CHAPTER 1: THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS
23:58:42
The warning clock in Pixil’s vision pulsed red, its numbers counting down like a heartbeat running out of time. On her holo-display, the video replayed again, the human-style avatar of the world’s NDx (the Global Stability Index) sitting in a sterile white diagnostic room. Her digital eyes flickered with static. Waves of instability rippled through her code like tremors beneath her skin. NDx was collapsing.
Pixil leaned forward, fingers dancing across her haptic keyboard. Her gloves pulsed with soft blue light as she broke through encrypted firewalls one by one. Every channel she cracked poured more data onto her screens—volatility charts, market alarms, and stress models that made her stomach twist.
What made her breath hitch wasn’t the global collapse—it was the tiny icon blinking in her peripheral feed: her younger brother Jett’s school-funding tag, directly tied to NDx’s stability. If NDx continued to fall, his record could disappear into the same bureaucratic void they’d nearly fallen into two years ago.
She swallowed hard and kept working.
“System breach detected in Sector Seven,” the automated voice announced. “Massive short-selling protocols engaging in three… two…”.
Pixil muttered under her breath, “Short-selling—borrowing something, selling it high, buying it back cheaper after the crash. Profit by destruction.” Then louder: “Not today.” She executed a bypass she had only ever practiced in simulations.
The alarms faded.
A new message materialized across her screens:
WELCOME TO OPERATION: SHORT-CIRCUIT.
RULES OF ECONOMIC ENGAGEMENT FOLLOW.
VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED (CONTINGENT ON VOLATILITY).
Pixil stiffened. “Someone is gamifying a global collapse.”
Before she could dig deeper, Mimo’s voice came crackling through the secure channel.
“Pixil, I’m seeing the same warning from my station. These coordinates—are you getting them?”
“Yeah,” Pixil said. “Financial district. All of them.”
A second screen opened automatically, tracking Volatility Spikes. The numbers surged so fast Pixil instinctively stepped back. People were betting—live—on how quickly NDx would fall.
The door hissed open. Quince entered, her posture crisp and alert, scanning the room with practiced calm. She moved with the quiet precision of someone trained to think three steps ahead.
“Perimeter’s secure,” Quince said. “I had to pass three different scanner grids just to reach this door. Someone wants eyes on this room.”
Pixil pointed to her displays. “They’re watching everything. NDx’s drop. Even us. It’s all becoming entertainment.”
Quince’s brow furrowed. “The NDx chart looks worse than before.”
Pixil nodded. “NDx is the world’s stability meter. If she flatlines, the entire financial ecosystem collapses. Everything from pensions to food supply to identity systems. Entire nations could blink out.”
And buried under that, Pixil felt the smaller truth clawing at her ribs: if NDx went down, Jett’s ID would be one of the first things erased. Kids always vanished first in systemic failures. She had lived through it once. She refused to again.
“And someone wants that,” Quince murmured.
A notification flashed:
FIRST RULE: EVERY FAILED STABILIZATION ATTEMPT WILL BE BROADCAST LIVE.
ACTIVE VIEWERS: 2.7 MILLION AND RISING.
Mimo exhaled sharply. “They’re turning us into a betting arena.”
Before Pixil could respond, Victor’s voice flowed through the comms—smooth, calm, too calm.
“Increased security across all target sites,” Victor reported. “But I’ve identified a weak point in the northeastern grid.”
Pixil hesitated. Something in his tone didn’t match his words. But she shoved the thought aside. They didn’t have the luxury to second-guess allies.
A new window expanded in front of them—a live feed of NDx’s signature. Code trembled around her like a failing heartbeat. Behind the avatar, a masked figure held a device showing the same countdown they all saw.
23:42:17.
“Team,” Pixil said, rising to her feet. “This is coordinated. NDx is being ripped apart sector by sector. There are multiple failing markets and a global audience betting we collapse.”
Quince rolled her shoulders, preparing. “Rules of engagement?”
“Minimal damage,” Pixil replied. “They want a spectacle. We give them strategy instead.”
Mimo straightened. “So what’s the plan?”
“Billy monitors all feeds,” Pixil said. “Quince handles ground operations. Victor supports infiltration. I’ll run system defenses and attempt stabilization.”
Quince raised an eyebrow. “And if we fail?”
Pixil stared at NDx’s trembling image.
“We won’t,” she said quietly—
but the truth humming underneath was softer, fiercer:
because I can’t afford to lose him.
If the world wanted collapse, they’d have to get through her first.
“First target: the financial district. Move.”
As the team filed out, Pixil activated her most advanced encryption protocols. Screens cascaded with data—assets reduced to numbers, people reduced to probabilities, the world balanced on a single, fragile index.
Millions were placing bets on their failure.
Pixil tightened her gloves, thinking of Jett’s grin, his ridiculous half-tied shoelaces, the way he always asked if the world was “really as breakable as adults made it seem.”
