Market district pulsed with neon, megacorp logos bleeding across rain-slick surfaces like viral code on infected systems. Mira Voss sliced through the crush of bodies, her shoulders never quite touching another person. Her AR overlay painted the chaos in data: amber threat markers flagging anyone whose comm pinged on Halcyon surveillance frequencies.

  Her fingers brushed the empty pocket where the data stick should have been. Three days of system breaches, vanished.

  A dozen language filters activated as she shouldered past tourists gawking at a street performer with neon fractals rippling across modified skin. Synthetic spices from food stalls cut through the metallic tang of third-cycle air, processed through corporate filtration systems.

  Mira adjusted her commlink. Her AR display filtered market chatter while running three threat detection protocols simultaneously. She was running this alone. No backup. No counter-surveillance team watching her six. Safer that way. Fewer variables. Fewer potential betrayals.

  The noodle stand came into view. "Mama Jin's Authentic Ramen," its sign proclaimed in three languages, holographic steam dripping from each letter. The perfect meeting spot: always packed, music that defeated directional mics, three separate exits. Mira scanned the patrons, her AR cross-referencing faces against her database.

  There, a woman in her mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, fingers drumming nervously on the counter. Anya Sharma, former data analyst for Halcyon Array's "consumer insights" division. Now unemployed, paranoid, and, if Mira's research was correct, carrying enough insider knowledge to burn the entire operation to the ground.

  Mira ghosted into Anya's blind spot and claimed the stool beside her. "The ramen here never tastes like the advertisements," she said, the coded phrase flowing naturally.

  Anya's head snapped toward her, pupils dilating with fear. "That's because reality disappoints," she responded, the counter-phrase correct but delivered with trembling lips. Her gaze pinged from face to face like targeting software, fingers constricting around her chopsticks until the bamboo creaked. "Are you alone?"

  "Yes."

  "How do I know they didn't follow you?" Anya's fingers curled around her untouched bowl of noodles. "Halcyon has eyes everywhere. They could be watching right now."

  Mira ordered a drink she had no intention of consuming. "Nobody followed me. I was cracking corporate security while their current algorithms were still in beta."

  "You don't understand what they're capable of." Anya leaned in, eyes darting to nearby patrons.

  "I understand enough to know they need to be stopped." Mira slid a credstick across the counter, small enough to not attract attention, large enough to show commitment. "And I understand you want out. Clean slate. New identity."

  Anya stared at the credstick but didn't touch it. "What I want is to close my eyes without seeing those recordings. Without hearing the screams."

  "Then help me expose them." Mira leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You're not the only one who's suffering because of what Halcyon does. But you might be the only one who can stop it."

  Anya's shoulders lowered a millimeter, her white-knuckle grip on the chopsticks easing just enough to notice. "What do you want to know?"

  "Tell me about the XBD research. Those death recordings they're selling."

  Anya took a shuddering breath, eyes fixed on her cooling ramen. "They call it Project Lazarus." Her fingers tightened around her bowl. "Started as death recordings for entertainment. Rich clients paying millions for the ultimate thrill." Her voice grew hollow. "But it evolved. They found patterns in the neural activity. Something... exploitable."

  Mira's pulse quickened as her AR tagged the keywords: Project Lazarus, Neural Compliance, cognitive backdoors. "Who's in charge of the operation?"

  "I don't know names. I was mid-level, data analysis only. But there's a lab," Anya suddenly stiffened, her eyes fixed on something over Mira's shoulder.

  "Where?" Mira pressed, sensing Anya's growing agitation but too focused on the breakthrough to back off. "I need locations, Anya. Access points."

  "I shouldn't be here." Anya's voice tightened. "That sanitation drone, it's the third time it's passed."

  Mira glanced back, seeing only an ordinary cleaning unit hovering near a trash receptacle. "It's just maintenance. Focus. You mentioned a lab."

  "No." Anya stood abruptly. "That's a CS-440. Market sector protocols require 380s only. The 440s run surveillance packages." Anya's voice shifted from panic to the clipped precision of someone reciting specs.

  Mira's throat tightened as she verified against her database, fingers freezing mid-swipe. Anya was right, the drone's specifications didn't match standard maintenance. A detail she should have caught.

  "They know I'm here." Anya backed away, eyes fixed on the drone over Mira's shoulder. "I can't, this was a mistake."

  "Wait." Mira's fingers grazed Anya's sleeve, but the woman recoiled and pulled away.

  "The old BioNex facility in Sector 7," Anya whispered frantically. "That's all I know. Don't contact me again. They're watching now."

