ANTI-HERO.EXE [LitRPG]

Kael found no rest throughout the night. Uncertainty held him prisoner in his own room, a narrow, gloomy cubicle that could barely be called a home. The dampness clung to the cracked walls, and the faint hum of the emergency generator was the only sound breaking the silence, accompanying the symphony of his chaotic thoughts.

Sitting at the edge of the sunken old mattress, elbows resting on his knees, hands gripping his hair tightly, he struggled to find a way out—a plan, anything that would allow him to escape the predicament he had gotten himself into. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that every option led him to a dead end.

The holopanel on the wall flickered erratically, projecting fragmented data and automated ads for dead-end jobs and illegal gambling. It was a perfect reflection of his mind at that moment: chaotic, filled with noise and useless information that did nothing to solve his dilemma. The bluish glow of the projector flickered across his sweaty skin, casting uncertain shadows in the cluttered room.

He lifted his gaze, and his eyes settled on Lira's sleeping figure, wrapped in a thin, tattered blanket. Her breathing was calm, her expression relaxed, unaware of the storm raging inside him. So fragile, so vulnerable. A pang of guilt pierced his chest. He wasn't afraid for himself—he had been doomed from the moment he entered the game. He was afraid for her.

He couldn't risk the consequences of his actions reaching her. Not while he could do something about it.

Kael let out a shaky sigh and clenched his fists. He had made a decision. He couldn't wait a week—he had to disappear tomorrow, rebuild his life somewhere else. Not as an antihero, not as a shadow lurking in the city's alleys. Just as a brother protecting the only thing that truly mattered.

He knew he had to act, that he couldn't let the past catch up with them. He had to vanish, fade into nothingness like a ghost. Erase any trace of his antihero identity, sell what little he owned, and take Lira somewhere safe—far from the corruption and violence of the slums. He knew it wouldn't be easy. The better-protected districts demanded credits he didn't have, connections he had burned long ago. But it was his only option, the only way to protect his sister.

When the first ray of sunlight filtered through the cracks in the window, Kael gently woke Lira, his fingers tenderly brushing through her hair.

—We have to go, Lira —he said, his voice barely a whisper—. We're not safe here anymore.

Lira stretched, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

—Go? Where?

—It doesn't matter right now —Kael replied firmly—. Just trust me. Pack your things, only what's necessary. We're leaving this afternoon.

Lira looked at him with suspicion but asked no questions. She knew that when Kael spoke in that tone, there was no room for discussion.

—I'm going to sell a few things and I'll be back by the afternoon —Kael told her—. By then, I want everything ready.

Kael became a ghost in the crowd, an urban chameleon blending into the shadows of District Seven. He abandoned his usual worn-out but recognizable clothes and adopted an outfit that screamed anonymity: a tattered leather jacket found in a nearby dumpster, dark, loose-fitting pants that concealed the shape of his legs, and combat boots that had seen better days. A faded gray cap covered his hair, and dark, smoked-lens glasses hid the intensity of his gaze. He didn't want to be recognized. He didn't want to leave a trace.

The bag slung over his shoulder was a treasure trove of his past life, a tangible reminder of his skills and his sins. Inside lay his old development console, a relic from his days as a programmer and hacker. He had modified it to the extreme, squeezing every last drop of performance from it, but now it was just a tool to earn credits. He also carried some hardware components, cutting-edge electronics he had obtained from his incursions into corporate systems. He knew they had value on the black market, where stolen and modified technology was a prized commodity. And finally, there were a couple of personal items—small treasures he had acquired through his work as a hacker: a datapad containing valuable information about a criminal gang's operations and a memory chip with blueprints of a high-tech security system. Each of these items represented a risk, but also an opportunity.

District Seven was a maze of dark alleys and makeshift stalls, a hotbed of illegal activity where smuggled technology and stolen goods changed hands in the shadows of the gleaming skyscrapers downtown. The air was thick with the scent of cheap fried food, sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of burnt wires. Flickering holograms advertised questionable merchandise, while street vendors peddled their goods with hoarse voices and wary eyes.

Kael moved cautiously through the crowd, his cap and dark glasses shielding his face. He knew this place well—its dark corners and its dangerous inhabitants. He stopped in front of a stall where a burly man with scars on his face was selling modified development consoles.

—Looking for something, kid? —the man asked, flashing a grin that revealed yellowed teeth.

Kael pulled his old development console from his bag.

—I'm here to sell, not buy.

The man examined the console with an expert eye.

—Old model, but still worth something. I'll give you fifteen hundred credits.

Kael knew he could get more, but he didn't have time to haggle.

—Three thousand.

The man eyed him suspiciously but finally nodded.

—Two thousand three hundred, not a credit more.

Kael also sold the hardware components and the items he had obtained as a hacker, negotiating with skill and patience. He didn't make a fortune, but he gathered enough to afford a month's rent in a safer sector of the district.

As he left the market, a chill ran down his spine. He knew he was playing with fire, that any mistake could cost him dearly. But Lira's safety was his priority, and he was willing to take any risk to protect her.

He returned to the apartment at dusk, his heart pounding. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to hope that things might finally go right. But as he stepped through the door, the sight before him froze him in place.

The room was wrecked. Drawers had been emptied, the bed was in disarray, the holopanel shattered on the floor. And worst of all—the silence. A deathly silence that chilled his blood.

—Lira! —he shouted, his voice breaking with panic.

He searched the apartment, checking every corner, but there was no sign of his sister. No signs of a struggle, which meant she had been taken without resistance.

Then he saw it. A small, crumpled piece of paper on the table, with a message scrawled in crude, menacing handwriting:

"If you want to see your little sister again, come to the Crimson Whisper tonight. —The Butcher."

The world stopped. His breathing grew heavy, his vision blurred with a deep red haze. His jaw clenched until his teeth ground together. He had tried to leave it all behind, even forsaking his newfound gift—or was it a curse?—as an antihero. But fate had other plans.

He had no choice. He would go to the Crimson Whisper. If the price of Lira's life was his own, he was willing to pay it. But fate would lead him down a different path—a path of vengeance and redemption.

4o