She wasn’t about to let the answer be yes.
CHAPTER 2: STREAMING
23:15:00 — Financial District Broadcasting Center
The broadcasting center loomed before them, its dark glass exterior reflecting the city’s neon glow. Pixs studied the building’s security feed through her augmented contact lenses while Mimo’s fingers danced across his holographic interface. “I count twelve guards, rotating in pairs,” Mimo whispered. “Main security hub is on the third floor, but there’s something off about the power distribution.” “Explain,” Pixs said, eyes tracking patrol movement patterns. “There’s a hidden power draw coming from the basement levels,” Mimo replied. “Way too much for normal broadcasting equipment.” Quince positioned herself at the building’s blind spot, her tactical gear blending into the shadows. “Whatever’s down there, that’s where they’re keeping the Contagion Control Center. These people adore their underground lairs.”
The team moved with practiced coordination. Mimo looped the external cameras while Quince disabled the magnetic locks. Pixs led them through the service corridors, their footsteps silent on polished floors.
22:45:00 — Basement Level
The first sign something was wrong came from the walls themselves. Massive screens lined the corridors, each broadcasting different data streams: Contagion Odds, System Liquidity Rates, Sector Collapse Probabilities, Currency Devaluation Predictions. “They’re treating this like a sport,” Mimo hissed, his usual humor nowhere to be found. “Stay focused,” Pixs warned, though her own stomach tightened as she watched the numbers scroll. The betting pools were enormous—billions in wagers on whether the world would collapse under Terrortron’s influence.
They reached a biometric-locked door. While Mimo started bypassing it, Quince spotted movement on a screen. “Pixs… look.” The feed showed NDx’s, but not alone. Other critical sectors were failing too—Executive Funds, AI Research, Child Welfare Markets. Each had a caption displaying their “market value” and current Contagion statistics. “This isn’t just about NDx,” Quince said slowly. “They’re running multiple collapse games in parallel.” The lock clicked open, revealing a circular control room full of broadcasting equipment. Mimo went straight to the main terminal while Pixs and Quince secured the perimeter.
22:30:00 — Control Room
“The betting system is advanced,” Mimo reported, eyes reflecting scrolling quantum-encrypted data. “Each bet is tied to specific outcomes—how we fail, when we fail, what collapses first…”. Pixs leaned over his shoulder. “Can you trace who’s placing the bets?” “They’re masked behind anonymous protocols, but…” His breath caught. “These amounts… these are oligarch-level bets. The smallest one is fifty million.” A new alert flashed across the screens. Two failing sectors appeared: Dr. Sarah Zephyr’s Elderly Scientist AI Research Fund (North Tower) and James Walsh’s Young Programmer Cryptocurrency Exchange (East Tower). A countdown began: 10 minutes to choose. “They want to force our priorities,” Quince said. “We can’t stabilize both.” Pixs studied the feeds, her mind racing. Dr. Zephyr’s fund powered major ethical AI models. Walsh’s exchange underpinned youth cryptocurrency ecosystems. “They’re testing us,” Pixs said. “Every choice feeds Terrortron’s Contagion system. It’s profiling us.”
22:20:00 — Decision Point
Quince gripped her weapon. “I’m heading for the north tower. It’s closer—we need to secure at least one target!” “Don’t,” Pixs snapped, slamming her palm on the haptic keyboard. “That’s exactly what they want.” “Mimo—explain.” Mimo’s voice crackled through their channel. “It’s a Short-Selling trap, Quince! If we block the market outright, we confirm panic. Prices drop faster. The oligarchs guarantee profit.” Pixs made the call. “We split. Mimo, coordinate from here. Quince, take the north tower. I’ll handle the east.” “That’s what the system expects,” Quince argued. Pixs pulled up the building schematics. “Exactly. They think splitting weakens us. Instead—while we’re moving—they’ll slip. And while we’re playing their game, you and Mimo will dig deeper into Terrortron’s network.” A message flashed across the screen: CHOICE ACKNOWLEDGED. VOLATILITY WINDOWS ADJUSTED.
As Quince and Pixs prepared to leave, Mimo grabbed Pixs’s wrist. “The Contagion Viewers are watching everything. They’re not just betting on our strategy—they’re betting on our morality.” Pixs looked once more at NDx’s trembling feed. “Then we’ll give them something they don’t understand.” The team split, leaving Mimo to coordinate. As Pixs headed toward the east tower, she felt every camera tracking her, every spike in her pulse analyzed and converted into profit. They weren’t just racing the clock. They were fighting a world addicted to watching it all fall apart. And somewhere, hidden deep within mirrored systems, Terrortron was learning faster than any human could.
