Dawn bled through the cracks in Karen's makeshift blinds, striping her cluttered room with pale light.
She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, Gristle's notebook heavy against her chest.
The gang's finances were already bleeding out—no Glow production, no combat stims, just dwindling reserves and hungry mouths.
And now she sat on the solution.
Tell the gang and risk the traitor making a move.
Keep it quiet and let suspicion fester.
Her eyes tracked across the chaos of her room—augmented limbs in various states of repair, disassembled firearms, a half-empty bottle of synth-liquor.
If she announced Gristle's formulas now, the traitor would know.
Might try to steal them.
Might sell them to the Red Dogs or worse, the corps.
But if she waited too long, the Talons would collapse under its own weight.
Karen sat up with a grunt, her prosthetic hand flexing.
No.
She'd delay.
Just until they dealt with Nex's list.
The hideout's corridors were quiet at this hour, the steel floors cold underfoot.
She stopped at Mags' door—no childish decorations, no soft edges—just reinforced plating and a biometric lock salvaged from a security drone.
Inside, the room stood as a monument to violence.
The walls were a grim armory—row upon row of pistols, sub-machine guns, and rifles standing at attention like soldiers on parade.
Each weapon gleamed under the dim light, barrels oiled black and grips worn smooth from use.
There was no dust here, no neglect—just the quiet, deadly order of a mind that treated firearms with monastic devotion.
The air smelled of gun oil and cold steel.
No posters, no trinkets, no sign that a girl into her teens lived here.
Just the tools of a professional killer, maintained with terrifying care.
An anti-tank cannon dominated the far corner, its barrel polished to a dull sheen—Mags' preferred weapon for heavy operations.
The bed was a narrow bed, barely used, with a weapons maintenance station where a pillow should be.
Mags looked up from cleaning Nex's shotgun, her small hands moving with mechanical precision.
"We're holding back Gristle's notes," Karen said, leaning against the doorframe. "Until we clear the list."
Mags nodded once, her dark eyes flicking to the notebook in Karen's grip.
She then reached for a compact pistol without looking, her fingers finding it by muscle memory alone.
The slide racked back with a sound like a bone snapping.
No questions.
No hesitation.
She understood information was ammunition, and you didn't load your weapon until you had a target.
Karen exhaled. "Today we start on the others. Flick first—he's got the softest alibi."
Mags slung the shotgun's strap over to her shoulder and reached for the pistol on the workbench.
Checked the magazine.
Slid it home with a click that sounded like punctuation.
The message was clear: Let's go hunting.
***
The watchtower stairs groaned under their weight as Karen and Mags ascended.
The scent hit them before they reached the top floor—antiseptic, cheap and sharp, undercut by the coppery tang of fresh blood.
Flick sat slumped against the far wall, his face pale under the flickering emergency light.
His left leg was stretched out before him, the pants cuff rolled up to reveal an angry burn snaking around his calf.
The wound was too precise, the edges too clean—no ragged tears from broken glass, no uneven blistering from spilled liquor.
Just crisp, geometric patterns that curled across his skin like frozen lightning.
Echo leaned against the window frame, the dawn light catching the edge of her blade as she tapped it against her thigh—three beats, pause, two beats.
A soldier's rhythm.
A warning.
"Bar fight," she said before Karen could speak, her voice flat. "Broken bottle. Bad landing."
Mags moved like a shadow slipping between them, her small frame folding into a crouch beside Flick.
She didn't touch the wound, didn't need to. Her dark eyes traced the pattern once, twice, then flicked up to meet Karen's gaze.
Without a word, Mags reached into her pocket and produced a Myriad security glyph chip—one of the ones salvaged from the east tunnel ambush.
She held it up, turning it slowly in the dim light.
The burn on Flick's leg mirrored the chip's fractal design exactly.
Flick's breath hitched. "It's not what—"
Karen's prosthetic hand closed around his collar, slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the rusted panels. "Try again."
Echo's blade stopped mid-tap.
The watchtower seemed to hold its breath.
Somewhere below, a loose sheet of metal clattered in the wind, the sound like laughter echoing up through the hollow structure.
Flick's eyes darted between them—Karen's iron grip, Mags' silent judgment, Echo's frozen blade.
