Rainwater coursed along the gutter's edge, picking up cigarette ends and scraps of noodle wrapper. Street lamps buzzed overhead, their halos fractured by the steam drifting up from vent grates. Somewhere deeper in the block, a synth drumline thudded under the high, quick pitch of laughter that wasn't entirely friendly.
Lina moved through it like she belonged. Black hair tied in a loose ponytail, strands damp against her cheek, she kept her pace steady, counting the steps between awnings. People glanced once, then looked away. It wasn't her height or her frame that did it. It was the name behind her, and the way she carried herself like someone who didn't need to raise her voice to be heard.
The protection run tonight was short: three shops, two corner stalls, and the lane behind the old freight depot.
The sound reached her as she turned past the depot wall, a rough voice cutting through the steam, followed by a muffled protest.
A man in a cracked leather jacket had a girl pressed against the bricks, one hand braced beside her head, the other tightening on her wrist. He was broad-shouldered, heavyset, the kind built for breaking things.
Makeup streaked at the corners of the girl's eyes; her ankle strap dangled broken over a bare foot. Lina's jaw tightened—this one was under Marcelli protection.
"Walk away," the man said without looking up. His vowels came slow and half-swallowed, the kind that belonged to the docks of Sector Seven.
Lina's eyes flicked to the alley mouth—no backup in sight. She stepped closer, tilting her head like she was trying to place his face.
"You're a long way from your block," she said. "And you're holding the wrong person."
He smirked, gave her the once-over. "You the welcoming committee?"
She smiled without humor, let the coins in her pocket click together as she shifted her weight. "No. I'm the bill collector. And she's already paid."
The girl's eyes widened; the man's narrowed into something closer to amusement.
He turned fully now, the cracked leather pulling taut across a broad chest inked with a faded pirate sigil—skull, cutlass, and the curling letters of a name worn almost to blur.
A slow grin split his face. "Big talk for a kid."
He reached out, fingers spread, aiming to close them around her collar.
Lina moved too fast, shoulder clipping the wall as his grip caught her jacket and yanked her forward. Pain jolted through her ribs. Her left arm snapped up—blue filaments flaring under synthskin as servos whined and a hydraulic pulse thumped through the joint. The force drove into her grip with a sudden jolt, like a piston firing.
She caught his thumb, messy at first, his knuckles still scraping her cheek. He shoved back, raw bulk straining against her. For a heartbeat it was muscle against steel, and he nearly had her pinned.
Then the hydraulics surged again, a sharp hiss followed by the heavy clunk of pressure release. Power spiked down her arm, twisting his wrist until his knee buckled under the torque.
She staggered free, breath ragged, and drove a boot into his ribs. The kick landed off-balance, more brute shove than clean strike, but enough to knock the air out of him and send his eyes darting toward the mouth of the alley.
Five figures filled the gap—broad-shouldered, faces hard under the dim lamp glow, each holding something heavy enough to make a point. One stepped forward and drove a boot square into the pirate's backside, sending him stumbling a pace.
"Fuck off, pirate," the man said, the words flat as stone.
The pirate caught himself on the wall, spun halfway back with a snarl. "I'll be back for you bastards—you hear me?" His voice echoed rough through the steam, but his feet were already carrying him toward the street.
"Tell your boss," Lina called after him, "next time he sends someone, make sure they know the rules."
The girl rubbed her wrist, glancing at Lina with something like gratitude—then her eyes flicked past her, catching the five men still blocking the alley mouth. The gratitude thinned into wariness.
Lina reached out, fingers tilting the girl's chin toward the light. "You don't look hurt," she said, though up close the face was younger than she'd expected.
Then Lina slid a crumpled chit from her jacket and pressed it into the girl's palm. "This week's covered. Next week, same time. Don't make me come looking."
The girl gave Lina a quick, uncertain smile, then turned and ran barefoot into the street, her high heels clutched in one hand. Lina watched her go—red dress slipping between bodies in the crowd, long curls clinging damply to one shoulder, her pace quick and fixed straight ahead.