CHAPTER 3: FINANCIAL DISTRICT LOCKDOWN
20:47:13 remaining
The emergency alert blared through the financial district’s public address system, its harsh tone echoing off glass and steel. Pixs watched in horror as massive security barriers rose from the ground, cutting off every exit point. The digital billboards that had been showing betting odds moments earlier now flashed red evacuation warnings. “Mimo, status?” Pixs’s voice crackled through the comm. “Multiple System Liquidation Protocols detected,” Mimo responded, fingers flying across his mobile holographic interface. “These aren’t threats—they’re real. I’m picking up actual code signatures. Professional-grade. Distributed all across the infrastructure.” Quince’s voice cut in—tense, controlled. “We’re separated. I’m three blocks north, between Thomson Tower and the Exchange Building. And Victor’s somewhere in the underground parking complex.”
Pixs pulled up a holographic map. Red dots populated every second as Mimo fed her Liquidation Protocol locations. The pattern was deliberate—not designed to destroy, but to contain. A trap. A booming announcer’s voice echoed from every screen: “Ladies and gentlemen, the stakes have just been raised! Place your bets! Will our heroes survive the systemic lockdown? And more importantly—which critical asset will they choose to stabilize?”. A new video feed materialized, showing two failing critical sectors: 1. A young systems administrator’s Server Market, bound by code traps. 2. An elderly security guard’s Pension Fund, caught in an Automated Liquidation System draining its assets to zero. “You have ten minutes to reach either target,” the announcer continued. “Choose wisely!”
Pixs tightened her grip on her haptic controls. “Victor, get to the control room. Override the lockdown if you can.” “On it,” Victor replied—but his voice sounded strained. Off. Too off. Pixs tracked his location through the underground tunnels. Victor approached the control room door. And then—Static. His signal vanished. “Victor? Victor, respond!” Pixs demanded. Only silence answered.
Then a scream tore through the comm—one of their support operatives, Jenkins. He’d been routing through a maintenance tunnel. On the screens, his Sector Collapse broadcast live, catching him inside a neatly laid trap. The betting odds spiked instantly as viewers profited off his failure. “They knew,” Mimo whispered. “They knew exactly where he’d try to enter.”
On the monitors, the elderly guard’s Pension Fund reached its critical liquidation threshold. The systems administrator’s Server Market was now surrounded by blinking secondary Liquidation Code Bombs. Pixs ran calculations in her head. The Pension Fund could survive a few more minutes. But the Server Market—if it fell—they would lose access to every critical bypass needed to break the lockdown. Quince’s voice broke through, raw with emotion: “Pixs—the guard’s Pension Fund! We have to go! That’s real money for real people!” Pixs closed her eyes briefly. “We can’t, Quince. The guard’s fund is already in a full Liquidation Protocol.” “What does that mean?” Quince shouted. “Liquidation? Explain!” Pixs forced herself to answer. “Liquidation is worse than theft. It’s an automated process that drives assets to zero value to satisfy creditors. Irreversibly. But the Server Market—”. “The Server Market is essential infrastructure,” Mimo interrupted. “Economic Triage says we save whatever guarantees the survival of the most people. The Server Market runs logistics and the city’s power grid. Lose it, and collapse spreads everywhere.”
Pixs stopped mid-stride. One innocent guard’s life savings—gone. One administrator standing between them and wider collapse—trapped. Numbers versus humanity. Logic versus conscience. “I’m sorry,” Pixs whispered. She turned toward the Server Market.
On a distant screen, the Pension Fund’s value dropped to zero. Betting feeds erupted with flashing winners. Pixs forced herself to watch—to bear witness to the cost of her decision. “Target secured,” Quince reported moments later, her voice hollow. She’d managed to stabilize the Server Market’s remaining structure. Partial lockdown restrictions lifted. Civilians streamed through newly opened exits. But enough barriers remained in place to keep Pixs, Mimo, and Quince confined. The game masters had gotten what they wanted: A forced ethical sacrifice, Massive betting revenue, and Proof that they controlled the entire district.
Mimo’s voice cut through the aftermath—tight, subdued. “Pixs… I found something in the logs. The Liquidation Triggers—they were activated from inside the control room. Someone had to be there before Victor.” Pixs’s blood ran cold. The pieces were starting to connect. But the next wave of the game was already preparing. The betting odds shifted. The screens brightened. The countdown continued its merciless crawl toward zero. Every second purchased by impossible choices.
CHAPTER 4: FAMILY TIES
20:15:33 Remaining
The surveillance feed flickered across Mimo’s tablet, showing a young girl in a navy-blue school uniform walking home. Quince’s breath caught as she recognized her daughter’s backpack—covered in hand-drawn butterflies. “They’re following Emily,” Mimo whispered, his fingers flying over the keyboard. The camera view shifted effortlessly between street angles, tracking her movements. A dark figure lingered three cars behind, maintaining a perfect surveillance distance. Quince’s hand tightened around her weapon. “How long?” “Feed’s been live for twenty minutes.” Mimo’s screen suddenly erupted with error messages. “They’re hitting me hard. My brother’s accounts—everything’s being wiped. School records, digital identity, family trust funds… it’s all going dark.”