Sweat beaded along his hairline. "I was checking the east tunnel after curfew," he said, the words tumbling out too fast. "Thought I heard something. There was a glyph trap—old security shit, must've been left over from the Myriad days. I didn't report it because—"
"Because you weren't supposed to be there," Karen finished for him, her voice low. She leaned in, close enough to smell the fear on him. "Just like you weren't supposed to be near the drop point when the Red Dogs hit."
Echo pushed off from the window, her boots scuffing against the grime-covered floor. "Flick's been with the scouts for five years," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "If he says it was an accident—"
Mags reached into her jacket and pulled out Nex's list.
She didn't need to point to Flick's name—the weight of it hung in the air between them all.
Flick swallowed hard. "I swear on my mother's grave, I'm not the rat. But I know who might be."
Karen's grip tightened. "Talk."
"Oren," Flick spat. "He's been cozy with the Red Dogs for months. Bragging about how they're gonna take over the east tunnels once the Talons collapse."
Echo's blade tapped once against her thigh—a single, decisive beat that echoed through the watchtower's hollow interior.
Karen released Flick's collar, letting him slump back against the wall.
She straightened up, her prosthetic hand flexing at her side.
The morning light streaming through the broken windows painted stripes across Flick's panicked face.
"One more thing," Karen said, her voice dangerously calm. "Show me your forearms. Now."
Flick hesitated for only a second before rolling up both sleeves with shaking hands.
His right arm bore a single, faded scar running diagonally across the forearm—an old knife wound, poorly stitched.
His left arm was augmented from the elbow down, the mechanical limb gleaming dully under a layer of grime.
Karen's jaw tightened.
The surveillance footage had shown three parallel scars on a left forearm.
Flick's augment replacement meant he couldn't be their mole.
Mags tilted her head, studying Flick's augmented limb with clinical detachment.
Her small fingers traced the seam where metal met flesh, then abruptly pulled back when she found what she was looking for—a tiny Myriad serial number etched near the joint.
Flick followed her gaze, his breath coming faster. "That's—that's just standard issue! Half the scouts have them!"
Echo's blade stopped its rhythmic tapping. Her eyes locked onto Karen's, some unspoken message passing between them.
The watchtower creaked around them, the wind whistling through its rusted bones.
Somewhere below, a loose pipe clanged against the scaffolding.
Karen exhaled through her nose.
Flick wasn't their traitor.
But he'd given them another name—and that was enough for now.
She turned toward the stairs, Mags falling into step behind her without a word.
Four names left on Nex's list.
And one of them would bear three perfect scars.
***
The steel door to Rook's barracks groaned like a wounded animal as Karen shouldered it open.
The scent of gun oil and sweat hit her immediately—thick, familiar, the smell of men who lived by violence.
Oren sat at the far end of the long bench, his massive frame hunched over a disassembled shotgun.
The enforcer's muscles tensed when he saw them enter, his scarred hands freezing mid-motion.
Around him, the other enforcers fell silent, their eyes tracking Mags' shotgun as she moved through the room like a small, deadly shadow.
Rook loomed near the weapons rack, his hydraulic augments hissing as he straightened to full height. "Karen." His voice was gravel in a steel drum. "This ain't your territory."
"We're not here for trouble," Karen said, though her prosthetic fingers flexed at her side. "Just Oren."
Oren set down the shotgun barrel with deliberate care.
His left forearm—thick with old combat scars—rested against the table as he turned to face them.
Three parallel lines stood out among the chaos of battle marks, pale and precise against his weathered skin.
Mags made a small sound in her throat, already reaching for the surveillance still in her pocket.
Karen didn't move.
Oren had been with the Talons since the beginning. One of Rook's most trusted. A man who'd bled for the gang more times than anyone could count.
Rook's ocular implant whirred as it focused on the tension in the room. "Whatever you're accusing him of—"
"Not accusing," Karen interrupted. "Just verifying." She nodded to Oren's arm. "Those scars. When did you get them?"
Oren's laugh was short and humorless. He raised his arm, turning it to catch the light. "Augment rejection. Five years back, when Myriad was testing those new neural-linked prosthetics." His gaze locked onto Karen's. "You can check the medical logs. Rook oversaw the procedure himself."
Rook's massive frame shifted, his augmented shoulders blocking the overhead light. "It's true."
