-Night City 2064- -Top of Biotechnica Tower-

  I stepped out of the AV onto the Biotechnica Tower rooftop, the night air clinging to my skin as the thrusters died down behind me. Two Biotechnica security drones and a pilot nodded curtly, but I barely acknowledged them. My focus was on the looming glass doors that led to the executive elevators.

  Inside, everything was polished white and silver—sterile. The hum of corporate business thrummed beneath my feet, a constant undercurrent of whispered calls and flickering data screens. A quick scan of my ID got me into the elevator with no questions asked. The doors slid shut, enveloping me in the subtle scent of disinfectant and some vaguely floral cleaning agent. Corporate cleanliness at its finest.

  As I ascended, I found myself checking my reflection in the elevator’s chrome plating. My hair, pinned into a sleek style for the day, showed a few rebellious strands escaping from the stress of the last few hours. I tried smoothing them down as the elevator chimed softly, letting me know I was nearly at Father’s office.

  When the doors opened, I walked down a short corridor lined with minimalist artwork that tried too hard to appear avant-garde. Each step echoed on polished flooring until I reached his door—a slab of opaque glass that slid aside the moment it recognized me.

  The lights in Father’s office were lower than usual. He was hunched over a large, holographic display behind his imposing desk—one of those carved monstrosities made from some exotic wood to project status. I could make out the words “Project Sereph” flickering across the screen before he quickly switched to a dull chart of quarterly earnings.

  He finally noticed me, turned around, and gave me a tight-lipped stare. The lines on his face looked deeper today. Whatever the fiasco was, it had clearly aged him a little more.

  “Your first operation was a failure,” he said by way of greeting.

  I felt a rush of adrenaline. I’d braced for a reprimand, but not so abruptly. “The mole operation? I caught Songbird digging through our data, didn’t I?”

  He shook his head, brows furrowing. “Songbird was let in. She didn’t crack our encryption; the mole allowed her entry to erase data that revealed their own tracks. We have no idea how much was wiped, and I can’t afford to let HQ catch wind of it.”

  My stomach twisted as I realized the implications. The breach was worse than I thought. “So… there’s a mole?” I managed, trying to keep my voice steady.

  He tapped a control on the holo-display, pulling up a new tab. The faint glow illuminated his features, making the tension in his jaw even more obvious. “The mole is Senior Researcher Dr. Darius Chen. He was supposed to clock in yesterday but never showed. No pings on any corporate account, no sightings on the Tower’s cameras. He’s ghosted us.”

  I scanned the file. Dr. Chen was an expert in biotech engineering, especially in gene-sequencing projects. If he’d gone rogue, there was no telling what he could have stolen.

  Father’s voice turned cold, more so than usual. “If Biotechnica learns that a research team under my jurisdiction has been compromised, the consequences could be severe—for both of us. I need you to flatline him. Discreetly.”

  He picked up a small, black datachip from his desk and flicked it toward me. I caught it in midair.

  “Those accounts are unlinked to Biotechnica. Use them to hire mercs if you need to. I’ll handle damage control on the corp side, but you must deal with Chen as soon as possible.”

  I glanced at the chip, feeling its weight in my hand despite it being just a thin square of plastic and metal. “Of course, Father,” I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  He turned away, shutting me out as he pivoted back to the spreadsheets. Dismissed, I walked out, the door hissing closed behind me.

  -Downtown Night City-

  Later that evening, I slipped into a dingy bar called Electric Orgasm. It looked like a condemned building from the outside, and the sign read Malted Iguana liquors. Inside, the atmosphere hit me like a wave: the smell of stale synth-smoke, cheap liquor, and something metallic, possibly from the crackling neon rods that blinked overhead.

  I wore my best “street” outfit—ripped jacket, scuffed boots, and no obvious corporate logos. Father insisted I keep any Biotechnica branding under wraps. Undercover or not, I still picked my usual booth in the back. Same seat, same squeaky vinyl cushions that smelled faintly of spilled beer and disinfectant.

  Leaning back, I let the pounding bass lines from the ancient sound system wash over me. The bar wasn’t exactly packed, but it was busy enough for background noise. A few groups huddled around battered tables, whispering about black-market deals or local gossip.

  Before I could even relax fully, Dino Dinovic emerged from a dimly lit hallway, probably having finished a side deal in one of the private rooms. He sauntered over to the counter with the kind of casual confidence that only a seasoned fixer could pull off. Noticing me, he flashed a grin.