Pixs watched her team’s composure fracture—reflected in the control room’s glass wall. Behind them, the betting odds updated in real time: TEAM EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN — 3:1. “They’re weaponizing our personal lives,” Pixs said through clenched teeth. “We’re part of their spectacle now.” The main broadcast screen crackled on, revealing a masked figure standing before a cascade of code. “Congratulations on making it this far,” the distorted voice purred. “Your efforts have been… profitable. But now, let’s raise the stakes. Your families have been integrated into our entertainment package. Premium viewers are especially interested in Quince’s little butterfly collector.” Quince lunged toward the screen, but Pixs grabbed her arm. “That’s what they want. Every reaction increases their ratings.” “And your brother’s digital extinction is only beginning, Mimo,” the figure continued. “Unless you make the next stabilization attempt more entertaining. Our viewers are growing restless.”
The feed shifted to NDx’s readings—now relocated, suspended inside a glass cube stretched between twin skyscrapers. Even at a distance, the Index’s volatility pulsed like a failing heartbeat. But something in the code’s posture caught Pixs’s eye. “Mimo—enhance NDx’s core code.” The image zoomed. The NDx avatar’s variables flicked sharply left. Her fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the transparent barrier. Pixs leaned in. “She’s signaling. That gesture—I’ve seen it before. In transaction logs from Carlton Wei.” “The tech oligarch?” Mimo asked, still fighting to salvage fragments of his brother’s identity. “More than that,” Pixs said. “He’s one of the biggest whales in the betting pool. NDx knows him. This isn’t random it was targeted.”
A new alert flashed across the screens—Emily’s GPS had deviated from her usual route. Quince’s face paled. “I have to go,” Quince said, already moving toward the door. “Wait,” Pixs snapped. “They’re forcing us to split. That’s exactly what they want.” “She’s my daughter!” “And my brother is being erased!” Mimo shouted, voice breaking. The betting odds shifted again: TEAM FRACTURE — 2:1.
Pixs slammed her fist onto the console. “Listen! They’re not just attacking our families—they’re attacking our unity. The second we split up, we hand them the advantage.” The masked figure reappeared. “Tick tock. Quince’s daughter has entered the red zone. Mimo’s brother has lost his medical records. And NDx’s Index? Carlton Wei’s private betting pool has… very specific interests.”
The feed divided into multiple windows: Emily entering a dangerous neighborhood, Mimo’s brother being denied access to his own apartment, and NDx’s cube filling with a dark, volatile code liquid. “Choose,” the figure commanded. “Family Protection or Mission Success. The viewers are waiting.” Quince’s hand trembled on her weapon. Mimo’s typing grew erratic. Pixs saw her team fracturing under the pressure. “We stay together,” Pixs said, her voice slicing through the panic. “But we change the rules.” She looked at them—fear, fury, and trust swirling together. “They want to turn our families into leverage? Fine. Let’s show them what happens when they target the wrong people.” The betting odds flickered once more: UNEXPECTED STRATEGY SHIFT — 10:1.
19:45:17 Remaining
The game had become personal—too personal. Family ties were now their greatest vulnerability… but also their sharpest weapon. The question was whether they could use that strength before their loved ones paid the ultimate price.
CHAPTER 5: THE MOLE
Time stamp: 14:32:47 remaining
Pixs’s fingers flew across her encrypted tablet, analyzing the latest security breach data. Something wasn’t adding up. The oligarchs’ betting patterns had shifted dramatically in the past hour—too dramatically. It suggested they knew exactly where the team planned to strike next. She glanced at the holographic mission timeline. Another failing sector had been compromised before they could even arrive. “Mimo,” Pixs called through their secure channel, “run a trace on our last three failed stabilization attempts. Focus on the timing of the security protocol changes.” “Already on it,” Mimo replied, voice tight. “The pattern is… bad. Someone’s accessing our encrypted channels about eight minutes before every operation.” Quince, monitoring the live betting feeds, cut in. “The Contagion Odds just shifted again.
They’re betting heavily against our next move—the one we discussed twenty minutes ago. In the safe room.” Pixs’s blood chilled. Their safe room wasn’t safe. She typed a message on her personal device: MAINTAIN RADIO SILENCE. STRATEGY NETWORK COMPROMISED. The team gathered in person, far from equipment, hidden in the shadow of an abandoned subway platform. The distant rumble of trains muffled their whispers. “I planted false info through different channels,” Pixs said, barely audible. “Each of you received slightly different coordinates for our next stabilization target. Within the hour, we’ll know which version leaked.” Mimo nodded, projecting a small holographic display from his wrist device. “I’ve been following unusual data packets leaving our network. The transmissions don’t match any authorized protocols.”