Mags' fingers tightened around Nex's shotgun. The surveillance footage showed three scars—but augmetic rejection scars were common. Too common.
Karen exhaled slowly. Another dead end.
Oren leaned forward, his voice dropping to a growl. "But since we're sharing scars... who told you to look for these?"
The barracks fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, a Reclamation Unit's siren wailed.
Karen met Oren's gaze. "Nex did."
And for the first time, she wondered if they'd been looking at the wrong scars all along.
The barracks fell deathly silent. Oren's hands froze mid-motion over his disassembled shotgun, his knuckles whitening around the barrel. Across the room, Rook's hydraulic augments hissed as he shifted his weight, the overhead lights glinting off his ocular implant.
Karen kept her voice level, but her prosthetic fingers twitched toward her holster. "Flick says you've been cozy with the Red Dogs for months. Bragging about how they'll take the east tunnels once we collapse."
A muscle jumped in Oren's jaw. He set the shotgun down with deliberate care, the metal parts clicking against the table. When he looked up, his eyes were hard. "That junkie fucker would sell his own mother for a hit of Glow."
Rook took a step forward, his massive frame blocking the flickering overhead light. "Karen. Think about what you're—"
"Did you or didn't you?" Karen cut in, her gaze never leaving Oren.
Oren shoved back from the table, the bench screeching against the concrete floor. His left sleeve rode up as he braced his hands on the tabletop, revealing the three pale scars. "Yeah, I talk to the Dogs. Same way you used to drink with Nimbrix lieutenants before their purge." His lips peeled back from his teeth. "Intel gathering. Or did Nex's precious handbook say we should fight blind?"
Mags moved then—just a slight shift of her weight, but the sound of Nex's shotgun sliding against her jacket was unmistakable.
Oren's eyes flicked to her, then back to Karen. "Check the logs. Every meet I had was cleared by Rook. Every scrap of intel went straight to Nex." His voice dropped to a growl. "Unlike some people, I don't work in the shadows."
Karen exhaled slowly through her nose, the tension in her shoulders unraveling just slightly. Another dead end.
She studied Oren again—the sheer bulk of him, the way he towered over even Rook's augmented frame. The person in the surveillance footage had been leaner, their posture coiled like a spring. Oren was built like a reinforced wall.
Mags seemed to reach the same conclusion. Her grip on Nex's shotgun loosened, though her dark eyes remained sharp, calculating.
Oren caught their silent exchange and snorted. "What, you thought I'd be dumb enough to leave evidence if I was the rat?" He rolled his sleeves back down with deliberate slowness. "Nex trained us better than that."
Rook's ocular implant flickered as he glanced between them. "You done wasting my enforcer's time?"
Karen didn't answer right away. Flick had pointed them at Oren, but the pieces didn't fit. The scars were wrong, the build was wrong—even the way Oren moved was wrong. The mole in the footage had moved with a smuggler's grace, not an enforcer's brute force.
Which meant Flick had lied. Or been fed a lie.
She turned toward the door, Mags falling into step beside her. "We're done here."
But as they stepped back into the dim corridor, Karen's mind was already racing. If Oren wasn't the traitor, then who the hell had Flick been protecting?
***
The hideout's single working bulb flickered as Lucent stared at the bounty notice glowing on his holoscreen.
Ryota Renner's face stared back at him—cold, imperious, now just another corpse in some Spire morgue.
The words "Accidental Overdose" glowed beneath the photo, so laughably false it made his teeth ache.
He should tell Kai.
The kid had a right to know his father was dead, even if the man had disowned him.
Even if the news would send him spiraling into some reckless, grief-stricken stunt that got them both killed.
The credits chip Karen had given him after the decryption of those chips sat heavy in his pocket.
Generous payment.
More than generous.
Enough to disappear for a while, if he wanted.
Enough to ditch the Spire brat and his inevitable meltdown.
Lucent exhaled sharply and killed the holoscreen.
Not yet.
The door hissed open behind him.
Kai stood in the doorway, his salvaged Conduit in hand, its cracked screen displaying a half-rendered stabilization glyph.
He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes from another night of failed practice.
"Where did you learn to repair a Conduit like this?" Kai asked, holding up the device.
His voice was casual, but his fingers trembled slightly around the edges.
Lucent didn't turn around. "Same place I learned most things. The hard way."