  “Ellia, my favorite delivery girl—did your old man send you, or are you just here to wet your whistle?” Dino asked, resting his elbows on the bar.

  Keeping my face neutral, I rose and approached him. “I’m here unofficially. Need you to put out a gig: tracking and assassination—triple the normal rate, and I’ll pay you triple your usual cut, too. Only send it to mercs who can keep their mouths shut.”

  A slow whistle escaped his lips. “With that kinda pay, I’ll have half the city’s scum beating down my door. Gonna give me any details, or just the kill order?”

  “Name’s Darius Chen. He’s a researcher who went AWOL,” I said, keeping it vague. “He’s carrying data that could hurt me, and I want him gone. The data, however, is top priority. All shards in his possession go to me.”

  “Right,” Dino agreed, already tapping on his agent. “I’ll start making calls. With triple rates, I’ll have edgerunners chewing through walls in no time. Got a preference on who picks up the job?”

  “Not particularly. Anyone who’s reliable, and silent. This can’t be linked back to my father or Biotechnica, understand?”

  He nodded, never stopping his flurry of texts and calls. After a moment, he pocketed the device and turned back to me. “So, want a drink while you wait?”

  I shrugged, taking the seat next to him at the bar. “Sure, I could use something strong.”

  He waved down the bartender. “Two of the special,” he said, then turned to me with a mischievous glint. “So, what’s new in the wondrous world of corpos?”

  I took the glass the bartender slid my way and sipped, the liquor burning my throat pleasantly. “It’s all hush-hush, Dino. You know how it is.”

  He chuckled. “Sure do. But hush-hush doesn’t usually pay triple unless it’s nuclear-level hush.”

  I set my drink down, narrowing my eyes while trying to change the subject. “You’re a die-hard Silverhand fan. The same rockerboy who vowed to take down the megacorps, now look at you. Hustling with us as much as any other merc.”

  His eyes sparkled at my jab. “I hustle with corpos because they pay the bills, sweetheart. Keeps the game preem interesting. Don’t confuse that for loyalty. I never sold out—I just learned how to survive. You, on the other hand—” he leaned closer, “you’re a full-blown corpo now. Traded in your NCU campus days for the rat race. And as far as I can tell, you’re climbing fast.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sounds like you’re the one who sold out, mixing with corps every day.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He laughed softly, swirling his drink. “Difference is, I keep my secrets close. You might think you do, but… that brand on your jacket says otherwise.”

  I glanced down. A small, discreet Biotechnica seal near the collar. I winced. “Great.”

  With a smirk, Dino pivoted the conversation. “So, what else can I do for you tonight?”

  I cleared my throat. “I also want a profile on a netrunner who goes by Kiwi. Heard she’s decent, curious about her.”

  Dino’s forehead wrinkled. “Kiwi… rings a bell. Think I’ve sent gigs her way. She’s good at staying out of the data limelight. Why d’you want her?”

  I shrugged. “We crossed paths on the Net. Nothing major. I just like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  He tapped another quick note into his agent. “I’ll send you what I’ve got by tonight. Might not be anything juicy, she’s real careful.”

  He paused, then added, “Her crew is on standby if you want them in on the Chen job. They’re a bit green, though—wouldn’t be my first choice for a high-priority gig.”

  “Anyone named Maine with them?” I asked out of nowhere.

  Dino shook his head. “Nope. Why d’you ask?”

  “Just curious,” I said, finishing off my drink.

  The fixer rolled his shoulders. “Well, for Chen, I’ll keep it to the best crew. Already got a line on a few people. You want me to pass them the details for a time-sensitive job?”

  “Yeah,” I said, standing up to leave. “Tell them if Chen’s taken out by tonight, I’ll double the pay. All shards go through you—I’ll pick them up in person.”

  Dino flicked a casual salute. “Done and done. Want to talk to the mercs direct?”

  I shook my head. “No. They don’t need to see my face.”

  With that, I turned and left, the neon glare of Electric Orgasm burning my retinas. I’d let Dino handle the recruitment. My father wanted quick results, and that was exactly what he’d get.

  When I got outside the city was alive with late-night chaos. Cars honked, steam rose from broken vents in the pavement, and stray advertisements projected onto the sides of buildings.