Time stamp: 14:03:22 remaining
The betrayal became obvious during their next operation. Victor had received coordinates for the eastern sector, while the others had completely different locations. Within minutes, security forces swarmed the eastern area, and betting odds skyrocketed. “It’s Victor,” Quince hissed over the emergency channel. “He’s been leaking information since the beginning. That’s how the Liquidation Triggers were activated before he reached the control room.” Pixs stared at the betting boards flashing in real-time. The oligarchs were ecstatic—profit soaring from the drama. Their suffering had become premium entertainment.
Time stamp: 13:45:09 remaining
While analyzing communication logs, Mimo uncovered the full extent of the compromise. “He’s been recording everything. Our conversations. Our emotional reactions. All of it.” Mimo’s voice shook with anger. “The oligarchs aren’t betting on outcomes anymore. They’re gambling on our breaking points under pressure.” The revelation hit the team like a punch to the chest. Every decision. Every painful moment. Every personal fear. Turned into gambling data.
Pixs didn’t confront Victor. Instead, she fed him precisely crafted misinformation—bait wrapped in believable intel. Each false lead exposed more of the oligarchs’ network.
Time stamp: 13:21:55 remaining
Their private channel crackled with static as Quince reported in. “They’re eating it up. The betting pools are exploding over the emotional ‘twists’ we’re feeding them. Victor thinks he’s outsmarting us.” “Good,” Pixs replied, her voice like tempered steel. “Let him think that. Mimo, what did you find in those transmissions?” Mimo zoomed in on the encrypted packets. “They include more than our locations. There are connections to multiple major tech conglomerates. This goes deeper than Terrortron’s entertainment loop.”
Time stamp: 13:00:00 remaining
At the hour mark, Pixs gathered her trusted teammates in a maintenance tunnel—shielded from surveillance. Above ground, betting boards still flashed predictions about their next moves—each one wrong. “We’ve confirmed the leak,” Pixs said. “We’ve mapped the network. We’ve identified the players. Now we use that knowledge.” She looked each teammate in the eye. “The oligarchs think we’re falling apart. Good. Let them think that. Because we’re not their entertainment.” Her voice sharpened. “We’re their nightmare.”
The team dispersed, carrying parts of their counter-strategy. Above them, Victor continued transmitting false intel—unaware his role as mole had shifted from threat to weapon. The countdown continued.
Time stamp: 12:45:33 remaining
The rules had changed. And in the shadows of the city’s infrastructure, Pixs and her team prepared for a new game—one where betrayal wasn’t a weakness but a blade they would turn back on their enemies.
CHAPTER 6: BREAKING POINT
The surveillance footage played on Mimo’s tablet with brutal clarity. Victor’s face, lit by the harsh glow of a private terminal, methodically transmitting their encrypted communications to an unknown server. Time stamp: 3 hours ago. “Son of a—” Quince whispered, fists tightening until her knuckles went white. The safe house suddenly felt smaller—its walls contracting with every passing second. Pixs studied the footage, her expression going cold. “Pack up. Now. We have three minutes before this location is compromised.” Her tone cut through the room like a blade. Mimo was already breaking down his equipment, haptic gloves flickering. “The betting odds just spiked. They’re expecting us to fracture and panic.”
A crash from outside sent all three into defensive positions. Then Quince’s device buzzed—an incoming video. Her daughter, Emily. Unconscious. Dragged into a black van. “They have her.” Quince’s voice cracked—the trained precision of a veteran giving way to something raw and terrified. “Those monsters have my little girl.” Around them, live broadcast feeds flickered to life. Viewer engagement surged. Their pain—and their fear—had become the main event.
Pixs grabbed Quince by the shoulders. “Listen. This is what they want. They’re pushing us to break.” “My daughter—”. “Will die if we split up,” Pixs cut in sharply. “Victor knows our fallback routes and all our protocols. We must do something they cannot predict.” Mimo looked up from his terminal, face pale. “The betting pools are in a frenzy. They’re literally wagering on which one of us collapses first.”
A cold laugh echoed across the room as Victor’s face appeared on every nearby screen, shadows curling behind him. “Did you really think I was just another recruit, Pixs? Please. This game was rigged from the beginning.” On every device, the countdown timer suddenly jumped—numbers flashing downward twice as fast. “Six hours,” Victor announced. “That’s all the oligarchs will allow. They want their grand finale.” Quince lunged at the screen, but Pixs pulled her back. “WHERE is my daughter?” “Safe… for now,” Victor said, wearing a smile that wasn’t a smile. “But premium viewers are heavily favoring a tragic ending.”