  Before Mira could respond, Anya disappeared into the crowd, leaving the untouched credstick on the counter. Mira stayed put, paid for her drink, and ran a deeper scan on the sanitation drone through her AR. The drone continued its path through the market. Its optical sensors had locked on their position for 6.4 seconds longer than standard sweep protocol.

  Mira slipped through the crowd. Circled past three security cameras. Checked each for digital signatures of targeted tracking. Clear.

  Her neural implant pinged with calculations. BioNex was just a fragment, a corrupted header in a terabyte of encrypted data. Without access codes or specific locations, she'd be running blind.

  She found a quiet spot beneath a broken streetlight and leaned against the wall. Her fingers tapped her commlink, initiating a counter-surveillance sweep. Clean, for now. But Anya's panic hadn't been irrational, that drone was suspicious. If Halcyon security was already watching Anya, then Mira had just painted a target on both their backs.

  She should have brought backup. Should have had someone watching the perimeter while she worked the source. Her rule of working alone had cost her again. Trust nobody had kept her alive for years. Now it might get her killed.

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  Mira pushed away from the wall, jaw clenched, AR already mapping routes to Sector 7. BioNex in Sector 7. After weeks of dead ends, it wasn't much, but it was a concrete lead. Next time, she wouldn't make the same mistake.

  The market continued its commerce cycle without her, thousands of transactions pulsing through the grid. Just another shadow with data that could burn Halcyon's mind control operation to the ground.

  Silas slid the datapad across the pockmarked table. Blue light caught Jace's face, highlighting the thin scar from last month's case. Across from them, Ratchet hunched. Fingers twitching. Eyes darting. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the room's chill.

  "Twenty-three street-level busts in eighteen months," Silas observed. "Never more than three doses on him. Smart enough to keep under the felony threshold."

  Jace nodded, eyes scanning the file. "Not smart enough to avoid us though."

  Ratchet's knockoff optic implant whirred and clicked, auto-focus stuttering. Green corrosion bloomed where sweat ate through cheap metal casing. Black market hardware failing under stress. Warranty voided at installation.

  The rest of him looked equally worn. Patched synth-leather jacket. Fingernails cracked and stained with residue from handling XBDs in the Underlevels. A street dealer slowly destroying himself with his own trade.

  Silas folded his arms and leaned back. "You want first crack?"

  Jace's lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "Nah. Let's soften him up first."

  Silas caught that look. The slight narrowing at Jace's eyes. The calculated tilt of his head. Showtime.

  "You know what this is?" Jace slammed his palm against the table. Ratchet flinched, his chair scraping against the floor. "This is your third strike under the Neural Contraband Act. Mandatory twenty-year freeze in cold storage."

  "I ain't done nothing!" Ratchet's chair scraped backward.

  Jace leaned in, his voice dropping to a razor's edge. "Found your stash behind that broken vending machine on Canal Street. Prints all over it. Lab confirmed ten minutes ago."

  Silas kept his eyes cold, breathing steady. The Canal Street evidence was pure fiction, but Ratchet was swallowing every byte.

  "That's drek," Ratchet spat. "You're setting me up."

  "Maybe. Maybe not." Jace shrugged. "Judge Harrick owes me a favor. And I hear the Vishnu Boys are looking for someone who matches your description. Something about skimmed profits?"

  Ratchet's face went ashen. His good eye twitched, pupils dilating.

  Silas slid a cup of water toward the dealer. "Look, we're not interested in you, Ratchet. We're looking upstream."

  "I don't know nothing about..." Ratchet's gaze dropped to the table.

  "The Ghost Circuit XBDs," Silas cut in, tapping his datapad to project a neural scan onto the wall, a brain lit up like a Christmas tree, red zones indicating neural damage. Dead circuits where pleasure centers had overloaded. "New batch. Highly addictive. Three fatalities this week from cerebral hemorrhaging."

  "I don't deal that heavy stuff." Ratchet's fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the table edge.

  Silas leaned forward. "Your Grid signature was logged at two of the death scenes within hours before the victims flatlined. That's not coincidence. That's pattern evidence."

  No lie this time. Silas had spent three days tracing digital footprints through the Grid.

  "You're looking at accessory to homicide," Silas continued, his voice calm but firm. "But cooperate, and I can make sure the DA knows you helped stop more deaths."

  Ratchet's eyes darted between them. Jace hovering like a predator ready to strike. Silas with his open palms and reasonable tone. The dealer was cracking exactly as planned.

  "I just move product," Ratchet finally said, voice barely audible. "I don't cut it or cook it."

  "Where's it coming from?" Jace demanded.

