Neon glow from the South Grid bled through frosted plexiglass. Blue-green light painted Mira's concrete loft. Ten by twelve feet. Metal and concrete. Sanctuary and prison.

  Machine hum filled the silence. Her only company for weeks: blinking status lights that winked from darkness.

  A workbench dominated the wall opposite her sleeping mat. Holo-panels cast her shadow in fractured blues. Beneath them, frayed cables spat sparks that scarred her skin. Burns she never bothered to heal.

  In the corner, a stolen Militech patchbay leaked radiation. Just below cancer threshold. One jack sparked perpetually from power drain. Her lucky charm.

  Burnt plastic and stale coffee scented the air as servers hummed beneath the floorboards. Her last human conversation: six months ago. Her last system upgrade: yesterday. Three backup connections hummed beneath the floorboards, never offline.

  Mira's fingers struck the projected keyboard in precise bursts. Her military-grade neural jack pulsed blue with each command. Street rats used cheap implants, the kind Halcyon harvested from fresh corpses. Hers could withstand military-grade countermeasures. The data shard glowed amber. Security layers fell away one by one. Methodical. Patient. Inevitable.

  "Give it up already." Her jaw tightened as she juggled attention between three hovering displays.

  Corrupted packets broke apart on the left screen. Emerald glyphs shattered under her intrusion tools.

  Center display: rotating encryption matrix. Corporate defenses failing.

  Right screen: her custom algorithm tore through security protocols. Commercial software would need days. She needed seconds.

  Her pupils dilated. Breath held. Corporate secrets laid bare before her, defenseless and exposed.

  Her wrist computer flashed crimson: CORPORATE ICE DETECTED. COUNTER-MEASURES ADVISED.

  Mira's lips curled into a predatory smile.

  One tap to her right temple activated her neural jack's partition protocol. Electric frost surged behind her eyes. Her processing threads split, consciousness running parallel tracks.

  Her primary mind hammered the front defenses. A calculated distraction.

  Meanwhile, her background process slipped through a backdoor vulnerability she'd spotted in the first three seconds.

  "Predictable," she whispered as the encryption collapsed. "Corps never learn."

  Three seconds later, the shard's contents spilled across her screens, data packets auto-sorting into neural-mapped folders only she could navigate. Her shoulders relaxed as she exhaled slowly, pupils dilating as the data organized itself. Another notch in her belt against the corps.

  Mira logged and archived her findings, then initiated her standard post-hack maintenance cycle. She'd barely sunk into the neural diagnostic state when a priority alert screamed through her sleep protocols, jolting her fully conscious.

  The message header flashed blood-red in her neural display: [SILVERLOAD-ACTUAL]. Her fingers tensed into fists then relaxed, body snapping alert despite four days without proper sleep. A quick neural command pushed aside the fatigue, flooding her system with synthetic clarity as her jack synchronized with the secure network.

  The message decoded in fragments: [INSIGHT WAITING. REDLINE/SEVENTH CORNER. ONE HOUR. HALCYON DATA SECURED. BREAKTHROUGH CONFIRMED. COUNTER-SURVEILLANCE MANDATORY.]

  "About damn time." She swung her legs off the sleeping mat, fingers already reaching for her gear. After months chasing Halcyon's shadow operations, finally a tangible lead.

  Mira dressed like someone expecting trouble.

  The reinforced jacket hung heavy with hidden tools.

  Her data knife, blade etched with the serial numbers of every corp she'd burned, slid into her boot sheath.

  The military-surplus tablet went into an inner pocket, against her ribs.

  She stepped over salvaged corporate tech scattered across the floor while issuing voice commands to activate her absence protocols. "Phantom mode engaged," confirmed her security system, erasing all evidence of her digital presence.

  Mira ghosted through neon-stained streets. Neural jack burning against her skull. Hijacking local nodes.

  Security pings bounced off dummy signatures. Traffic cams tracked a digital ghost.

