Before Gray could form words to reply the floor hummed again—longer this time, deep enough to crawl up Mara's legs and settle behind her eyes like a second pulse.
The silence didn't last.
Gray's head snapped up.
"That's not structural," he said.
Mara swallowed. "What is it."
He checked the regulator on his wrist. The screen flickered, recalibrated twice, then locked onto a thin blinking line.
"Transit reroute," he said. "Power shift along the southern grid."
Another vibration rippled through the room. This one came with a sound—metal adjusting somewhere deep and distant, like a throat clearing before speech.
From above, glass clinked. A chair scraped.
Dungle's voice drifted down the stairwell, cheerful and sharp-edged. "That'll be your cue."
They climbed the stairs into the back corridors of the bar, where the walls were closer and the lights dimmer. People waited there—not customers, not quite staff.
A woman, who looked a bit older than Gray and about the same height as him straightened from a chair she was slouching on slowly.
She had hair—long, dark, threaded with copper filaments that glimmered when she moved, half pulled back by a fraying band, the rest loose and clinging to her neck where sweat met metal. She looked like she belonged to places the city pretended not to map.
Her smile came easy.
"That's the grid shifting," Patch said, lazy drawl wrapping around the words. "South-side reroute. Means something down there just got impatient."
"I'm aware." Gray said.
Her gaze slid to Gray before it ever touched Mara.
"Well," she added, voice dropping a note as she took a step closer, "if it isn't my favorite liability."
Gray exhaled slowly, like he was counting. "Patch. You're still breathing."
Patch's grin widened. "You sound disappointed."
"Statistically surprised."
She laughed—low, warm, completely wrong for the corridor—and kept walking until she was well inside his space. Too close to be accidental. Close enough that Mara could see the faint scar at Patch's collarbone and the way Gray's jaw tightened, just barely.
"You vanish for cycles," Patch said, tilting her head, eyes roaming his face with open curiosity. "Then reappear owing Dungle money and dragging a civilian with you."
Mara bristled instantly. "I'm right here."
Patch finally looked at her.
She stepped closer—too close—tilting her head as if inspecting a machine. "You don't look like his type."
Mara stiffened. "His type for what."
Patch's gaze flicked to Gray. "Trouble."
The smile didn't fade. It sharpened.
Her eyes flicked over Mara's coat, her stance, the way she held herself like she was bracing against impact. Then she noticed the keepsong sitting on Mara's chest. Dormant.
"mmm, that's something." Patch hummed under her breath, a sound that sat uncomfortably between appraisal and amusement.
Gray shifted, a deliberate half-step that put him squarely between them. "Patch."
"Relax," Patch replied, hands lifting in mock surrender. "I'm appreciating. Not touching."
She leaned back just enough to make it obvious she could step forward again if she wanted to. Her fingers slid through her hair, copper filaments catching the light as she twisted them around her knuckles.
"You always did have a thing for quiet disasters," she said, eyes never leaving Mara now.
"I don't have a thing for anything," Gray shot back. "That's how I'm still alive."
Patch clicked her tongue. "That's what you said last time too."
Mara crossed her arms, irritation cutting through the unease. "Does everyone in this place talk like they're halfway through a private joke?"
Patch's attention snapped back to her, delighted. "Oh, she has teeth."
Gray groaned quietly. "Patch—"
"What?" Patch said innocently. "I like her. She looks like she's one bad decision away from biting someone."
Mara met her gaze, unflinching. "You get closer and you'll find out."
For a heartbeat, Patch looked genuinely impressed.
Then she laughed again, stepping back at last. "Oh, Gray," she said. "You really do pick the fun ones. I can work with this."
Gray didn't respond. His eyes were on Mara now, checking—measuring. Making sure she was still grounded.
Patch noticed.
Something unreadable flickered across her face.
"Careful," she said lightly. "If you keep standing like that, people might think you care."
She turned and kicked open a locker welded into the wall. The door shrieked.
"Gear up," Patch said. "South Underline doesn't like bare skin."
From the stairwell above, Dungle's voice cut in, cheerful as ever. "Clock's ticking."
Mara turned toward him. "Why are there others coming with us."
Dungle blinked, genuinely surprised she'd asked. Then he smiled wider.
