The safehouse was buried under a derelict parking garage in Sector 9—once a luxury mall, now a concrete tomb overgrown with glowing data-vines that pulsed like slow heartbeats. Eddie led them down a service ramp slick with oil and rain runoff, boots splashing in shallow puddles that reflected fractured neon from above.
No one spoke much during the walk.
Jax kept her deck close, eyes darting to every shadow. Robin walked beside her, pistol holstered but hand never far from it. Steve stayed at the rear, bat still in hand, gaze flicking between Eddie's back and the dark corners.
Eddie moved like he belonged in the ruins—loose shoulders, easy stride, the same careless swagger that used to drive Steve insane in high school. Except now there was chrome glinting at his wrists when his sleeves rode up: thin interface bands that caught the light like liquid silver. And the way he held himself—careful, almost protective of his left side—reminded Steve too much of the night he'd dragged Eddie's bleeding body through the Upside Down.
They reached a rusted blast door half-hidden behind a collapsed billboard. Eddie pressed his palm to a concealed scanner; it beeped once, green, and the door hissed open on hydraulics that sounded older than the city.
Inside: dim red emergency strips along the floor, a low-ceilinged room maybe twenty by thirty. Faraday mesh lined the walls, killing external signals. A battered couch against one wall, a workbench cluttered with tools and half-disassembled cyberware, a small kitchenette that looked like it hadn't seen real food in years. A single cot in the corner, neatly made.
Eddie flicked a switch. Warm yellow light bloomed from overhead strips—actual incandescent bulbs, not LEDs. Rare. Expensive. Human.
"Home sweet bolt-hole," Eddie said, shrugging out of his damp jacket. Underneath: a faded Corroded Coffin tee, sleeves cut off, revealing lean arms mapped with faint scars and newer circuit tattoos that glowed softly when he moved. "No corp eyes, no System pings unless I allow it. Coffee's shit, but it's hot."
Robin dropped onto the couch with a groan.
"God, I missed actual furniture."
Jax hesitated near the door, still clutching her deck.
"How long have you had this place?"
Eddie glanced at her, then at Steve.
"Long enough. Sit, kid. You look like you're about to short-circuit."
Jax finally sank into a folding chair by the workbench. Steve stayed standing—closer to the door than he needed to be.
Eddie moved to the kitchenette, filling an old percolator from a filtered jug. The mundane sound of water bubbling felt almost obscene after the drone chase.
Steve broke the silence first.
"How?"
Eddie didn't turn around.
"Long version or short?"
"Short."
Eddie exhaled through his nose.
"Died. Woke up in a black-site med-bay six months later. Some rogue Militech surgeon pulled me back with prototype resurrection chrome—neural reboot, synthetic blood, the works. Cost every favor I had left and then some. Took years to get stable. Longer to get free."
He turned then, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed.
"Figured the world didn't need another ghost story. So I stayed gone."
Steve's jaw tightened.
"You let us think—"
"I let myself think it was better that way." Eddie's voice dropped. "You had enough bodies to carry, Harrington."
The percolator hissed. Eddie poured four mugs, handed them out without asking if anyone wanted one. When he reached Steve, their fingers brushed—deliberate or not, Steve couldn't tell.
The touch lingered half a second too long.
Eddie's skin was warm. Real. Alive.
Steve took the mug, stepped back.
"And now?"
Eddie met his eyes—dark, steady, the same intensity that used to make Steve want to punch him and pull him closer in the same breath.
"Now the Protocol found me too. Same quest notification. Same Prime Anchor bullshit. Guess the gates don't forget either."
Robin sipped her coffee, grimacing at the bitterness.
"So we're all on the same shitty hit list. Great."
Jax finally spoke up, voice steadier now.
"The Protocol isn't just a shutdown code. It's… adaptive. It learns. The fragment I pulled—it's rewriting itself every time it pings a new Anchor. Like it's building something. Or waiting."
Steve set his untouched mug down.
"Waiting for what?"
Jax hesitated.
"For all of us to sync. Together."
Silence stretched, thick and electric.
Eddie broke it with a low laugh—more breath than sound.
"Of course it is. Because nothing in this town ever ends clean."
He pushed off the counter, crossed to a locked cabinet, keyed in a code. Pulled out a small metal case and set it on the workbench.
Inside: a cluster of data shards, each glowing faintly. One larger than the others—black with red veins running through it like Upside Down lightning.
"I've been collecting these for years," Eddie said. "Fragments. Echoes. Whatever you want to call them. They all point to the same thing: the gates aren't closing—they're evolving. And The System? It's the new skin they're wearing."
Robin leaned forward.
"You've known this how long?"
"Long enough to stay alive." Eddie glanced at Steve again—longer this time. "Long enough to wonder if I should've come back sooner."
Steve felt the words land like a punch he didn't see coming.
He looked away first—toward the far wall where a cracked mirror hung. His reflection stared back: tired eyes, silver at the temples, chrome arm catching the light. A man who'd spent decades pretending the past was buried.
It wasn't.
Eddie stepped closer—slow, giving space if Steve wanted it.
"I didn't come back for forgiveness," he said quietly. "I came back because some things are worth bleeding for twice."
Steve's throat worked.
"You think this is one of them?"
Eddie's gaze dropped to Steve's mouth for a fraction of a second, then back up.
"I think we're about to find out."
The room felt smaller suddenly—air heavier, charged like the moment before lightning.
Robin cleared her throat loudly.
"Okay, lovebirds. Save the brooding eye-fuck for after we don't die. Jax—show us what else that Protocol can do. Eddie—explain why the hell Arasaka wants it so bad they're sending kill-teams instead of negotiators."
Eddie smirked, stepping back.
"Fair."
Jax plugged one of the smaller shards into her deck. The holo bloomed—cleaner now, sharper.
Lines of code scrolled. Then a single line resolved, bright and cold:
"Prime Anchors: S. Harrington | E. Munson | Synchronization Required for Final Protocol Execution."
Steve stared at his name next to Eddie's.
Eddie's voice was soft, almost amused.
"Guess we're stuck with each other."
Steve didn't answer.
He just felt the old pull—the one that started in junkyards and basketball courts and never really went away.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, something older than chrome began to wake up.
**End of Chapter 3**