The Priced Person

The moment the meeting started, Jack wrote my name on the far right side of the whiteboard—same column as diesel, water filtration chips, and anti-infection shots.

“Low combat value. High consumption. Not a core fighter.” He tapped my name with the marker like he was writing off an old piece of gear. “Black Lamp is willing to give us a full month’s energy quota, plus two med-bay pod permissions. What we’re short on is power, not a warehouse clerk.”

No one at the table spoke up for me.

It wasn’t that they didn’t know what I’d been doing. It was that the cold storage had just gone down, two wounded men were breathing weaker by the minute, and everyone kept glancing toward the infirmary—at that light that could die at any moment. Reality felt more like a gun than conscience ever did.

I looked at Alice. She sat at the head of the table, dark circles carved under her eyes from another sleepless night. Still sharp. Short hair tucked behind her ear. Her profile was pulled tight, like a bowstring at full draw. She tapped the tabletop twice and didn’t look at me.

“Noah, you know the situation.”

“I know,” I said. “You’re trading me for electricity.”

Her jaw tightened. Jack chuckled.

“Don’t make it sound like betrayal. You staying here won’t change the load curve.”

I didn’t argue. Arguing wouldn’t change anything. What I did remember was the way a few people visibly relaxed—like someone else had finally made the dirtiest call for them.

After the meeting, they moved me to the second floor of the old dorm building. Two guards outside my door. Windows nailed shut. Officially “protection.” In reality, house arrest.

Jack probably figured I didn’t have the guts to force my way out, so he only took my tool bag and didn’t search too deep.

That bought me time.

Mara came first.

She wore a military medic’s coat and carried a tray for dressing changes. The second she walked in, she cursed the guards out into the hall. “He’s a live handover, not a punching bag. If his wound festers, Black Lamp will reject the shipment.”

The door shut. Her movements turned fast.

When she unwrapped my wrist, her fingertips pressed something into my palm—a thin needle and a metal disc as flat as a button.

“Anti-infection suppressant. One dose.” She didn’t look up. “The disc is a micro-stunner. Skin contact. Don’t waste it.”

I closed my fingers around it. “Why help me?”

“Because Jack tampered with the pharmacy.” She tightened the new bandage, voice lowered to a thread. “The batch numbers on the last two sedative shipments don’t match. Looks swapped. If you get into Black Lamp, check the medical level. Remember any abnormal batch codes.”

She finally looked up. Her eyes were steady—no comfort in them, just an assignment.

“And don’t die on the road. You matter more than they think.”

Before leaving, she deliberately knocked over the tray, making a loud mess of clattering metal and swearing. While the guards got distracted, I slid the suppressant needle into the hidden layer under my shoe insole, and tucked the stunner into the inner seam of my pants.

After that, I started setting my own traps.

Jack personally brought the transfer manifest for me to sign. I played obedient, lowered my head over the papers, and in the instant I flipped a page, I opened my spatial pocket once—yanking the duplicate sheet and the handover short-code right out.

Pain detonated across the back of my skull. Blood ran from my nose and dotted the paper. I coughed twice to sell it as nerves.

“Don’t drop now,” Jack said from the doorway, smiling. “Black Lamp wants the goods intact.”

I looked up and gave him a small smile back. “Don’t worry. I’m more durable than you think.”

He didn’t hear anything underneath it. Just took it as stubbornness.

Half an hour before pickup, the door opened again.

This time it was Alice.

No jacket—just a fitted tank and tactical pants, like she’d just climbed down from the outer wall. Once the door shut, she checked the bandage on my hand, then stared at the narrow strip of shadow behind the door like she was afraid one step closer would make her do something worse.

“They’re taking you in thirty minutes,” she said.

“I know.”

She walked up until she was close enough for me to see the grit still on her collarbone. She lifted a hand and touched the side of my face, fingers pausing there instead of pulling back.

“Noah… I’m not trying to send you to your death.”

“Same outcome,” I said.

Her breathing hitched. The next second she grabbed my collar and slammed me into the wall. Not an attack—loss of control. Her chest hit me hard, her lips almost pressed to mine, then stopped at the last inch like she forced herself to lock it down. Her voice came out rough.

“If I let you go right now, half the base dies first.”

“So you picked me.”

She stared at me, eyes reddened, and didn’t dodge it. “Yeah. I picked you.”

The truth hit harder than any lie.

She finally dipped her head. Her mouth dragged heavy over the corner of my lips—an apology, or taking one last claim. Just once. Then she stepped back, breathing ragged.

“When you come back alive, hit me as hard as you can.”

“You’d better stay alive first,” I said.

Her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile. Nothing came out. She turned and walked out.

I crushed that leftover warmth down and got back to work.

Before the escort arrived, I hid a micro locator—stripped out of an old handheld radio—inside the foam layer of my boot heel. I’d already used the spatial pocket twice today. A third time made my vision whiten at the edges.

I did it anyway, forcing the storage short-code and that duplicate page into the crack of space.

As long as I didn’t die immediately, those pieces would be my way to flip the board later.

At dusk, Black Lamp’s armored vehicle rolled in.

When they marched me downstairs, the yard was full of eyes. Some people avoided mine. Some looked downright relieved. Alice stood farthest back, like she didn’t want the deal to look personal.

In the end, she only said one thing. “Once you’re there, don’t cause trouble.”

I stopped and looked at her. “You’d better pray they don’t start with me.”

Jack shoved me from the side, impatient. “Get in.”

I expected chains. A hood. Plastic zip ties.

But when the door opened, the interior was padded with restraints bolted into soft lining. Water, a trauma kit, and sealed rations were already laid out.

Two Black Lamp guards in full tactical armor checked me first—fever, wound integrity—then one of them actually asked, “Was he beaten?”

Jack froze for half a beat, then put on the cold face of the seller. “The goods are in good condition.”

The guard didn’t even look at him. He stared at the old injury on my wrist and frowned. “Noted.”

Once I was inside, they didn’t cuff me down. They buckled a safety strap across me, like they were worried a sudden stop might damage me.

Every time the vehicle jolted, the guy in the passenger seat turned to make sure I hadn’t shifted too hard.

This wasn’t transporting a prisoner of war.

It felt like moving a high-value device you couldn’t afford to crack.

Through the closing door, Jack gave me one last look—the look of a deal finally cashed.

I leaned back against the compartment wall and forced my breathing to stay even.

Why would Black Lamp trade energy for me?

Why did they care so much about transfer marks?

What did they actually want?

Once we hit the mountains, every radio outside went dead—like someone had cut the world’s throat.

Ahead, heavy gate after heavy gate opened. Searchlights washed over the fortress wall.

When the armored vehicle stopped, I heard crisp, synchronized footsteps outside—then the clack of metal rifle butts hitting the ground.

The door was pulled open.

The same Black Lamp guards who’d been snarling at Jack’s people a minute ago dropped to one knee in unison, heads bowed, clearing a path.