"Insurance," he said.
"Insurance for what."
"For when one of you doesn't come back." he replied easily.
Mara stared at him.
Patch snorted. "He's nothing if not efficient."
Mara didn't respond. She didn't understand—but she also didn't ask again.
She turned back toward Gray as Patch continued prepping equipment.
"Who is she," Mara asked quietly.
Gray didn't look at her at first. "Trouble."
"That's vague."
"She fixes things that shouldn't work," he said. "Breaks things that should. Doesn't ask permission."
Patch glanced over her shoulder. "I can hear you, you know."
"Nosey as always." Gray replied.
Patch smirked. "You always did like dangerous women."
Mara shot him a look.
Gray sighed, turning away to avoid further conversation.
She circled Gray once again, eyes tracing him like she was checking inventory. "You look worse."
"..."
"No, I mean it," she said lightly. "Less reckless. More tired. That's new."
Gray shrugged. "Circumstances."
She stopped in front of him, close enough that Mara felt the space tighten.
"You owe Dungle because you froze," Patch said, tone almost conversational.
Gray's jaw tightened. "That's not what happened."
"You hesitated," she corrected. "Which is worse."
Mara blinked. "Hesitated about what."
Patch glanced at her again, then back at Gray. "He didn't tell you?"
"No," Gray said flatly.
Patch's smile widened. "Good. Means you still have standards."
Patch didn't announce the gear. She spread it out.
She cleared a section of the table with one sweep of her arm, sending scraps and empty casings clattering to the floor. What she laid down instead looked… deliberate. Chosen. Nothing shiny. Nothing new.
"Alright," she said, planting her palms on the metal. "This is what keeps you breathing."
Mara leaned in despite herself.
The first thing Patch picked up was a lamp.
It was old—older than most things Mara handled day to day. Heavy casing. Matte metal dulled by years of use. The glass wasn't clear; it had a faint amber clouding to it, like it remembered too many nights.
Mara's throat tightened.
"That's an Afterglow," she said quietly before she could stop herself.
Patch glanced up, surprised. "You recognize it?"
"I saw units like this in a museum," Mara said. "Second generation. Backup lighting. Low-frequency output."
Gray's eyes flicked to her. "You didn't mention that."
"I didn't think it mattered."
Patch smiled slowly. "It does."
She thumbed the switch. The lamp bloomed to life—not bright, not dramatic. Just present. The light sat in the air instead of cutting through it.
"South Underline eats modern light," Patch said. "Adaptive lamps try to compensate. They spike. That spike rings."
"Rings like…?" Mara asked.
Patch tilted her head. "Like someone clearing their throat in a quiet room."
Gray nodded. "Drones don't hunt sound. They hunt deviation."
Mara stared at the lamp. The memory of the Nursery flooded in—those same dim halos, the way the walls had seemed to breathe around them.
Patch slid the lamp toward Mara. "You carry this. You don't flick it. You don't dim it. You let it be ugly."
Before Mara could respond, Patch grabbed her wrist.
Mara stiffened.
"Relax." Patch murmured, fingers warm, confident.
She snapped a thin band into place around Mara's wrist. It tightened briefly—testing—then settled.
"That's a vitals loop," Patch said. "Heart rate, neural stress, balance feedback. It'll buzz if you're about to pass out or panic."
"And if I ignore it?"
Patch shrugged. "Then the CCD logs you as 'uncooperative.'"
Mara frowned. "CCD?"
Len, who had been silent until now, looked up from his case.
"The CCD," he said calmly.
His voice was soft. Too measured. He couldn't have been more than eighteen—slight frame, narrow shoulders, hair pulled back neatly like he'd never let it get in his way. His eyes were sharp in a way that made Mara uncomfortable, like he was looking through people instead of at them.
"Canteros Coalescence Database," he continued. "Centralized biometric convergence. Keeps track of what the city agrees you are."
Mara stared at him. "That's… unsettling."
Len smiled faintly. "Most accurate systems are."
Patch leaned in toward Mara, stage-whispering. "It sounds creepy but he's right. Not many civilians know of the CCD."
Len didn't react.
Patch reached for another device—a flat, disc-like module with faint grooves etched across its surface. She turned it in her hands like she was weighing it.
