What did the world look like before? Before cyberfreaks ruled the streets. Before kids turned themselves into scrap heaps with chrome implants. Before the war cracked the sky and split the world open like overripe fruit. I hardly remember now. Sitting here, watching neons through the window makes me wonder if this City could be different, if it didn't happen.
Marlene… you knocked on my door that day. I remember it well. I didn't even ask who it was. Just opened the door knowing it's you. I've been walking with bad company ever since.
And maybe you didn't understand back then why people keep their distance. Why do they look at me like I'm already marked? But I did.
Whatever's wrong with me? It's old. Many would burn me down by the side of the highway and leave the body. I warned you that I have my very own personal devil, a black dog trailing me.
You didn't listen… and you paid the price for me.
Alberto saw me coming down the stairs. His mouth opened to say something but nothing came out at first.
"Mr. Bale… the payment…" he said, like he couldn't believe I was standing there.
I gave him a tired nod, pulled six crumpled hundreds from my coat, and pressed them into his hand.
"That should cover the last few days," I said. "Do me a favor, don't rent that room out. Not for a while."
He took the money without another word.
Thugs, pugs, the works. I don't really believe in people. Light hit me straight in the eyes when I walked out. People pressed past me on the narrow curb, elbows out, heads down. Everyone walking through the night like it owed them something.
The rain started falling like aerosol spray. My HUD flickered on without asking, bright overlays tracking movement and pushing the weather alert across my vision.
I called the car.
While I waited, the crowd scattered from the rain. Most didn't even have coats, just boosted limbs and damp tempers. My ride rolled to a halt in front of me, black frame gleaming, engine stuttering like it had a hangover. I stepped into the street feeling like my head stayed upstairs.
There's a pattern I can't shake. Same streets, same shadows, same mistakes. I keep circling them like orbit decay, getting closer to the crash every time.
I used to think the black dog followed me. Now I know better. I am the black dog. All teeth and bone and bad instinct. Just another shape skulking through rain-slick alleys, too used to the dark to be afraid of it.
The knot inside me had been there for years. A reminder I hadn't let go. A reminder I couldn't.
Tonight, everything blurred. Predator, prey. Didn't matter. The run and the chase were the same now. Maybe it always was. Maybe I was just the one holding the gun this time.
Concrete canyons swallowed me, neon signs blinking like lazy sentinels. My shadow stretched wrong beside me, long-limbed and sharp-edged, moving like it had a mind of its own.
That damned dog, that version of me, kept tailing every step I took. Somewhere up ahead, the sun would rise. I'd meet it charging headfirst. Because this only ends one way.
Another day was waiting to gut me, same as the last.
I knew it had to end but everything about this felt like the start of something worse.
And when the sun finally showed its face, I'd be driving straight into it. To burn within.
Someone else's car slammed the brakes, tires shrieking. Horn blared. Driver leaned out the window, yelling something about me being blind or suicidal.
I'm like blind man, lost in the streets. It wasn't far from the truth.
I climbed into my own car. Before shifting into drive, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the data shard Silvio had left. Rough little thing, barely labeled. I slid it into the dash slot in my car.
There was a soft tone.
[System verification complete: no threats detected.]
I pulled the shard free from the socket and slotted it into my personal port.
My HUD spat out the usual flood but I ignored the fluff and pulled up the facility map. Coordinates locked on the east end, buried in that no-man's zone of rusted-out factories and terminal rot. Warehouse 72.
My HUD blinked, Jessica. A message pinged soft.
"Hi, big bro. Me, Marty, and a few of the old crew were thinking of coming by. Just to hang out—like the old days. You can't say no. We'll be there tonight. Miss you. XoXo."
I stared at it for a long moment. I didn't deserve a visit. But I wasn't going to stop it.
Then shut the message.
The blueprint stabilized. Rectangular, three levels: main floor, sublevel, and a partial second story. Front entrance fed into a reception area, security booth to the right. Three hallways split from there. Warehouse wing, admin side, and freight corridor.
A recessed loading dock sat on the west, three intake bays, one busted. Adjacent garage had maintenance space, storage lockers.
Sublevel 1 held power systems and a room labeled Storage B, positioned right beside an elevator shaft that led to Sublevel 2. That lower floor was mostly blank, just one long room and another unlabeled block beneath reinforced structure.
No automated defenses. No registered security contracts. But that didn't mean it was safe. Someone had gone through a lot of effort to leave this place off the grid.
Silvio's team would've likely entered through the main freight corridor. It was the only access point wide enough for bulk movement and had a direct path to Storage B, where the layout suggested cargo was processed. Any other entrance would've bottlenecked a group and exposed them in the reception zone.
Storage B made the most sense for where the cargo went. Centrally located, right beside the elevator to Sublevel 2.
The radio kicked in static first, then some blues track dragging its feet through the speakers. I changed it. Didn't need a soundtrack for what came next.
Outside, the roads were getting slick, a film of water turning the asphalt glassy. I hadn't planned on fixing this heap. Wasn't expecting to be driving it again, either. Not after the kind of thoughts I'd been having.
The city stirred. Ghosts behind glass, sleepwalkers on sidewalks. I let the car drift, half on instinct, half on memory.. Early risers with nothing left in the tank, marching toward another gray hour.
I turned off the street, the suspension groaning—complaining like everything else in this city when it's asked to move somewhere it doesn't want to go. A second later, I checked the mirror again.
Same car again. Slowed when I did. Stayed two cars back through three turns. Not close enough to call it—but close enough for instinct to notice. I slid over a lane without signaling. They followed. Confirmed.
Incoming call: [MARTY // SecureLine Comlink ID: 02-458-19].
My neural comm buzzed once.
"You're still breathing, Bale?"
It was Marty. Old friend.
"Barely," I muttered. "Why, you miss me?"
"Just checking in," he said. "Got a weird feeling this morning."
"They don't work too well when you're hungover, Marty."
He chuckled. "We all miss you down at the station. Jessica even mentioned getting a few of us together to come visit."
"I was out of the city for a while," I said, brushing it off.
"Yeah, I figured. Just letting you know... you ever wanna talk, I'm around."
"I'm in perfect condition, Marty."
He let out a dry laugh. "Sure. Jessica'll probably reached out. Just a heads-up."
"I'm not in the mood."
"I get it," he said. Then, a beat. "Bale? I talked with the old man… the chief. He said if you came in and talked, he'd take you back. But you gotta be sober."
"Not interested," I said flatly.
"Don't do anything stupid today, Bale."
"No promises," I said, and killed the call.
I sat with the silence for a moment after the call. Marty meant well. They all did. But I wasn't wired for reunions. Not anymore.
Pulled the route overlay again. East side. Warehouse 72.
I checked the rearview. Same car.
Popped open the stash shelf beneath the dash. Pulled out the handgun and a bottle of cheap vodka. Took a swallow, burned like plastic but it scratched the edge off. Then I chucked it into the backseat without looking.
First rule of trailing someone, don't get noticed.
Let them come.