Owen never liked the Oriental District, not even before the market's black veins started pulsing with secondhand neon and half-baked desperation. It was a predator's paradise—every step tracked, every corridor alive with invisible teeth. Today, the megatower's thirty-nine-floor lobby looked like a trading pit during a market crash, but with less decorum and more knives.
He and Jane moved through the crowd in near silence. Their faces had been re-skinned with glamour—a tweak to cheekbones, a softening of Jane's jaw, a tint to Owen's eyes that made him look more lamb than wolf. Their suits were off-the-rack, even a little rumpled. The only thing that didn't fit was the way they watched every reflection, every jitter in the air.
They took the elevator up, bypassed a retina scanner with a borrowed subdermal, and emerged in a hallway lined with lacquered doors and mana-choked security glyphs. At Suite 3912, Jane knocked three times—once polite, twice threatening.
The fixer opened up. He was thin in that way only city dwellers could be, stretched by caffeine and anxiety. His eyes were the color of water after a chemical spill—clear, but never clean. A bare patch of scalp twitched under the embedded AR jack.
"You're early," the fixer said, voice stripped of affect.
"Efficiency is my stock-in-trade," Jane replied, slipping into the room first, Owen a silent shadow behind her.
The suite was empty but for a battered smart-desk, a cheap kettle, and a wall of antique holo-charts running finance feeds. The fixer motioned for them to sit, then poured three cups of tea. It was a formality; nobody drank.
"We're here for a liquidity position in biotech," Jane said. "Narrow time window, top-end risk."
The fixer nodded, eyes flicking over Owen, then back to Jane. "You'll be bidding against at least one other fund. Domestic. They want the same asset. Security's already been flagged—if you go in, you'll set off a squeeze."
Owen let the metaphor ride. "What's the float on the Bridge?"
The fixer's jaw twitched. "Heard about that. Synthetic channeler, right? Market says it's a bomb. Some say it's leverage. Word is, whoever gets it first gets to set the terms for the next cycle."
Jane's lips thinned. "Who's on the other side?"
The fixer didn't answer, but glanced at the holo-feeds—specifically, at the one tagged with a ad about a lion. "They don't call from here. But they're very interested in the core."
Jane shifted in her seat, letting her hand rest on the arm of the chair, where her pulse would be visible if anyone was looking for tells. "Any recent volatility?"
"Last night," the fixer said, "someone tried to front-run the cycle. Got vaporized by the desk. After that, the volume tripled."
Owen smiled, barely. "Someone always tries the shortcut."
The fixer leaned in, lowering his voice. "This isn't just a portfolio rebalance. There are more players on that project. Some of them aren't even on the books."
Jane nodded once, then produced a data stick, set it on the table. "We'll take the first look. Give us the real schedule."
The fixer picked up the stick, slipped it into a slot under his thumb. He checked the transfer—no words exchanged, just a series of tight, confirming nods.
Jane stood, smoothing her sleeve. "Pleasure doing business."
The fixer's pupils dilated as he watched them leave. "Watch your six," he said, not quite a warning, not quite a wish.
They left together, silent until the elevator hit the ground.
Owen exhaled. "I hate that place."
Jane grinned, feral. "That's because you've never loved anyone more than yourself."
Owen almost smiled. "What is that supposed to mean?."
Lockwood's air was thick with the byproducts of regret: smoke, burnt oil, spilled beer, the undertone of old magic. The bar was called MIRROR, but the only things that reflected were the eyes of its regulars, each set to their own wavelength of paranoia.
Ellen Lee entered first, sweeping the room with a gaze that never focused on any one face for more than half a second. She found the mark immediately: ex-Lancaster tech, alone at the far end, slumped over a bottle and a glass already emptied twice. Ellen took a seat by the exit, angled so her back never faced the door.
Hazel followed, playing the role of uncertain apprentice—shoulders hunched, steps measured, a nervous energy that drew just enough attention. She ordered something sweet, then drifted toward the mark, tracing an arc that would take her by his side without ever suggesting intent.
The tech was drunk, but not stupid. He glanced at Hazel, then looked away, then back again. "You from corporate?" he asked, slurred but sharp.
Hazel shook her head, eyes wide behind the glasses. "Freelance," she said. "Just looking to network."
He laughed, bitter. "Only thing you'll catch is a pink slip. Lancaster fired half my floor last month."
Hazel slid into the seat beside him, dropping her voice. "But you still know where they keep the good stuff, right?"
The tech's fingers tapped the bar in a nervous rhythm. "Maybe. Why?"
Hazel leaned in, lowering her guard, letting him think he was in control. "Because there's a job, and if you know the gaps, you can name your price."
The tech looked at her, then at his empty glass, then at her again. "Double whiskey," he said to the bartender, then to Hazel, "and I'll tell you a story."
She bought him the drink. He downed half, then started talking, eyes fixed on the wall behind the bar.
"Security got tight last week. Brought in mercs, real pros, not like the usual muscle. But the weird part? Stuff kept going wrong anyway. Doors locked from the inside, sensors tripped for no reason, once even a blackout on the subfloor. When I tried to fix it, got stonewalled—access revoked, no explanation. Boss said it was a 'test of response protocols.'"
Hazel scribbled notes in her head, careful not to show any tells. "Who's running point on the upgrades?"
The tech snorted. "Nobody I recognized. Foreigners. All their creds checked out, but nobody had a past. They worked fast, and they didn't ask questions."
Ellen kept her eyes on the exits, counting bodies, mapping escape vectors. She watched as Hazel turned the tech's bitterness into information, never breaking cover.
Hazel pressed. "Any word about what they're protecting? I heard a rumor it's a prototype."
The tech finished his whiskey, voice a gravel scrape. "I don't know what it is, but I know what it isn't—it's not safe. Whatever they're doing in that vault, it scares even the new guards. They all wear some kind of talisman, like they're warding off a curse."
Hazel smiled, small and earnest. "Thanks. That helps a lot."
She stood, left a twenty on the bar, and melted into the crowd. Ellen met her by the door, and together they slipped out, taking three separate routes back to the station before regrouping in a dim-lit alley.
"Anything?" Ellen asked, voice as sharp as the night.
Hazel nodded. "More than I wanted."
Ellen gave her a rare, approving look. "You did good."
Hazel glanced back at the bar, then up at the sky. "It's never just about the tech, is it?"
Ellen shook her head. "Never."