  South Grid never slept.

  Dealers hawked black-market tech under makeshift canopies.

  Street food vendors called prices.

  Drunks staggered between drone-patrolled intersections.

  "Watch it," muttered a heavily augmented woman as Mira brushed past. Mira nodded an apology without breaking stride. She activated her peripheral vision enhancement, scanning for corporate security or Grid police while maintaining her pace toward Redline and Seventh.

  Her wrist computer blinked a warning: SURVEILLANCE SWEEP DETECTED. Without breaking stride, Mira clocked the matte-black Kagura sedan parked across the intersection, corporate transport, government plates.

  The man leaned against the car. Jacket too fitted. Failed to hide the standard-issue shoulder holster.

  His stance faked boredom. His Kiroshi Optics didn't. Latest gen. Thermographic scans of every face passing by.

  Ex-military turned corpo dog. Third one this month with the same Kiroshi scanner setup.

  Mira triggered her facial blur protocol with a temple-tap. Electricity crawled behind her eyes as her features pixelated on surveillance feeds. "Pathetic," she whispered as she changed course slightly. "They always send the obvious ones first."

  The alley between Redline and Seventh reeked of synthetic garbage and cheap thruster fuel. Insight waited in the shadows, a slight figure in a maintenance jumpsuit, eyes darting nervously.

  "You weren't followed?" Insight's eyes darted past her to the mouth of the alley.

  "Corporate watcher on the corner. Already handled." Mira kept her back to the wall, one hand inside her jacket. "Skip the paranoia. What got Actual spooked enough to pull me into the field?"

  Insight's trembling fingers produced a data stick. "Halcyon's new product line. Not simulations, Mira. Actual death recordings. Five confirmed victims from South Grid. One from the market, just two nights ago. They're calling them XBDs."

  Mira's stomach tightened as she took the stick. "Proof?"

  "Full package. Facility coords, victim IDs, raw footage sample. Enough to burn their whole operation." Insight glanced toward the street. "Watch your back. These corpo rats have eyes in the Grid's infrastructure."

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  As Mira pocketed the data stick, Insight's eyes widened. "Behind you…"

  Mira turned to see three figures at the alley entrance, the man from the car now flanked by two others with obvious combat augmentations.

  "Time to go." Mira shoved Insight behind her. "Different exits. Now."

  She bolted deeper into South Grid's maze. Neural jack rendered ghostly pathways in her vision.

  Heavy footfalls behind her. Breath burning in her lungs.

  She ducked under pipes slick with condensation. Vaulted a dumpster that sliced her palm.

  Those weren't corp security boots. Too fast. Too direct. Hunters. The expensive kind.

  Her wrist computer flashed: PROXIMITY ALERT. They were gaining.

  Mira cut hard around the corner, shoulder crashing into century-old brick. Pain lanced through her collarbone. A tiny metallic clink on wet pavement stopped her dead, impossible unless her reinforced pocket had torn during her earlier vault.

  The data stick. Five lives. Her only chance to burn Halcyon.

  She pivoted back. Neural interface calculating the odds: three seconds to grab, half to straighten, four more to reach full sprint. Too many.

  The lead pursuer emerged from the alley mouth. Chrome-rimmed eyes shifted from infrared to standard as they locked onto the gleaming stick in the oily puddle between them.

  Their gazes met for one electric moment, predator recognizing predator.

  "No," she breathed as he snatched it up, triumph flickering across his augmented features.

  Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before Mira forced herself to turn and sprint away. Her mind raced with the magnitude of what she'd just lost, five victims, the facility location, everything needed to bring Halcyon down.

  She navigated the tangled warren of South Grid's alleys by instinct, doubling back twice and cutting through an abandoned tenement to lose her pursuers. Finally, breathing hard, she slowed her pace as she approached The Analog. The familiar neon sign buzzed overhead, promising anonymity in its packed interior.