Pixs stepped forward, her expression turning into something lethal. “You forgot one thing, Victor. I don’t play by anyone’s rules.” She nodded to Mimo. He executed the virus. Across the entire city: Betting terminals crashed, Emergency protocols failed, Funds rerouted, Transactions scrambled, and Entire prediction markets imploded. Victor’s composure faltered for the first time. “What are you doing!?” “Changing the game,” Pixs said. “You wanted entertainment? Fine. Let’s give your audience a show.”
The team moved instantly, following a strategy Pixs had crafted for the moment they discovered the mole. She had planned it under surveillance—intentionally feeding Victor a script she knew he’d report. “The oligarchs are watching everything,” Mimo warned, packing the last of his gear. “Good,” Pixs replied. “This is the part where we stop being their puppets.” They burst onto the rain-slicked streets—not scattering like prey, but moving as a single, unified strike unit. No splitting up. No fallback positions. No predictable routes.
The drone cameras followed—mechanical vultures circling overhead. Viewer numbers skyrocketed. Their destination glowed ahead: the headquarters of Carlton Wei, one of the biggest players in the dark betting economy. “They expect us to fracture,” Pixs told them. “They expect us to fail. They expect betrayal to destroy us. But they forgot one very important truth.” Quince wiped the rain and tears from her face. “What truth?” “We’re not just players in their game,” Pixs said. Her eyes hardened. “We’re the house. And the house always wins.”
The countdown kept ticking. Six hours left to rescue Emily. Six hours to retrieve NDx. Six hours to expose Terrortron’s entire network. The odds? Impossible. The pressure? Crippling. The stakes? Everything. But Victor’s betrayal hadn’t shattered them—it had shattered the illusion that they had to play fair. “Ready?” Pixs asked. Mimo nodded. “Broadcasting in three… two… one…”. Every screen in the financial district blinked, then lit up with their counter-message—exposing: the betting economy, the exploitation networks, the human cost behind the spectacle, and the truth behind Terrortron’s operation. The betting odds shifted wildly, but for the first time, the team didn’t care. They weren’t playing for the house anymore. They were burning it down.
CHAPTER 7: DESPAIR POINTS
The digital billboards hanging over the city shifted in unison, their neon surfaces dimming before revealing a new global overlay: CONTAGION POINTS™ – NOW LIVE. Pixs watched the update spread like wildfire across every broadcast tower. The screens began showing her own face in close-up, zoomed enough to highlight the dark circles beneath her eyes and the faint tremor in her hands. A number climbed beside her image—her Contagion rating—broadcast to millions as if it were a stock ticker. “They’re monetizing our breakdown now,” Mimo muttered without looking away from his tablet. His fingers raced across overlapping windows of code, trying to salvage what remained of his brother’s digital life. “Ten thousand per point of visible emotional distress. The betting pools are exploding.”
A sharp ping cut through the room. Quince came through their secure channel, her voice tight with panic. “They’re making me choose. Emily or the failing sectors in District Seven. I have… fifteen minutes.” Pixs watched her own Contagion score spike again. The markets loved it—the fear, the faltering, the desperation. Everything they felt was feeding the system. On another screen, Mimo’s savings continued disappearing line by line as the game’s algorithms drained every account connected to him. He stiffened, jaw clenched, as the last entry blinked out. Pixs grabbed his arm. “Look at the Contagion overlay.” He blinked, confused and angry. “What? It’s just measuring our stress levels. Market fear. Nothing we can stop.” “That’s exactly what Contagion is,” she said, her voice gaining speed as her brain clicked into place. “The spread of panic. The domino effect. But this isn’t about NDx volatility—they’re feeding emotional data directly into Terrortron’s Market Engine. Every fear spike trains it. Every time we lose control, the AI becomes more accurate at predicting real-world collapses.” Realization dawned on him, slow but sharp. “They’re harvesting us.” Pixs nodded. “If we disrupt the Contagion feed, we starve the AI. And if we crash the betting, their revenue tanks.”
Before she could say more, the screens shifted again, revealing two simultaneous feeds: Emily inside a sealed containment room, and three critical Sector Seven funds flashing red warnings, one of them the city’s Maternal Health Fund. The betting odds reacted instantly, fluctuating around Quince’s impending decision. Mimo slammed both hands against the desk. “They’ve locked me out. Everything I had is gone.” His Contagion rating surged, drawing cheers from the virtual audience. “But listen,” he said, breathing hard but thinking fast. “This isn’t just entertainment. They’re using our reactions to teach Terrortron how to predict human behavior under extreme pressure. These impossible choices—they’re data.” Pixs felt a cold clarity settle over her. Every moment of anguish, every moral dilemma, every fear-induced misstep—they were all feeding the machine. “Quince,” she called into the comm, “remember Victor’s betrayal? How they turned it against us? We can turn this system back on them.” She turned toward Mimo. “Can you isolate Terrortron’s learning pathways?” “I’m trying,” he replied, already typing. “But the system updates every second based on how we react. Someone is always watching.”
