Charity pushed her entire body weight against the heavy iron door at the bottom of the ramshackle apartment building. It groaned open, revealing the ruined, squalid lower sector of the beast tribe's territory.

The sky above was a sickly, bruised lead-gray. The air was thick with the sharp, chemical stench of industrial smog from the distant forges and refineries.

Suddenly, heavy drops of rain began to fall. A single drop hit the exposed skin on the back of Charity's hand.

It hissed.

A sharp, burning sensation bit into her flesh. Charity flinched, realizing instantly that this was the highly corrosive acid rain unique to the lower sectors, a byproduct of the corrupted coolant leaking from the upper tribes' manufacturing zones.

She quickly pulled the oversized hood of her synthetic-fur cloak over her head, shielding her face and neck, and desperately scanned the street for an awning.

The metal shutters of the shops lining the street were slammed shut. Only a few dying holographic signs provided any light in the gloom.

Charity hugged the walls, walking as fast as her heavy, poisoned body would allow. Her chest heaved, and her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

As she limped past the opening of a pitch-black dead-end alley, a sharp prickle of instinct made her freeze in her tracks.

From deep within the shadows, a wet, sickening crunching sound echoed. It was the sound of bones being snapped and flesh being chewed.

Two massive, glowing red optical lenses slowly opened in the darkness. They locked onto Charity.

A mutated dire rat, the size of a fully grown wolf, crawled out of the shadows. Its fur was matted with black, oily blood. Rusted metal plates were crudely welded onto its spine, and a broken data-jack dangled from the base of its skull.

The beast let out a high-pitched, ear-piercing shriek. Its powerful hind legs coiled, and it launched itself through the rain, a dark blur aiming straight for Charity's throat.

Charity's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Her bloated body was too slow, too heavy. She couldn't move.

Through the heavy rain, the faint, rhythmic splash of heavy military boots echoed from the adjacent street, though Charity was too paralyzed by the beast's approach to notice.

Just as the beast's razor-sharp claws were inches from tearing her throat open, a deafening gunshot ripped through the heavy rain.

An armor-piercing bolt, trailing a blinding blue arc of electricity, punched directly through the mutated rat's skull.

The beast's massive body crashed into the mud right at Charity's feet, carried by its own momentum. Thick, black blood and hydraulic fluid splashed across her cloak and boots.

Charity collapsed backward into the acidic mud, her chest heaving as she gasped for air, her whole body trembling from the near-death adrenaline.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of military boots splashing through the puddles approached from the other end of the street.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the rain-soaked fog. He wore a black, tactical coat that repelled the acid rain, and on his chest was the silver badge of the High Guard. His features were sharp, wolflike—a powerful predator in his own right, though his ears were round, indicating a pure-blooded humanoid warrior.

Braden Dickson held a heavy, railgun. The barrel was still smoking. His eyes were colder than the acid rain pouring down around them.

He stood over Charity, looking down at her collapsed form. Pure, undisguised disgust twisted his sharp features.

"If you want to die," Braden said, his voice a flat, cutting blade, "go die somewhere else. Don't dirty my patrol sector."

Charity's newly acquired memories supplied his name. This was Braden. Another one of her forced bond-mates. The cold, ruthless captain of the High Guard stationed in this district, a man who despised her with every fiber of his being.

Faced with his brutal insult, Charity didn't scream. She didn't throw a hysterical tantrum like the original owner would have.

She remained completely silent. She raised her sleeve and calmly wiped the black monster blood and acidic mud from her cheek.

She didn't even look up at him. She placed her hands flat on the wet wall and forced her heavy, aching body to stand.

Braden's brow furrowed. He stared at her unnatural silence. A brief flicker of genuine confusion crossed his cold eyes.

Charity dragged her exhausted body forward. She carefully stepped around the massive, bleeding rat corpse and limped away, heading toward another ruined safe house she remembered from the memories.

Braden stood perfectly still in the rain. He watched her bloated, silent figure disappear into the fog. He let out a cold scoff, turned on his heel, and vanished back into the shadows.

Charity finally reached a slightly sturdier abandoned concrete building. She pressed her thumb to the rusted biometric scanner, and the heavy iron door clicked open.

Charity slammed the rusted iron door shut and threw the heavy deadbolt. Her back hit the cold metal, and she slid down until she hit the freezing concrete floor.

A sudden, sharp metallic taste flooded her mouth. She jerked her head to the side and coughed violently, spitting a mouthful of thick, black blood onto the floor.

The biological toxin was tearing through her internal organs. Her vision doubled. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass.

Just as the darkness began to close in, a sharp, synthetic chime echoed directly inside her skull.

A cold, mechanical voice spoke in her mind. "Suitable host detected. Matriarch's Neural Binding System initiating."

Charity's eyes snapped wide open. She looked around the empty, decaying room, her heart pounding.

A semi-transparent, pale blue holographic panel suddenly projected itself directly onto her retinas—a neural-interface display that only she could see.

Lines of data cascaded down the screen before locking onto a personal status window.

"Host Charity Saunders," the system announced without emotion. "Vital signs critically failing. Bio-toxin has breached the cardiovascular system. Neural-link stability at 12%."

A glaring, blood-red countdown timer pulsed in the center of the panel: [Estimated Neural Collapse: 59 Days, 23 Hours].

Charity stared at the timer. A wave of suffocating despair mixed with absolute absurdity washed over her.

"To purge the toxin and restore your neural integrity in this world," the system continued, "the host must accept the survival mandate."

Charity bit down hard on her already bleeding lip, using the sharp pain to ground herself. She mentally demanded to know the task.

The main quest materialized on the screen: [Harvest emotional energy by increasing the affection levels of your four bond-mates. Each point of affection gained yields corresponding synaptic data to exchange for antidotes and upgrade resources.]