For a moment Lina's jaw worked, something unsaid catching in her throat. Too young, she thought. She should still be sitting in some classroom, bent over a screen, not running barefoot down a rain-slick street.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the chit book in her pocket, restless, before she turned away. The five men were still waiting, their faces blank, as if none of them had noticed her pause.
A hand tapped her left shoulder.
"Is that your type?" The voice was flat, almost bored.
She turned to see Yuri Sokolov—bald, not broad-shouldered, but with the compact frame of someone who'd been in more fights than he'd lost. His left eye was a dull chrome implant, the iris cycling faintly as it refocused, a constant whirr just beneath the skin. His jacket was a dark windbreaker, the cuffs frayed, and the curve of his cauliflower ear caught the light.
Lina laughed. "No. Too young."
Yuri hesitated, then leaned in slightly. "Boss wants you to stay close. Sector's not calm right now. He asked us to keep an eye on you."
"It's fine. I know this area better than anyone." Her eyes swept the street, noting the cluster of men at the far end, several of them with red bandanas knotted at their necks. "But why so many pirates lately? They all here on holiday?"
"We heard they're here for something big," Yuri said. "Boss has other people watching them already. But you'll be safe with us."
His hand drifted to the pistol under his jacket, fingers resting there as if checking its weight.
Yuri said nothing more. Lina gave a small nod and set off; the five at the alley mouth fell in behind her.
By the time they reached the main street, the steam had thinned and the lamps burned a cleaner white. Her notebook felt heavier in her pocket, three collections still to go before curfew.
She angled her route toward the far end, where the cluster of pirates loitered under a flickering sign. The five men behind her kept pace, eyes locked on the group ahead. At the corner, she paused just long enough to spit on the pavement, the arc landing where they could see it, before turning into the next street.
The pirates saw. A dozen shapes shifted under the sign's stuttering light, their red bandanas stark against the glow. None stepped forward, not with her crew at her back, but their eyes tracked her—cold, lingering, the kind of stare that promised this wasn't finished. One muttered something low; another laughed without mirth. The sound carried down the street, thin and sharp as broken glass.
Lina didn't slow. She felt their gaze follow her until the corner swallowed her from sight. Her fingers slipped into her jacket, brushing the pistol grip. The metal was cool, grounding. She didn't draw, not yet—just let the weight remind her it was there. The steady shuffle of her men's boots behind her kept the pirates at a distance, but the knot in her chest said this wasn't over.
Lina's father ran the largest crew in sector 9, though he never called it a gang. To him, it was business. Say the name _Enzo Marcelli_ in this city and you'd see it—half fear, half respect. He dealt fair: pay your dues and you were covered, whether the threat came from crooked officials or from some idiot with a knife.
Whether the Church was part of that bargain, Lina wasn't sure. It was a distant voice from Sector 9, something that lived more in radio sermons than in the streets. Still, it was the only thing that made her hesitate. She'd seen what their god, Aurelion, could do, and once, standing at a church gate, she'd felt as if every thought in her head had been stripped bare. She didn't like that feeling. Here, at least, the officials spoke to gangsters more than they ever spoke to the altar. They didn't have to deal with the Church yet.
Lina was Enzo's only daughter, smart enough to have ended up a scientist or a lawyer in Sector One. Someone had even joked she might be the first woman to wear the priest's robes. No one could explain why she'd come back to this mess, wading through streets full of people who'd long since stopped hoping.
Her thumb tapped the pistol grip once, restless. Now pirates were drifting into their streets, loud and careless. Lina felt the itch to teach them a lesson. She had never killed before, but she imagined it wouldn't be too hard—if the target was one of them. She'd heard what they did in Sector 7: hanging civilians, cutting out eyes for sport. That would not happen here. Not in a city her family controlled. Not in a city they promised to protect.
------
The streets widened as Lina led her crew toward the Richmond Strip. The gutters were crowded with shapes huddled in plastic sheets, faces hollowed by rain and hunger. They barely looked up when boots splashed past.