  My new modded cyberdeck hummed at the base of my skull, that comforting neural tingle reminding me that every camera in range was at my command. With a small mental nudge, I overlayed half a dozen feeds in my peripheral vision. Grainy angles, rotating security cams, a random data-traffic monitor, all giving me a patchwork glimpse of the blocks around me.

  That’s when I spotted him: a hooded figure trailing me. He stuck to the darkest edges of the street, face obscured by a tattered gray hood. I tested him, cutting abruptly across the road and turning down a narrow side alley. Sure enough, he followed.

  I decided to set a trap. Slipping in my earbuds, I queued up a track—an old tune I’d salvaged from a pre-Collapse data shard: The music began in my ears.

  “When no one else can understand me…”

  The corner of my mouth twitched into a grin. I let my posture relax, feigning ignorance as I navigated the sidewalk. In one of my camera feeds, I watched him close the gap. Step by step, he drew nearer.

  “When everything I do is wrong…”

  With a small mental command, I hacked a nearby vending machine. Its old circuits gave me no resistance. I set its power core to overload.

  “You give me hope and consolation…”

  A sudden BOOM rattled the street as the vending machine blew. Twisted metal and cheap snack bars scattered across the pavement. My pursuer jumped back, startled, scanning the surroundings in a barely controlled panic.

  “You give me strength to carry on…”

  Now I had him rattled. He edged toward a flickering lamppost that stood alone on the corner. A single, buzzing neon light flicked on and off above his hood.

  “And you’re always there to lend a hand…”

  He stared at that lamppost as though it were a bizarre beacon. To him, maybe it was. If he was any good, he’d suspect the flickering wasn’t random. But he seemed too nervous to piece it together.

  “In everything I do…”

  I seized control of a parked car behind him—an old model with an automated driving system. Re-routing the ignition to my deck was almost too easy.

  “That’s the wonder…”

  The engine roared to life. The car lurched forward, ramming him from behind. He didn’t even have time to scream.

  “The wonder of you.”

  He crumpled to the ground, dazed, maybe worse. I felt a sudden spike at the edge of my neural interface. Someone was trying to breach my ICE. My deck recognized it instantly—a netrunner piggybacking on the hooded man’s link.

  They never stood a chance. With a flick of my mental switch, I unleashed black ice so lethal that I almost felt sorry for them. Almost. The intrusion attempt fizzled, an echo of digital agony reverberating through my link before going silent.

  I approached the man’s prone form carefully taking off my earbuds, scanning him for threats. A quick ID check popped up: Tobias Hurk, minor merc with a handful of completed gigs, known ties to the Sixth Street gang. He was out cold but still breathing.

  I tapped my comm. “Ellia to Biotechnica Air. I need an immediate pickup at my current location.”

  The operator’s voice crackled, “Acknowledged. ETA three minutes.”

  A few curious onlookers gawked from a distance, but the typical Night City bystander mentality prevailed—they weren’t about to involve themselves in some corporate scuffle. Before the AV arrived, I rummaged through Tobias’s pockets. Just a few eddies, a cheap data slate, and a half-charged pistol. Sloppy.

  Within minutes, the AV descended with a hiss of hydraulics. Two droids and a security officer hopped out, rifles at the ready. The officer gave me a brief once-over. “You all right, Miss McCallister?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, stepping aside and gesturing at Tobias’s limp form. “He was tailing me. I want him in Biotechnica’s interrogation room, stat.”

  He nodded. “Understood.” The droids lifted Tobias’s body with mechanical efficiency, the security officer covering them until the AV hatch slid closed. I followed them in, settling onto a seat while the engine thrummed, lifting us back into the Night City skyline.

  Biotechnica Tower Interrogation room

  I’d only been in this part of the tower a handful of times, but every visit felt colder than the last. The place didn’t bother with the usual corporate veneer of warmth—no tasteful sculptures, no polished motivational slogans. Instead, it was all sterile white walls that felt more like a lab than a detention room, illuminated by stark, buzzing fluorescents that gave everything a washed-out, almost unreal quality. Even the floor looked clinical, sealed tile that made footsteps echo as though each person were trespassing on sacred ground.

  A single metal table took center stage, anchored to the floor. It had adjustable restraints along the sides that looked like they could accommodate any limb arrangement a corp might need to secure. Tobias was strapped to a bolted-down chair next to it, unconscious but breathing. A bio-monitor at his wrist blinked green intermittently—just enough sedative to keep him stable while they patched him up. Couldn’t interrogate a corpse, after all.