Kai stepped further into the room, the Conduit's exposed wiring sparking faintly. "No, I mean—this isn't just jury-rigging. The way you bypassed the Myriad firmware locks, the modulation on the Aether regulators..." He trailed off, then said quietly, "This is professional-grade work."
The words hung in the air between them.
Outside, the distant wail of a Reclamation Unit's siren cut through the usual hum of the Junkyard.
Lucent finally turned, his face unreadable in the dim light. "You asking because you're curious? Or because you're looking for a teacher?"
Kai met his gaze. "Both."
For a long moment, Lucent said nothing.
The credits chip in his pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
The bounty notice still burned behind his eyelids.
And the ghost of Cipher's last message—three years unread—whispered in the back of his mind.
He reached for his toolkit instead of answering. "Sit down. And don't touch the red wires this time."
Lucent's fingers moved with surgical precision as he realigned the Conduit's fractured Aether regulators.
The trick was in the pressure—too much and you'd fry the circuits, too little and the connection wouldn't hold.
He applied just enough force to make the components click into place, his thumb brushing against the casing in a specific pattern.
The Conduit flared to life, its screen stabilizing with a soft hum.
Kai's breath caught. "That technique—"
Lucent stiffened.
He'd slipped.
The quick-reboot sequence he'd just used wasn't standard.
It was a GhostKey workaround, one of dozens Cipher had drilled into him years ago.
"You recognize it?" Lucent kept his voice flat, but his fingers lingered near his knife.
Kai leaned closer, his eyes tracking the now-stable glyph display. "No, but... it's efficient. The way you pulsed the energy through the damaged circuits instead of rerouting." He looked up, that familiar Spire-born curiosity burning behind his eyes. "Could you teach the kids that?"
The question landed like a live grenade.
Lucent's hands stilled.
The memory hit him unbidden—Cipher's voice through the static of their last message: "Do what you will with the knowledge I gave you."
He snapped the Conduit's casing shut harder than necessary. "No."
"But they—"
"No." The finality in Lucent's voice could have cut steel. "You want to play teacher? Stick to basic dampening glyphs. Anything more and you're signing their death warrants."
Kai opened his mouth to argue when the hideout's proximity alarm blared—three short bursts.
Someone was approaching.
Lucent was on his feet in an instant, his Conduit already cycling through combat glyphs.
The timing was too perfect.
Someone had been listening.
The proximity alarm's echo still hung in the air when Lucent kicked open the hideout door, his Conduit flaring with a half-formed Static Surge glyph.
The expected Reclamation Unit or bounty hunter never materialized.
Instead, two small figures froze in the alleyway's gloom—Jessa with her arm outstretched toward the door panel, Tink crouched behind her like a startled shadow.
The girl's other hand clutched a fistful of shimmering credit chips, their edges still smeared with what looked like blood.
"Payment," Jessa said quickly, thrusting the chips toward Lucent. Her eyes darted past him to where Kai stood in the doorway. "For more lessons."
Lucent didn't lower his Conduit.
The chips were high-denomination Spire issues, the kind carried by corporate enforcers and black-market dealers.
Freshly stolen, judging by the frantic energy radiating off the kids.
Kai pushed forward. "You robbed someone?"
Tink wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a rusty streak. "Dregs don't get credits by asking nice."
The words landed with the weight of lived truth.
Lucent knew the look in their eyes—the desperate calculation of children who'd learned too young that survival wasn't fair.
He'd worn that same look once, back when GhostKey forums were his only lifeline in a city that wanted him dead.
Jessa stepped closer, the stolen chips glinting in her grimy palm. "Teach us how to make the shield glyph. The real way. Not the weak shit you showed us last time."
Lucent's jaw tightened.
He could smell the aether-and-blood stench of recent violence clinging to their clothes.
Whatever they'd done to get these chips, it hadn't been clean.
Kai reached for the credits—
Lucent's arm shot out, blocking him. "Take that," he said coldly, "and you're signing their death warrants. Corporations tags all chips above 50000 cred."
Jessa's fingers spasmed around her stolen fortune.
The realization hit her slowly—they hadn't outsmarted the system.
They'd walked out of one trap and into another.
Tink made a small, broken sound in his throat.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the first drone whine cut through the night air—distant but getting closer.
Lucent exhaled through his teeth. "Inside. Now."