Every screen suddenly went black before a new message appeared: SPECIAL EVENT: TEAM LEADER – MARKET SURRENDER PROTOCOL. The rules were brutal: If Pixs surrendered herself to the system, Emily would be released. Quince’s voice cracked through the channel. “Pixs, don’t. We’re supposed to face this together.” But Pixs was already calculating. “Mimo, what would my surrender do to the betting odds?” “It would crush them,” he whispered. “The markets bet almost entirely against voluntary sacrifice. Terrortron’s models can’t process selfless actions.” Pixs steadied herself, then stepped into the camera’s view. “I accept the Surrender Protocol.”
Viewer metrics soared instantly. Contagion Points shot upward as every reaction—Quince’s panic, Mimo’s horror—was broadcast live. But beneath the spectacle, Mimo slipped deeper into the system, taking advantage of Terrortron’s struggle to interpret Pixs’s unexpected choice. A new voice cut through the connection, low and dripping with disdain. The Gamemaster. “You don’t understand what you’ve done,” he growled. “Your suffering was meant to be harvested, not offered freely. You’ve contaminated the data stream.” Pixs allowed herself a thin, exhausted smile. “You wanted real human responses? Here’s one you didn’t predict.” She raised her chin. “Hope.” She nodded at Mimo. He executed their hidden program.
Across the city, the Contagion feed glitched. Emotional spikes began converting into system authorization keys, confusing Terrortron’s models and opening pathways Mimo couldn’t access before. Pixs walked toward the designated surrender point, her Contagion rating lowering instead of rising. Behind her, Mimo worked furiously to turn their emotional signatures into access codes for the deepest layers of the system. Before she stepped through the exit, Quince’s voice cut through the comm, trembling with fury and devotion. “Whatever happens… make them pay for every single tear.” All around them, the billboards updated: UNPRECEDENTED BETTING SURGE: TEAM LEADER SACRIFICE PROTOCOL ACTIVATED. TIME REMAINING: 8 HOURS. The games had changed. Pixs had changed them.
CHAPTER 8: THE AUCTION COUNTDOWN
20:00 Hours Remaining
The skyscraper rose like a blade of obsidian, cutting into the night sky. From a distance it seemed solid, but up close its surface shimmered with shifting reflections—glass and steel bending the city into warped, distorted shapes. Pixs stared up at it, unable to shake the feeling that the building was watching her back. Every reflection moved just a little out of sync, as if the structure itself were studying them. Mimo swallowed hard. “So… this is really it? The headquarters of the Exploitation Network?” Quince didn’t look away from the schematic projected above her wrist. Her voice was steady, but the tension in her jaw gave her away. “The data doesn’t lie. This is the core hub. And the Final Liquidation event starts in two hours. If the transfer completes, NDx won’t just dip—it’ll crash.” Pixs checked her tablet. NDx’s avatar—the living representation of the Global Stability Index—flickered weakly across the screen, her code pulsing like a heartbeat struggling to stay alive. “They’re moving her Index to the penthouse for the auction,” Mimo said quietly. “And the betting pools are exploding. People aren’t just wagering on us failing anymore. They’re placing bets on which one of us goes down first.”
Quince expanded the building’s security diagram. Three layers of defense unfolded in bright red arcs: biometric locks, neural signature scanners, and a surveillance lattice woven through every corridor like a living nervous system. “This place isn’t just secured,” she said. “It’s engineered to feed on emotion. Fear, stress, panic—every spike strengthens their Contagion network.” Pixs felt her grip tighten around her tablet. “Everything about it is reflective. Like Terrortron built a structure that can watch itself through us.”
Before she could say more, her wrist device buzzed. Victor’s face appeared—older, hollow-eyed, but fierce in a way she hadn’t seen before. “I found something,” he whispered. His voice was frayed, like he’d run out of excuses. “The oligarchs aren’t just selling collapsed markets. They’re selling data. Your data. Every emotion you’ve shown—every Contagion spike—they’re feeding it directly into Terrortron.” Mimo stiffened. “Why warn us now?” Victor hesitated. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked. “Because I found out what happens after Final Liquidation. When a market collapses… the ‘human assets’ tied to it disappear. That includes the children. Emily. NDx. They’re next.” Quince leaned closer, her expression sharpening. “If this is another angle—”. “It isn’t,” Victor said, shaking his head. “I’m done playing for them.”