  "Warehouse District B, off the old canal. Building 37. Used to be a server farm before the Blackout. Now it's just server shells and squatters. My drop comes from a courier. Never the same one twice."

  "Who's your contact?" Silas asked.

  "Don't know his real name. Just a voice. Calls himself Vertigo. Always masked feeds, voice modded. Pays better than most. That's all I know, I swear."

  Jace stood abruptly, chair screeching. "If you're holding back..."

  "I'm not!" Ratchet's voice cracked. "Vertigo's careful. Nobody sees the whole picture. That's how he stays ghost."

  Silas nodded, logging the information while Jace called for an officer to process Ratchet out.

  "You believe that null?" Jace asked once the door sealed them in privacy.

  "About seventy percent," Silas replied. "He's too scared to completely fabricate, but he's holding something back."

  "Good work in there." Jace clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's wash the taste of that scum out. Drinks at The Circuit?"

  Two hours later, The Circuit pulsed with off-duty cops and wire-wearing snitches. Badge imprints visible under cheap civilian shirts. Neck scars poorly hidden. Unofficial precinct watering hole since before the Collapse.

  Synth-ale glowed radioactive blue under strobing neon that advertised corps that went bankrupt during the Collapse.

  Industrial disinfectant fought a losing war against decades of spilled synth-booze ground into the floor. To most of the precinct, that toxic cocktail smelled like home.

  "To small victories," Jace said, raising his glass.

  Silas clinked his against it. "And to finding Vertigo before more victims flatline with fried circuits."

  They drank in comfortable silence for a moment before Jace's expression softened into something almost sympathetic.

  "How you holding up? After Kira, I mean."

  Three weeks, four days since Kira disappeared from his life. Didn't think Jace even remembered her.

  "I'm fine," Silas said, the response automatic. Then he sighed. "That's a lie. Place echoes now. Keep hearing phantom footsteps when I unlock the door." He didn't mention the extra hours he'd been putting in on the Ghost Circuit case since she left.

  Jace nodded. "Been there. Twice. That's why I don't do relationships in the Sprawl anymore. Nobody stays. Everyone's just passing through, looking for the next big score or the next big high."

  "Cynical even for you," Silas commented.

  "Realistic," Jace countered. "Look, in this city, the job's the only constant. People lie. People leave. But the work, catching the bad guys, making a difference, that's real. That's something you can count on."

  There was something comforting in Jace's bluntness. No platitudes, no false hope. Just the hard truth of the Sprawl.

  And maybe he was right. The job had been Silas's anchor these past weeks.

  "Speaking of the job," Jace said, signaling the bartender for another round, "funny thing about justice in this city."

  "What's that?"

  "It's a luxury good." Jace's voice had taken on that philosophical tone he got after a few drinks. "Reserved for those who can afford it."

  Silas frowned. "That's not how it's supposed to work."

  "Supposed to and does are different animals." Jace leaned closer. "Hypothetically, Si... if you knew Ratchet had more info that could save the next victim, but you couldn't get it legally, how far would you push?"

  The question hung between them. Silas stared at his drink, processing the implications.

  "There are always legal channels," he said finally, words straight from the academy handbook.

  Jace chuckled. "Sure. And while you're filling out requisition forms in triplicate, another kid's brain gets fried by Ghost Circuit."

  "So what's the alternative? Break the law to enforce it?"

  "I'm just asking where you draw the line." Jace shrugged. "If one altered evidence log meant taking down Vertigo and saving lives, would your conscience really keep you up at night?"

  Silas shifted in his seat, collar suddenly tight. Jace's gaze locked onto him, all casual philosophy evaporating.

  "I guess..." Silas hesitated. "I guess it depends on what's at stake."

  "Exactly." Jace smiled, seeming satisfied with the answer. "It's always about what's at stake."

  He drained his glass and stood. "Early start tomorrow. We should hit that warehouse district while the trail's still warm."

  "Yeah," Silas agreed, relieved at the subject change. "I'll pull satellite feeds, see if I can narrow down our search grid."

  Jace clapped him on the shoulder again. "That's why we work well together. You're the brains, I'm the battering ram."

  After Jace left, Silas remained, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

  Their interrogation had been effective. Textbook.

  But Jace's hypotheticals lingered uncomfortably. Where would he draw the line?

  The question seemed academic now, but something in his gut said it wouldn't stay that way.

  Silas finished his drink and stepped into the neon-washed night. Security drones hummed overhead as he told himself that Jace was just being Jace. Pushing boundaries. Testing limits.

  Silas made his way toward the transit station, turning Jace's questions over in his mind.

  Three years as partners. Never heard that edge before.

  For the first time, he wondered what his partner might be hiding.