Charity's eyes dropped to the relationship status bar. Next to Hjalmar and Braden's names, a glaring red number flashed: [-100 (Absolute Hatred)].

Her stomach twisted.

But the primal, burning need to survive left her no choice. Without a second of hesitation, she mentally slammed the [Accept Binding] button.

"Binding successful," the system chimed, its tone slightly more upbeat. "Distributing Novice Survival Pack: One vial of Basic Toxin Suppressant."

A sudden weight materialized in Charity's palm. She looked down to see a small glass vial filled with a glowing, viscous green liquid.

She didn't pause to think. She popped the cork, tilted her head back, and swallowed the bitter, chemical-tasting fluid in one gulp.

The moment the liquid hit her stomach, it felt like she had swallowed a lit match. A violent, burning agony ripped through her gut, making her curl into a tight ball on the floor.

Seconds later, the fire faded. A strange, icy coolness began to spread through her veins, chasing away the burning pain of the poison.

The crushing weight on her chest lifted. She took a deep, clear breath.

Charity forced herself up and crawled over to a shattered smart-glass mirror leaning against the far wall.

In the reflection, the dark purple, weeping sores on her face had stopped spreading.

The edges of the infected flesh were rapidly drying up, forming thin, hard scabs. She was still hideous, but the immediate threat of death had been halted.

Charity let out a long, shaky exhale. The tight knot of panic in her chest finally loosened.

The holographic panel flashed again. "Toxin temporarily suppressed. Host must take immediate action to acquire affection points."

Before she could even process the demand, her stomach let out a violent, echoing growl.

A wave of starvation hit her so hard it made her dizzy. This massive, depleted body was screaming for calories.

Charity pressed a hand hard against her empty, cramping stomach. Her eyes locked onto a dust-covered, broken cabinet on the other side of the room.

Charity grabbed the handle of the rusted cabinet and yanked it open. A cloud of thick, gray dust billowed out, making her cough harshly.

The shelves were mostly bare. Tucked in the far corner were a few silver, grease-stained tubes.

She grabbed one and wiped the grime off the label with her thumb. It read: [Low-Grade Synthetic Nutrient Paste].

The gnawing pain in her gut overrode any hesitation. She twisted the cap off and squeezed the thick metal tube.

A lump of grayish-brown paste oozed out. It smelled strongly of rotting rubber mixed with harsh industrial chemicals.

Charity pinched her nose, squeezed her eyes shut, and forced the paste into her mouth.

The texture was sickeningly slimy. A violently sour, chemical taste exploded across her tongue.

Her stomach instantly revolted. A powerful, uncontrollable gag reflex seized her throat. She doubled over, violently vomiting the paste onto the concrete floor.

Charity leaned against the wall, dry-heaving, her eyes watering from the physical rejection. This industrial waste was not food. Her human biology couldn't process it.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes hardened. If she didn't get real protein soon, this weak body wouldn't last three days.

She rummaged through a pile of debris near the door and pulled out a heavy, rusted iron pipe. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped it.

Charity took a deep breath, unlocked the iron door, and stepped back out into the lower sector. The acid rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with damp, toxic humidity.

This world was ruled by matriarchs. A female's word was law, and a male's worth was measured by his combat prowess and his loyalty to his bonded mistress. Charity's four bond-mates—Hjalmar, Braden, and two others she had yet to meet—were among the most powerful warriors in the known tribes. They were bound to her by an ancient, unbreakable neural link that the original matriarch had forced upon them. It was a mark of ultimate shame for a warrior to be so controlled. No wonder they hated her.

She moved carefully through the narrow, sewage-flooded alleyways, her senses on high alert.

Suddenly, a low, vibrating growl echoed from behind a pile of industrial trash just ten yards ahead.

A beast stepped out into the dim light. It was a mutated rockback lynx, larger than the dire rat from earlier, its spine lined with jagged, protruding cyber-spikes that glowed faintly with residual power.

The lynx's slit pupils locked onto Charity. It lowered its head, clearly identifying her as slow, easy prey.

Charity gripped the rusted iron pipe with both hands. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. She slowly took a step backward, desperately scanning the alley for an escape route.

The lynx let out a deafening roar. Its powerful hind legs kicked off the ground, launching its massive body through the air like a furry missile aimed straight at her chest.

Charity raised the pipe in a futile attempt to block, knowing the physical strength difference was an absolute death sentence.

A faint hum of a magnetic engine and the soft crunch of tactical boots on a nearby rooftop barely registered over the beast's low growl.

Just as the beast descended, a dark shadow plummeted from the roof of the adjacent building.

Braden Dickson landed squarely on the lynx's back. The heavy impact of his military boots drove the beast straight into the concrete with a sickening crunch.

A high-frequency oscillation blade—a weapon reserved for elite High Guard captains—materialized in his hand, humming with lethal energy.

Without a microsecond of hesitation, Braden drove the vibrating blade deep into the base of the lynx's skull, severing its spinal cord in one clean, brutal strike.

Boiling hot beast blood sprayed across the alley walls. The massive lynx twitched once and went completely limp.

Braden stepped off the carcass. He pulled a black cloth from his tactical vest and meticulously wiped the dark blood from his blade.

He turned his head. His icy gaze landed on Charity, who was still standing there holding the pathetic rusted pipe.

Braden let out a harsh, mocking scoff. "You are nothing but a liability," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Even when you try to die, you make it someone else's problem."

Charity slowly lowered the pipe. She didn't look at Braden. Her eyes were glued to the massive, heavily muscled corpse of the lynx beast lying in the mud.

She could feel the faint, residual bio-energy radiating from the meat. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.

A wild, desperate idea took root in her mind.