"Frequency harmonizer," she said. "We activate this near drones or checkpoints."
"What does it do?" Mara asked.
Patch's smile turned sly. "It lies."
Gray elaborated. "It mimics ambient harmonics. Makes us sound like infrastructure instead of people."
"Walls," Patch added. "Pipes. Forgotten things."
Patch tapped the device twice. "Which means if you're boring enough, the city ignores you. Use it as an insurance for the worst case scenario if we are flagged."
She slid it toward Gray. "You carry this. You've got the steadiest hand."
Gray accepted it without comment.
Patch looked Mara up and down like she was inventory that had arrived late and unlabelled.
"Okay," she said. "Before we pretend you belong anywhere near South Underline, we need to talk about that."
Mara glanced down at herself.
Rugged pants—patched at the knees, the fabric stiff from old repairs. A drop-shoulder shirt that hung too loose on one side and clung awkwardly on the other. A torn jacket she'd mended with wire instead of thread because it held better. Her hair was a mess she'd stopped trying to argue with years ago—tied back, half escaped, frizzed by dust and sweat.
"What's wrong with it," Mara asked defensively.
Patch snorted. "You look like a maintenance spill that learned how to walk."
"That's not helpful," Gray pitched in immediately.
"It's accurate," Patch replied. "She looks like someone who fixes broken things for food. South Underline eats people like that first."
Mara bristled. "I prefer legal means to make a living."
"Ouch, strong words."
Patch reached behind her and pulled free a coat.
It unfolded slowly—long, heavy, dark. Not synthetic. Not standardized. The material drank light instead of reflecting it, the surface worn smooth in places by hands that had known how to hold it.
Mara's breath hitched.
"What is that," she asked.
Patch smiled. "Leather."
Mara frowned. "That's… illegal."
Gray stiffened slightly.
"Not illegal," Patch corrected. "Obsolete. Directorate stopped standardizing it decades ago. Too inconsistent. Too human."
Mara reached out without realizing it, fingers hovering just above the surface. "I've never seen real leather."
Patch raised an eyebrow. "You've never worn it either."
"I can't afford—"
Patch waved her off. "Nobody affords leather. It's inherited, stolen, or earned badly."
She stepped closer, lifting the coat and holding it up against Mara's shoulders without asking. The weight settled immediately, unfamiliar and grounding.
Mara sucked in a breath. "It's heavy."
"Good," Patch said. "You won't forget it's there."
She reached past Mara, yanked a length of heavy cloth from a hook, and snapped it up between two pipes. It sagged in the middle, thin enough to cast silhouettes if the light hit it right.
"Behind that," Patch said. "Now."
Mara blinked. "You're serious."
Patch glanced at the sagging curtain. "Unless you want Len to get an anatomy lesson."
"I don't," Mara said immediately.
Len, without looking up from his device, added, "I wouldn't mind."
"You miserable pervert. Aren't you too young to talk like this?" Gray said, shutting Len down.
"Patch. Does she have to really change here? " he said, warning already in his voice.
"What," Patch replied. "Not like the city's going to give her privacy."
Mara hesitated, then stepped behind the cloth. Patch followed her inside like it was normal.
The air felt colder there. Closer.
She pulled her jacket off first. The sound of fabric sliding felt too loud. Her hands shook slightly as she folded it, tucking it under her arm like it might anchor her.
"Outer layers first." Patch said, practical.
Mara swallowed. "You could try not watching. Why do you have to be in here with me?"
Patch snorted. "If I weren't here you'd do it wrong."
Mara closed her eyes briefly as she began pulling her shirt over her head but stopped midway.
The memory hit her without warning.
Steam. Stone floors slick with condensation. The bathhouse on the outskirts—cracked tiles, rusted rails, water that never quite got hot enough. Sene sitting on the edge of the water, feet dangling, laughing while she scrubbed soap into Mara's hair like it was a personal project.
You can't keep ignoring your body forever, Sene had said. It's the only one you've got.
Mara's chest tightened. The keepsong chimed so quietly that only she could hear it.
"Stop looking at me like that," Mara whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word. Heat pulsed low in her belly, unwanted, undeniable.
"Like what?" Patch took one step forward. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that Mara could smell oil and worn leather and the faint metallic bite of copper. "You're flushed from your throat to your navel."