  Inside, black-market sound systems pumped frequencies banned for triggering combat implants. The bass vibrated her teeth and made her circuits itch. She shouldered past augmented bouncers who recognized her clearance chip with wary nods. The bartender, more chrome than flesh above the neck, wiped a glass with a rag that left smears rather than removed them, nodded once, and slid her usual across the bar without a word.

  Two hours and one watered-down synthetic whiskey later, Mira made her way back to her loft, constantly checking for tails. The familiar hiss of her door unlocking offered little comfort tonight.

  "Lock and secure," she commanded as the door slid shut behind her. The holo-displays flickered to life, illuminating her small sanctuary with their ghostly blue glow.

  Her wrist computer pulsed: 3 MISSED COMMUNICATIONS - SILAS [PRIORITY].

  Mira sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I'll call him back later," she muttered, collapsing onto her sleeping mat. Right now, she needed to think, to figure out how to salvage what was left of the operation after losing everything.

  A memory surfaced, her uncle's gruff warning from her training days: "The truth doesn't care if you burn yourself out finding it. It'll still be there when you're gone." Solid advice she still ignored.

  Her jaw tightened. She'd find another way to get that data. Halcyon wouldn't get away with those deaths.

  'I see you, Halcyon,' she whispered, her voice crystallizing into something beyond anger or vengeance.

  She projected the faces of the five victims onto her ceiling, strangers whose deaths now defined her purpose.

  'Your experiment ends with me. And your data comes with me.'

  Silas Virek's eyelids scraped like sandpaper as the pattern finally emerged from the data streams. He hunched forward, the office lights catching his bloodshot eyes and the gleaming Cybercrime Taskforce badge as his fingers traced connections invisible to standard detection algorithms.

  The bullpen racket had faded to white noise eighteen hours ago. Officers arguing over cases, alerts pinging across stations, cooling fans wheezing against overheated servers. All background to his investigation now.

  Burnt circuitry and synthetic caffeine stung his nostrils, but Silas only registered the data flow.

  His fingers danced across the haptic interface, tagging encrypted nodes and isolating transaction anomalies that standard MPD algorithms consistently missed.

  The data responded to his touch like it had its own consciousness.

  A steaming cup of synth-caf appeared at the corner of his workstation. The rich aroma cut through the recycled air of the Cybercrime Taskforce office.

  "Found your ghosts yet?" Jace Renn asked, slouched against the desk frame, tie hanging loose, sleeves bunched at his elbows. His fingers drummed a restless pattern against the metal while Silas sat statue-still.

  Silas's fingers never stopped moving. "Almost. Every third transaction bounces through a South Grid exchange, disguised by a custom routing algorithm I'm nearly through."

  He highlighted a cluster of data points that pulsed red against the blue-green flow of legitimate transactions.

  The pattern was subtle, invisible to anyone who hadn't spent years studying financial algorithms.

  "Three minutes, tops." Silas didn't look up. Jace leaned against the desk, arms crossed.

  Jace's slouch defied the MPD's chrome surfaces and surveillance lighting. Only two things softened the office sterility: Silas's antique data chips, arranged by year, and Jace's worn synth-leather jacket hanging on a nearby chair.

  "You could trace that money trail for another week," Jace said, "or you could talk to Keller down at The Analog. He mentioned some deck jockeys flashing unusual credit last night. Same signature as your thieves."

  "That's not in any of the reports." Silas looked up from his screen, rubbing his tired eyes as he refocused on Jace.

  "Because Keller doesn't file reports." Jace tapped his temple with a knowing look. "Some intel never makes it to the data stream, Si. That's why they pair us, code-head and street rat. Perfect match."

  Silas nodded, acknowledging the logic. Three years working with Jace had taught him what no algorithm could quantify, his partner's unorthodox methods got results.

  "I'll add it to the profile," Silas said, reaching for the synth-caf. "Thanks for the…"

  Both terminals flashed red. Priority alert override.

