Kairo De Luca: Operator Profile
Name: Kairo De Luca
Age: 23
Origin: Naples slums, Italy
System Tier: Silver
Revenue (3 Days): €2,357 ($2750)
Personal Fund: $8000 (€6860)
System Missions Completed:
Weekly Revenue (€1,000): +2 Skill Points, $3,000
Identify Illness Source: +2 Skill Points, $5,000
Neutralize Counterfeit Threat: +1 Skill Point
Active Mission: Infiltrate Il Ponte meeting (50% progress, $3,000, +2 Skill Points, penalty: Electrocution, 72-hour limit)
Attributes:
Strength: 4
Dexterity: 4
Perception: 8
Intellect: 13
Charisma: 6
Skills:
Cooking (Intermediate): Street-level cuisine, cultural recipes, food theory
Business Development (Basic): Startup logistics, pricing, risk assessment
Negotiation (Intro): Strategic conversation, passive influence
Combat (Basic): Urban self-defense stances, reflex drills
Programming (Passive): Background thread, basic code intuition
Urban Psychology (Passive): Reputation-driven crowd insight
Skill Points Available: 7 (10 initial + 2 from revenue mission + 2 from illness mission + 1 from counterfeit mission)
Assets:
Salt & Smoke Stall: Operational, Naples docks, legal cover
Farmland Realm: Hyper-productive, self-tending crops/livestock, disguised exports
Startup Capital: $250,000 (System-restricted, $242,000 remaining after initial setup)
Certifications: Business license, food vendor approval
Reputation: Tier 2 – Rising Firebrand, "The Chef Who Gives It Away"
Allies: Milo (hacker, trust point gained), a sixteen-year-old boy (potential runner)
Naples bled into the night, its docks a snarl of iron and salt, lamplight splintering on black water. Kairo De Luca stood behind Salt & Smoke, shutters locked, the air thick with the ghost of grilled fennel and yesterday's gambit. The System flickered in his vision, [Infiltration Mission: 50% progress. Avoid detection, Operator. 66 hours remain.] The warehouse lingered in his mind, Il Ponte's meeting a shadow he'd grazed but not pierced. The brown-shirted agent at the door had forced him and Milo back, their footsteps silent but their retreat bitter. Kairo's pulse thrummed, not from fear, but from the game's tightening grip.
The counterfeit euros, Il Ponte's frame-up, were gone, planted behind a rival's stall with Milo's help. A clean move, the System's reward, another skill point proof he'd turned their knife.
Salt & Smoke had pulled €810 yesterday, pushing its four-day total to €2,357. Today, he'd hit €810, the System tallying €2,357 over four days. The docks whispered his name, the chef who fed the hungry, who gave tarts to kids with empty pockets. The Farmland Realm's crates, tucked in the stall's back, were his edge—tomatoes that burned with flavor, eggs heavy with richness, no different to the eye. No one suspected them. No one could.
Dawn broke, Naples coughing smog into a sky that sagged like wet cloth. Kairo opened the stall, the grill hissing as he worked. Flatbreads sizzled, chili oil—clean, triple-checked—dripping like fire. Egg tarts vanished into calloused hands, citrus tea steaming sharp and bitter. The grizzled dockworker, bronze-skinned, tossed €5 for a lemon roll, his nod a quiet oath. "Keep it up, kid," he grunted, his loyalty worth more than the coin. The sixteen-year-old boy, mismatched sneakers and wary eyes, lingered again, taking a free tart. Kairo saw himself in him—hungry, sharp, ready to run. He'd be useful, soon.
By 9:00 AM, the line was twenty deep, fishermen elbowing mechanics, a ferry guard wiping sweat from his brow. The System pinged: [Revenue: €200. Reputation holding: The Chef Who Gives It Away.] The illness scare hadn't killed his crowd—Il Ponte's tainted oil was a memory, neutralized by Milo's hack and Kairo's quick hands. But the silver coin, left on his counter, sat heavy in his pocket, Il Ponte's mark a warning he couldn't shake. They weren't done.
At 10:30, the air shifted, heavy with salt and something sharper—trouble. The System cut in:
[New Mission: Defend Salt & Smoke from Il Ponte's attack.
Reward: +3 Skill Points, $7,000. Combat Skill Tree unlocks
Penalty: Stall scrutiny, 50% revenue loss for 7 days.
Time Limit: 24 hours.]
Kairo's jaw tightened. Defend. Il Ponte wasn't playing subtle anymore; counterfeit euros hadn't broken him, so they'd come for blood. His knife flashed, slicing garlic thin as paper, his mind racing. Abele's voice echoed, rough from years over tavern flames: "When they come for you, kid, hit harder."
