Doomsday Elevator

Ethan Quinn's boots sank into the bazaar's moss-coated cobblestones as the stench of roasting mystery meat and ozone assaulted his senses. The trading floor sprawled like a fever dream—medieval knights haggled with cyborgs over plasma cores, while a samurai in tattered armor demonstrated katana swings to a cluster of wide-eyed steampunk engineers. Above it all, a holographic banner flickered:

NO VIOLENCE. NO QUESTIONS. NO MERCY.

"Fresh kill! Genuine theropod steaks!" a vendor shouted, waving a velociraptor femur crusted with freezer burn.

Ethan adjusted the shotgun slung across his back, its weight both comfort and liability. His spatial backpack—now subtly pulsing with an alien rhythm—contained his real treasure: 43 gold coins scavenged from bloodstained pockets and Jurassic nest raids.

The Haggle

A man in a moth-eaten Qing dynasty robe materialized in Ethan's path. "Young master! That firearm—"

"Not for sale." Ethan sidestepped, only to collide with a crusader-era knight whose chainmail reeked of rancid oil.

"I'll trade five sovereigns and a barrel of salted pork," she rasped through a visor etched with crosses.

The Qing merchant shoved her aside. "Two gold! Final offer!"

Ethan's finger tapped the shotgun's pump. "You smell desperation? That's your breath, not mine."

The standoff shattered when a power-armored woman shouldered through the crowd. Her exoskeleton hissed as she tossed a clinking pouch. "Seven coins. Fifty shells."

Ethan's poker face held. "Ten. Seventy-five."

"Done."

As the coins changed hands, the System whispered:

Alert: Black Market Exchange Rate - 1 Gold = 3.2 Standard Credits

The Revelation

Deeper into the bazaar, a stall made Ethan freeze. Rows of gleaming P229 magazines sat beside a sign:

9mm ROUNDS - 1 GOLD/40

"Bullshit." He glared at the scarred vendor cleaning a plasma grenade. "I just sold—"

"Beginner's tax." The man flipped a coin. It vanished into Ethan's palm. "Advice? Check exchange rates before playing merchant."

The spatial backpack's leather surface squirmed under Ethan's grip.

The Desperation Economy

Back in his elevator, Ethan watched the chatroom scroll:

[User_44]: TRADING VIRGINITY FOR ANTIBIOTICS

[User_667]: PSA: Cannibalism causes 87% infection rate

*[System Alert: Survivor Count - 9,432 → 9,312]

His fingers danced across the trade interface:

[Ethan_L4]: Freshwater Fish (3kg) → 2 Gold

The listing vanished in seconds.

"Hunger's a sharper blade than steel," he muttered, eyeing the juvenile raptor gnawing on a radioactive rat carcass. The creature's growth spurt left claw marks on the steel walls.

The Arsenal

Ethan methodically disassembled his arsenal:

P229 Pistol: Slide worn smooth from 217 dry fires

MP133 Shotgun: Heat shield warped from close-range dragon breath rounds

Crossbow: Arms stressed from testing armor-piercing bolts

The System's new notification pulsed:

Skill Unlocked: Firearm Maintenance (Novice)

"About damn time." He smeared raptor fat on a cleaning rod.

The Frost

Mercury plummeted as midnight approached. Frost spiderwebbed across the infinite water pool. Ethan huddled around the electromagnetic stove, its glow painting the raptor's scales blood-red.

[User_892]: -12°C! Found frozen corpse hugging empty matches!

He tossed another gold coin into the upgrade terminal. The progress bar crawled:

Level 5 Requirements:

200kg Wood ■■■■■ 78%

150kg Iron ■■■■■ 92%

5kg Gold ■■■□□ 40%

19 Gold Coins ■■■■■ 63%

The blackboard's latest edict oozed fresh crimson:

Gold Buys Warmth. Warmth Buys Time.

The Visitor

A chime shattered the silence. The spatial backpack's flap twitched—something with too many joints was growing inside.

"Not today." Ethan slammed a steel plate over the anomaly. The raptor hissed, pupils slit against unseen threats.

Somewhere beyond the elevator's evolving walls, something ancient and hungry began to laugh.