Mara's breath came shallow. She felt humiliated. She had only ever shown her body bare to Sene.
Patch studied her the way she studied engines: dispassionate, thorough, already calculating weak points.
"Take the shirt off," she said. "Slow. Let me see what Gray's risking everything for."
Mara felt the vibration of the chip implanted in the back of her neck like a warning asking her to obey.
Gray's voice from outside was hoarse. "Patch. I swear."
Mara's hands stayed locked in place for a long moment. Then they moved—slow, reluctant—to the hem of the t-shirt.
She lifted it inch by inch.
The fabric dragged over her stomach, past the dip of her navel, under the heavy undersides of her breasts. She paused once, arms crossed over her chest again, the shirt bunched just below them. Then she pulled it the rest of the way over her head.
Cotton whispered against skin as it came free.
She dropped it to the floor beside the jacket.
Now she stood bare from the waist up—skin prickling in the cool air, breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath, nipples tight and dark against flushed skin.
Patch let out a single low breath.
"Jesus," she said, almost to herself. "She's lethal."
Mara didn't move. Couldn't. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was sure Patch could see it. The silence stretched, thick with everything unspoken.
"Now I get it," Patch said lazily. "I was wondering why you dragged this one along."
Mara's stomach twisted. "Shut up before I-"
"Before you what sweetie?" Patch said, smiling.
Gray raised his voice. "That's enough."
"Hush, pretty boy," Patch shot back. "Your girl's giving me a masterclass in anatomy. Least you can do is let me enjoy the view."
"She's not my girl. Hurry up. We're on the clock."
The new clothes waited in Mara's hands—smooth, unfamiliar, too well-made for someone like her.
Patch's voice drifted in. "Your old jacket—how long you had it?"
"Five years," Mara said.
Patch hummed. "Too long."
"It still worked."
"That's not the same thing," Patch replied. "That jacket told everyone you were invisible on purpose."
Mara slid into the new shirt. The fabric adjusted subtly—no static, no pull—settling against her skin like it was learning her shape.
Patch's voice cut in, sharper now. "Hold on."
Mara froze. "What."
"You're twisting it," Patch said. "Left sleeve first. The seams are reinforced—you fight them, they fight back. Arms up."
Mara obeyed despite herself.
Patch adjusted the fabric with quick, precise movements—never touching skin, but close enough that Mara could feel heat and presence.
"Relax," Patch murmured. "I'm not trying to steal you from anyone."
Gray snapped, "stop."
Patch straightened, grinning. "Boring as always Gray."
"You don't know when to quit."
Patch shrugged. "That's why people hire me."
Mara tugged the leather coat on last.
The weight settled across her shoulders, the length brushing her calves. She caught a glimpse of herself in the reflective metal panel nearby and barely recognized the silhouette.
She stepped out from behind the curtain.
The room went quiet.
Patch's eyes dragged slowly over her, unapologetic. "There it is."
Mara crossed her arms, suddenly self-conscious. "What."
"You look like someone who gets asked questions instead of ignored," Patch said. "That's dangerous, and hot."
Gray finally turned. He took one look—then deliberately looked away again.
"They fit," he said tightly.
Patch laughed. "You're such a liar."
"I'm focused."
"Sure you are."
Patch snapped back into motion. "Alright. Enough appreciation."
Mara adjusted the collar, fingers brushing the leather again. It felt wrong. And right. And expensive in ways she didn't understand.
She hated that she liked it.
She hated that she felt seen.
Sene would have loved to see her like this.
Patch leaned in one last time, voice low. "Try not to get attached. Clothes like that tend to outlast their owners."
Mara met her gaze. "You say that like a warning."
Patch smiled. "Everything I say is."
The floor hummed again.
Before anyone could speak, Dungle's voice boomed down the stairwell.
"Alright, lovebirds. Window's opening."
Patch sighed dramatically. "He always interrupts right when it gets interesting."
Mara swallowed, heart pounding.
Gray didn't look at Patch this time. He looked at Mara.
He stepped closer. "Ready?"
Mara wasn't.
But she nodded anyway.
For a second, she swore she smelled citrus. Soap. Warm water.
She swallowed and stepped forward.
There was no room for hesitation now.