The walk back to the workshop, Unit B17, felt like a sad and lonely funeral march. Each step Ace took felt heavier than the last, as if he were being weighed down by the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket and the impossible choice he now had to make. The cheerful, normal activity of the city happening around him felt like a cruel joke. How could people be laughing, shopping, and simply living their lives while his own world was collapsing into a nightmare ruled by crime lords and haunted by digital ghosts?
He finally reached the heavy steel door of the workshop and stopped, his hand hovering over the intercom button. From inside, he could hear the faint, tinny sound of music playing—it was Silva's attempt to create some sense of normalcy. Ace took a deep, steadying breath to prepare himself, then pressed the button and spoke the all-clear code they had established days earlier. "Nighthawk's perch," he said.