  PRIORITY LEVEL: ALPHA CASE DESIGNATION: SERIAL DISAPPEARANCES PRELIMINARY LINK: XBD CONSUMPTION ASSIGNMENT: DETECTIVES RENN/VIREK

  Silas straightened in his chair as the victim profiles populated his screen.

  Twelve missing persons in the last month. No bodies, no ransom demands, though two victims were found catatonic with neural damage.

  Demographics varied: corporate analysts, service workers, even a Market District performer.

  The connection: all recent consumers of high-grade XBDs from South Grid vendors.

  "Damn," Silas muttered, scanning the preliminary data. "This is the third cluster this year. First those neural recording deaths, now these disappearances. Something bigger is happening."

  Jace's expression darkened. He checked something on his personal device before pocketing it. "Word on the wire is there's a new XBD variant hitting the Flow. Raw neural dumps, no safety caps. They call it 'ghosting.' The high is better, but your wetware pays the price."

  Silas was already pulling up cross-reference maps, fingers striking across the interface.

  "I'm checking last known locations against known XBD distribution points. There's got to be a pattern in the supply chain."

  "The distribution network will be fractured," Jace said, pacing behind him. "These aren't street-level pushers. We need to hit The Stacks directly talk to Lena at the Neon Parlor. She has eyes on the South Grid Night Market, knows every XBD dealer from Redline to Seventh."

  Silas paused, frowning. "Lena's place is outside our jurisdiction. We'd need clearance from Vice, warrants for"

  "By the time we get the paperwork, three more people will be missing." Jace leaned in, his voice dropping. "Look at victim seven. Twenty-six hours between last contact and official missing persons report. We don't have time for bureaucracy."

  The holo-display showed a young woman's face, Liu Wei, 28, last seen entering her apartment in the Residential Blocks. Security footage showed her entering but never leaving.

  When officers checked three days later, the apartment was immaculate, bed made, kitchen clean. Her XBD deck remained on the coffee table, still warm.

  "We do this by the book, these people vanish forever," Jace continued. "The Sprawl doesn't care about rules, Si. It only respects results."

  Silas stared at the twelve faces floating on his screen. Each represented a life, a network of connections, people waiting for answers. He knew Jace was right, the system moved too slowly for cases like this.

  "Fine," he conceded. "I'll deep-dive the victim profiles, check their financial records, communications, build a proper targeting model. You talk to your contact at the Neon Parlor, but keep it quiet. I don't want Internal Affairs breathing down our necks again."

  Jace clasped his shoulder, a gesture of reassurance that had become familiar over their years together. "That's why we work, partner. You follow the data, I follow the streets. Between us, nothing stays hidden for long."

  He grabbed his jacket, already moving toward the exit. "I'll comm you if Lena has anything useful. Don't get lost in the numbers sometimes you've got to trust your gut as much as your algorithms."

  Silas nodded, already turning back to the screen. As Jace's footsteps receded, he expanded the victim files, arranging them in chronological order of disappearance. Twelve faces stared back at him, their expressions frozen in happier moments smiling, laughing, unaware of what awaited them.

  His jaw tightened as he considered Jace's methods. The neural port at his temple pulsed once, registering the tension he tried to ignore.

  His partner's connections had proven valuable countless times, but there was always that edge of something not quite regulation. Jace often returned with intel that raised questions Silas deliberately chose not to ask. His fingers brushed against the department-issued neural port at his temple, cool metal against skin, a constant reminder of protocol and procedure. But he pushed the thought aside. Results mattered. Finding these people mattered.

  He settled deeper into his chair, fingers striking across the interface with renewed purpose. This was his element, finding patterns in the static, imposing order on digital chaos. Whatever shadows lurked in the Sprawl, the data would eventually reveal them.

  And Silas Virek never stopped looking for patterns in the chaos.