It started with a knock.
Not loud. Not desperate. But precise. Rhythmic. The kind of knock that belonged to someone who didn't worry about being shot when the door opened.
Vekom was sitting in the back room of an auto shop that doubled as his latest safehouse. Nico was nearby, pretending to change oil on a customer's rusted-out truck.
Three knocks. A pause. Two more.
Vekom motioned to Nico.
The clone stepped toward the front. Outside, a black car idled with tinted windows, engine humming like a warning. Nico opened the door just enough to peek out.
A man in a cream-colored suit and snakeskin boots stood waiting.
Tall. Clean-shaven. Mid-30s. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm looking for El Fantasma," he said calmly. "We have an offer."
Vekom appeared in the doorway behind Nico, wiping his hands with a rag.
"I don't take offers," he said. "Only orders. Paid in full."
The man tilted his head. "You don't want to hear who I speak for?"
"I already know."
The man grinned.
"Then you know this isn't a threat."
"Not yet," Vekom said. "But let's see where the conversation goes."
They stepped inside.
His name was Alonso, a trusted envoy of one of Escobar's key subordinates in Medellín. He didn't waste time.
"We're bleeding supply," he said, sitting across from Vekom. "The army's pushing up from the south. DEA's crawling in through Bogotá. Two trucks were hit last week. Shotguns, carbines — we lost eight men and nearly two million pesos in product."
He leaned forward, lacing his fingers.
"We need weapons. Not toys. Real firepower. Bulk."
"And you don't want Escobar's regular suppliers?" Vekom asked.
"We don't want suppliers who take bribes from the Americans," Alonso said. "And we heard your guns don't jam. Your men don't talk. And your face... doesn't exist."
Vekom watched him carefully. This wasn't a trap. This was need. Desperation dressed in silk.
"Ten rifles, fifteen submachine guns, ammo for each," Alonso continued. "Up front, in cash."
Vekom tapped the table. "Payment in full. Delivery in parts. I'll pick the drop zones."
"Done."
"But understand something," Vekom said, voice steady. "This isn't friendship. You want loyalty, buy a dog. You want weapons, you come through me. You cross me once—"
Alonso raised a hand, palm out.
"No games. No betrayal. We just want to protect the product."
Vekom stood. "Then we're in business."
That night, he activated four more clones.
"System Credit balance: 124.""Humanoid Clone Network expanded to 6 units.""Assign function: Surveillance / Combat / Logistics / Counterintel."
He gave each clone a name: Jairo, Luis, Camila, and Rafa. They were seeded into the outskirts of the city—one in a trucking company, one in a police station, one as a street vendor near a known cartel-controlled warehouse, and the last posing as a junkie among the slums where rumors first grew legs.
Each clone had a different face, voice, rhythm. But all were eyes for him.
The network pulsed.
Real-time data. Weapon movement. Cartel chatter. Federal interference. It all streamed in with precision.
And not a moment too soon.
The System chimed.
"Hostile presence detected. Pattern irregular. Identity unconfirmed. Location: 2.4 km southwest."
Vekom didn't hesitate.
He rode out on a dirt bike at midnight, Nico trailing behind in a battered sedan. They found them in a crumbling apartment — three men. No tattoos, no accents. One had military stance. Another wore a DEA tag under his shirt. The third was already bleeding — Camila had gotten to him first.
They weren't locals.
They weren't stupid, either.
Just unlucky.
Vekom didn't give them time to speak. He put bullets through two heads clean. The third tried to run. Nico brought him down with a knife to the back.
"Threat neutralized. System Stability +2%.""Infiltration level: Low. Recommended action: concealment and rapid mobility."
Vekom stood over the bodies. He didn't enjoy it.
But he didn't regret it.
They had found the edge of his operation too early. Now they'd vanish, like everyone else who came too close.
He torched the room and left without a word.
The next morning, his shipment to Alonso's crew went off without a hitch. Ten rifles. Fifteen SMGs. Ammunition in crates disguised as pesticide drums. The clones monitored the drop, tagged the pickup routes, and uploaded the entire route to the System.
Vekom watched it all from a rooftop two miles away, drinking bitter coffee and watching the city shift under his control.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was growing. Organizing. Hunting.
"Tier Two Unlocked.""1970s–1985 weapon catalog available.""Remote detonation devices, high-capacity mags, armor inserts.""System Feature: Tactical Drone Recon available (80 SC)."
He almost smiled.
The war was getting louder.
And he was the one selling the bullets.