  I stood over him, arms folded, my posture stiff with a tension I tried to hide. Even the hum of the overhead lights seemed amplified here, underscoring the gravity of what I was about to do. I mentally toggled a command in my neural interface; a soft hiss escaped from the stimulants being fed into his system through a port in his arm. It was a precise cocktail: enough to bring him out of unconsciousness but keep him tethered to reality’s edge.

  Tobias’s eyelids flickered, then his gaze snapped into focus. I watched the recognition bloom—and the anger flare.

  “Ugh… Where…?” he groaned, voice scratchy with disorientation.

  “Hello, Tobias,” I said softly, stepping just into his peripheral vision so he’d understand who held the power here.

  His features contorted the moment he recognized me. “Shit,” he spat, “I didn’t get paid enough for this.”

  I raised a single eyebrow, feigning calm. “I’m going to keep this simple. Why were you following me?”

  He managed a defiant glare, then spat onto the pristine floor—little flecks of saliva speckling white tile. “Do your worst, corpo brat. I’m not talking.”

  I took a measured breath, fighting the impulse to roll my eyes at his bravado. Instead, I flicked through my deck’s interface, scanning for the perfect program. A gentle approach was pointless. He was obviously the kind of merc who thought he could handle a bit of torture—physical or otherwise.

  In seconds, I activated a slow-ticking contagion hack, funneling it through his neural implant. The overhead lights seemed to pulse in time with his mounting panic. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, then another. He tried to straighten, but every muscle in his body betrayed him, quivering under the hack’s invasive code.

  He coughed out blood, eyes going wide with fear.

  I tap my finger on the table, letting the hack's faint hum vibrate in my skull. “It’ll fry your synapses in about five minutes if you don’t start talking. So let’s try this again—who sent you?”

  His gaze darted around the clinical space, searching for any avenue of escape or mercy. He found none. “A man in a brown suit,” he gasped. “Yellow tie. He wanted me to grab you, bring you in. Paid upfront. Said he’d pay more if I got anything on Ian McCallister or…” He grimaced, struggling for breath. “Or something called the Seraph Project.”

  The mention of “Seraph Project” made my gut clench. The words Father had been trying to hide on his screen and the exact project Changeling had mentioned. I leaned forward a fraction. “Why target me specifically?”

  Tobias tried to hold back a groan as the contagion hack ramped up, twisting in his seat. “Said you… you had something to do with it. You or your father—hell if I know. I was supposed to keep an eye on you, maybe snatch you if I got the chance…”

  My teeth ground together. Anger at the audacity. “And the netrunner? The one who tried to breach my ICE?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut like it might keep the pain at bay. “Liz… Elizabeth was her name. She was in a van, feeding me intel, helping with the hack if you resisted. Is she—did you—?”

  I let the moment hang, offering only a slight shrug. “My black ice dealt with her. Haven’t retrieved the body.”

  The statement made him snap. A raw, guttural yell tore through his throat, and every vein in his neck stood out like wires. “You killed her? I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

  I sighed and stepped back. His rage wasn’t surprising, not anymore. We were beyond negotiation; he was thrashing, trying in vain to break the restraints, the legs of the metal chair scraping against the floor in a shrill squeal.

  Across the room, a security guard stood at attention, face impassive behind tinted tactical glasses. The tension in his posture told me he was expecting my order. And we both knew Tobias wasn’t leaving this room.

  “Enough,” I said quietly, turning to the guard. “Get rid of him.”

  Tobias’s wild eyes went wider still. “Wait—no, you can’t—!”

  But the guard was practiced. One swift motion, a single shot. The crack reverberated off the walls, colder and more final than any scream. I turned away, stepping out of the room as the door hissed shut behind me, the afterimage of the muzzle flash clinging to my vision like a ghost.

  I paused in the corridor, pressing my back to the sterile white wall. My heart thundered, each beat reminding me of the violence I’d just orchestrated. My fingers felt numb, yet my thoughts swirled with laser clarity: the Seraph Project, the man in the brown suit, Dr. Darius Chen still on the loose, but probably not for long.

  I took a single, shaky breath. Ordering a man’s execution felt both surreal and disturbingly ordinary in these halls.

  Eventually, I steeled myself—straightened my jacket, smoothed the stray wrinkles on my sleeves. The corporate labyrinth demanded results, not remorse. I just hoped I could still recognize my reflection when all this was done.

  Midterms are approaching, so updates will slow.