force. A violent shove. He was airborne, a ragdoll flung through the air. His body twisted, disoriented, a whirlwind of pain and sensation. He couldn't scream. Couldn't breathe. Pain erupted, a thousand tiny needles piercing his skin, followed by a deeper, bone-jarring ache as he slammed against something hard. Concrete. Metal. Glass. Everything at once. Hot fragments rained down on him, slicing and tearing. A thousand tiny cuts. He felt a sharp, burning sensation on his face, his arms, his hands. A raw, exposed feeling. He hit the ground, sprawling awkwardly, his head snapping back. Darkness rushed in, then pulled back, leaving him disoriented and gasping. He lay amidst the debris, his limbs splayed out. Metallic tang coated his tongue, sharp and unpleasant. It wasn't blood, not entirely. Something else. Something chemical, bitter, clinging to the back of his throat. Ears ringing, a high-pitched shriek that vibrated in his skull. His head throbbed. He tasted grit, dust, and that strange, metallic flavour. Every muscle protested, a deep, bruising agony. Smoke billowed, thick and acrid, swirling around him. It stung his eyes, burned his throat. He tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like lead, his legs unresponsive. Where was Ghost? Where was the warehouse? What had just happened? His mind struggled to piece together the shattered fragments of the last few seconds. He remembered the flash. The impact. His chest tightened, a crushing weight making it hard to draw a full breath. He coughed, a dry, ragged sound that tore at his throat. Each cough sent fresh waves of pain through his ribs. Each breath brought the chemical stench deeper into his lungs. It was pervasive, clinging, like a toxic perfume. His senses were overwhelmed, a discordant cacophony of pain and foul smells. Chemical stench. Burnt plastic. Ozone. Something else, something uniquely sickly sweet beneath it all. It made his stomach churn, a rising nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Rubble choked the space where the warehouse had been. Twisted rebar, shattered concrete, splintered wood. The interior was now a gaping maw, open to the rain, the neon glow of the city filtering weakly through the smoke. Jagged metal girders jutted from the ruined walls like broken bones. Sparks still flew occasionally, tiny dying stars in the gloom, as severed wires shorted out. Dust motes, glowing faintly in the scattered light, danced in the air. They settled on his skin, on his clothes, a fine, gritty layer that felt strangely alive, almost buzzing. A groan escaped him, involuntary, raw. He hated showing weakness. Hated the feeling of helplessness. This wasn't just a bust gone wrong. This was something far, far worse. Sam forced himself to move, to crawl. He needed to get clear, to understand. His training screamed at him: assess, analyze, react. But his body refused to cooperate. His head spun, a vertigo that made the world tilt precariously. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the edges of his sight remained blurred, dark spots dancing in his periphery. A sharp stab of pain lanced through his right hand. He'd landed on it, twisted it. He could feel something embedded in his palm, something sharp and cold, but the pain was distant, muted by the sheer scale of his discomfort. He needed to stand. Needed to move. The thought was a primal urge, overriding the agony. He couldn't stay down. He refused to stay down. That was not how Sam Rachatiwat Rathikun operated. Pushing against the ground, his muscles screamed in protest. He used his left arm, gritting his teeth, hauling his battered body upwards. Every inch was a monumental effort. Concrete scraped against his exposed skin, digging into the tender flesh of his forearms. He ignored the fresh pain, focused only on leveraging himself upright, on getting his feet under him. His vision blurred, the world swimming in a haze of grey and flickering light. He braced himself against a twisted piece of rebar, trying to find his balance. His right hand hung limply, throbbing. Jagged edges of shattered glass protruded from his palm, glinting dully in the dim, smoke-filled air. As Sam pushed himself up, his vision blurring, he sees a faint, sickly green glow emanating from the fragments of shattered glass embedded in his hand.

Chapter 1: Neon Burn