The crowd swelled by noon, Salt & Smoke a furnace, pulling €400. The boy in mismatched sneakers stayed close, not eating, just watching. Kairo slid him another tart, his voice low. "Stick around. Might need eyes tonight." The kid nodded, silent, his loyalty a spark Kairo could fan. Milo slipped in at 1:00 PM, hood up, eyes red from coding. "Il Ponte's pissed," he muttered, leaning against the stall. "Heard whispers dockside crew, three guys, coming after dark. Your frame-up burned them." Kairo nodded, grilling a flatbread. "Let 'em come."
Santo Russo passed by at 2:00. He didn't stop, just glanced at Kairo, burn scar catching the sun. "Il Ponte breaks what rises too fast," he said, voice flat, like he was reading the wind. No threat, no offer, just a fact, dropped like a stone. Santo's knowledge was a map Kairo couldn't read yet, but it sharpened his edge. Il Ponte's crew was coming, and Santo knew their moves.
By 4:00 PM, Salt & Smoke hit €600, the crowd relentless, drawn by the legend. A fisherman tipped extra, muttering about "food worth fighting for." Kairo's hands moved, folding tarts, pouring tea, his eyes scanning the docks. The brown-shirted agents were gone, but their absence felt heavier than their stares. The System hummed: [Mission Alert: Il Ponte crew sighted. Prepare for confrontation. Kairo's knife rested close, its weight familiar. He'd fought in alleys before, fists and instinct, but this was different. This was his budding empire.
Dusk fell, Naples sinking into a haze of salt and diesel. Kairo served €810 by closing, the day's take pushing his five-day total to €3,257. The kid stayed, sweeping the stall's edges, his silence a contract. Kairo nodded, sealing it. His first crew, small but sharp. Milo lingered, his phone glowing with hacked feeds. "Three guys, like I said," he whispered. "Knives, maybe a bat. Dockside, past the crates, 10:00 PM." Kairo's lips twitched. "Stay close, but don't bleed."
The docks were a maze at night, crates looming like tombstones. Kairo waited behind Salt & Smoke, shutters half-open, the grill cold but the air alive with tension. The kid crouched nearby, eyes wide, a makeshift lookout. The System flickered: [Combat Mission Active: Defend your ground.] At 10:07, shadows moved—three figures, hooded, one swinging a bat, another flashing steel. Il Ponte's dogs, here to break his stall, his life.
Kairo moved first, instinct honed from slum fights. He dodged a bat swing, grabbing a crate lid as a shield, splintered wood biting his palms. The kid shouted, a warning, as the second man lunged, knife glinting. Kairo sidestepped, slamming the lid into the man's wrist, the blade clattering. The third came low, aiming for his knees, but Kairo kicked hard, sending him sprawling. The System pinged:
[Combat Skill Tree Unlocked: Street Brawling, Knife Fighting, Hand-to-Hand, Grappling, Improvised Weapons (Basic Tier). 10 Skill Points to advance each. Mission Progress: 80%.]
Kairo assigned three skill points to Street Brawling, his fists sharper, movements smoother. He tackled the bat-wielder, pinning him to the cobblestones, a knee to his chest. The kid threw a rock, clumsily, but enough to distract the knife man. Milo darted in, tripping the third with a cable from his bag. The fight was over in minutes, Il Ponte's crew groaning, retreating into the dark. The System pinged:
[Mission Complete: Salt & Smoke defended.
Reward: +3 Skill Points, $7,000. Combat Skill Tree active.]
Kairo's chest heaved, blood on his knuckles, not his.
The kid stared, awe in his eyes. "You fight like you cook," he muttered, the first words he'd spoken. Kairo snorted, tossing him a cloth to clean the stall. His crew was born, one slum kid at a time. Milo grinned, checking his phone. "Cops'll hit their stash tomorrow, thanks to your frame-up." Kairo nodded, the System's cash and points a quiet hum in his mind. Salt & Smoke stood, unbroken, its legend growing.
Santo's cart was gone, but his words lingered: Il Ponte breaks what rises. Kairo had hit harder, but the game wasn't over. As he locked the shutters, a shadow moved across the docks, not a man, but a paper, slipped under the stall's edge. A note, scrawled in black: "Profit like yours draws eyes. Explain at the dockmaster's, dawn." No signature, but the weight of Il Ponte's bridge was clear. An inspector, sniffing his €3,257, his impossible rise.
[Infiltration Mission: 50% progress. New threat detected, Operator.]