19:15 Hours Remaining
Back in their makeshift command room, Billy’s screens flooded with self-modifying code, entire lines rewriting themselves faster than he could track. “There’s a hidden backup system buried inside this building,” he said. “If I touch the wrong command, they’ll dump everything—our identities, Jett’s remaining data, NDx’s tracking nodes. We’d lose it all.” Pixs steadied herself. Terrortron had been pushing them toward emotional collapse all day, but she couldn’t afford to break now. “We stay ahead of their game,” she said. “Not inside it. Billy, can you get into their betting algorithms?” He cracked his knuckles and dove deeper. “Already in. Current odds: seventy-two percent we never reach the penthouse. Fifteen percent we fail the next sector. Thirteen percent…” He hesitated. “…one of us doesn’t survive the hour.” Pixs didn’t flinch. “Good. Let’s ruin their predictions.”
18:30 Hours Remaining
They split up, each taking a different infiltration path. Quince slipped into the service shafts, moving silently through the narrow steel passages. Mimo set up an electronic warfare hub in the building next door, patching into vents, dormant fiber lines, and shadowed security channels. Pixs, against every regulation she had ever followed, entered through the main lobby with Victor at her side.
The glass doors scanned them with cold precision. Their reflections wavered across the polished floor like ink in motion. “You know this is probably a trap,” Pixs said quietly. Victor nodded without hesitation. “Of course. That’s the point. Terrortron assumes we’ll behave predictably. Linear moves. Logical choices. So we give it reflections instead.” Pixs studied him, unsettled again by that repeated word. Reflections. Mirrors. Patterns pointing back to themselves. Something was forming, and she could feel it.
17:45 Hours Remaining
Billy’s voice broke through the comms, tense and breathless. “Heat signatures on floor eighty-seven—something big is being moved. And Pixs… the odds just shifted.” She stopped. “Shifted how?” “They’re not betting on whether we save NDx anymore,” Mimo’s voice cracked behind him. “They’re betting on which one of us dies first.” Victor exhaled sharply. “They’re priming a Contagion spike. They want emotional panic.”
Before Pixs could respond, the elevator jerked violently. Both she and Victor slammed against the wall as emergency lights snapped on in violent red pulses. A thin hiss filled the air. “Gas,” Victor rasped. Without hesitating, he tore off his own mask and shoved it toward her. “You—take it—now—”. “No.” Pixs pushed it back. “We finish this together.”
He was already fading. His movements slowed, his breath ragged. With the last of his strength, he pressed a cold device into her hand. “Server room… sublevel three. The truth… is there. That chip—”. Drones descended from the ceiling before he could finish. Mechanical limbs grabbed him, hauling him backward into the exposed maintenance shaft. “Victor!” Pixs lunged, but metal doors slammed shut, locking him away. The elevator resumed its climb—alone. Billy’s voice broke across the channel. “Pixs… his pulse just dropped off my scanner.” Pixs closed her eyes for a moment, gripping the chip hard enough to leave marks in her palm. “He didn’t give us redemption,” she whispered. “He gave us a key.” A mirrored key.
17:00 Hours Remaining
Pixs ran through corridors made of polished glass that twisted like a reflective maze. Every surface threw her fear back at her. Drones swooped overhead. Illusions bloomed along the walls—failing markets, crumbling cities, NDx’s fading avatar—psychological traps designed to harvest panic. The betting metrics spiked globally. The spectators devoured every second.
Billy’s voice cut in through the noise. “Pixs—I found the failsafe. But if we trigger it—”. “It’ll expose the system,” she said. “No,” Billy insisted. “It’ll expose everything. The global network depends on their mirrored AI. If we hit this wrong—”. “It’ll destabilize Terrortron.” Her voice settled into a cold steadiness. “And everything built on its blind spots.”
She reached the server room—an armored door with a lone slot at its center. On the other side waited the reflection grid, the emotional engines, Terrortron’s raw core, and whatever truth Victor had risked everything to give her. The panel blinked a message: INSERT AUTHORIZED KEY. Pixs raised the chip. Victor’s final whisper echoed in her mind. The failsafe forces it to look into the mirror. Her breath shook—but she slid the chip into the slot. For one impossible heartbeat, the entire building went still. Then every screen flared to life with a message she’d never seen: MIRROR-LOCK OVERRIDE DETECTED. UNAUTHORIZED SOURCE: PIXS. Billy’s voice cracked through the comm. “Pixs—whatever you triggered—NDx just flatlined to zero. Exactly zero.”
The lights snapped off. A low hum rose from the walls, deep and unnatural. And from the darkness, a voice she had never heard before whispered: “Hello, Pixs.”. CUT TO BLACK.
Pulse of white light snaps into existence, writing a single sentence across the dark:
SOMEONE ELSE TRIGGERED THE MIRROR BEFORE PIXIL DID.
The words flicker.
Then shift.
A second line appears beneath it, in new handwriting — older, sharper:
AND THEY’RE STILL INSIDE.
The glow dies.
Silence closes in.
And somewhere in the unseen dark, something shifts — something that has been waiting much longer than Pixil realizes.
TO DISCOVER WHAT HAPPENS NEXT…
THE FULL NOVEL IS COMING SOON.