Lina thought there seemed to be more of them lately, another tide the city never stopped spitting out. One man reached out, mumbling for change, and Yuri shoved him back with a growl. Lina didn't slow. Handouts never fixed anything here. Whatever coins you dropped ended up traded for dust or cheap gin before the night was over.
Neon bled across puddles where the storm drains overflowed, painting the concrete in streaks of pink and green. The air carried yeast and smoke, sour and damp; every other doorway had a barrel tucked inside, cheap brew stacked high in cloudy jugs, sold by the liter to anyone desperate enough to forget.
They stopped outside a warehouse with a faded Lone Star mural on the wall. The sign above the door read **NAVARRO & SONS – IMPORTS**, though everyone knew the Navarro family brewed their "imports" in copper tanks two floors up.
Inside, warmth clung heavy with the scent of malt. Stacked crates lined the walls, some branded, some blank. A half-dozen men in sweat-darkened shirts moved between them, hefting boxes, rolling barrels. When Lina and her crew stepped through the door, the rhythm faltered. A few glances cut her way—tight mouths, eyes sharp with dislike—but no one spoke. They just kept their distance, tools still in hand, watching from the edges of the floor.
Behind the counter stood old man Navarro himself, his white shirt yellowed at the collar, sleeves rolled to show wiry arms. His left arm wasn't flesh at all but a polished steel replacement, the fingers moving with a faint hydraulic hiss as he wiped a glass. His eyes flicked to Lina the second she walked in.
"Señorita Marcelli," Navarro said, the smile tight. "Right on time."
Lina leaned her elbow on the counter, her notebook opening with an easy flick. "You've always been punctual too, Señor Navarro. My father appreciates steady partners."
Navarro gave a short nod, then bent to drag a battered metal case up from behind the counter. The latches clicked open just enough for her to glimpse the stacked bills before he snapped it shut again. He slid the case across the wood with both hands, the scrape loud in the quiet room.
His palms lingered on the metal. "Business is harder now. Strangers coming in, asking who we pay, what moves through our doors. Some of them wearing red." His eyes flicked toward the doorway, then back to her. "You tell your father, people are nervous."
Lina rested her hand lightly on the case, fingers drumming against the cool steel as if testing its balance. Her smile was polite, almost reassuring.
"I'll tell him. You've always kept your word with us, Navarro. And as long as you do, nobody touches your business."
Navarro's shoulders eased at her words, the tightness in his jaw softening into something closer to relief. He bent under the counter again, and when he straightened, a dark glass bottle sat in his mechanical grip. Straw netting wrapped the body, the gold lettering on its label catching the light.
"Opus One, Napa Valley," he said, setting it down with care. "I hear your father's expecting an important guest soon. This deserves a place on the table."
The steel fingers drummed once against the glass before he reached down again. This time he brought up a slender bottle of clear gin, the etched juniper crest gleaming faintly. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"And this," Navarro added, sliding it toward her, "is for you, señorita. Thought you might prefer something sharper."
Lina blinked, caught off guard. For a second her practiced calm slipped—her grin broke too wide, almost girlish, and she had to bite it back. She lifted the bottle, tilting it toward the light as if stalling for time, then gave a quick laugh that came out a touch higher than she meant. "You… heard right. I do."
Her tone was lighter now, playful, but not quite under control.
Lina tucked the gin under her arm and stepped back out into the night. The warehouse's warmth gave way to damp air, the steam from the gutters curling around her as she lit a cigarette. The first drag settled sharp in her lungs, steadying her.
Her men lingered by the door, waiting. She exhaled smoke, then jerked her chin toward the street corner where a knot of vagrants huddled beneath a torn plastic sheet.
"Go," she said. "Bread, stew, whatever you can find. Hand it out. Make sure they eat it before it gets traded."
They hesitated only a moment before two of them peeled off, boots splashing toward the market stalls.
From the doorway, Navarro watched in silence, steel fingers still curled around the rim of a glass. His gaze followed the men disappearing into the night, then returned to Lina. The smoke framed her face in pale ribbons, her eyes fixed on the street as if she belonged to it.
He shook his head once, almost to himself. _Too soft,_ he thought. _Enzo's girl will never hold this city the way he does._