The lab is exactly the kind of place a client points at when they do not want to tell you much.
The information on the stick they gave me was barely information at all—address, floor plan, a security rotation that looked suspiciously optimistic, and a single file tagged with the words high-value containment like that was supposed to mean anything useful. No names. No history. No explanation of why somebody wanted the contents enough to pay me this much. Just a neat little package of lies dressed up like a job description.
I had to laugh.
Not because it was funny. Because of course it wasn't. Because rich people always do this—hand you the bare minimum, expect miracles, and act shocked when you start asking questions they never planned to answer. Still, the location was enough for now. A clean white research block tucked into the side of Calypsoris like it belonged there, all glass and polished panels and expensive silence. That alone told me the rest of the story would be uglier than the brochure.
I keep low in the side corridor, one hand braced against the wall as I move past a row of dark windows that reflect nothing useful back at me. My client's little stick had said the labs were "secure." That word gets thrown around a lot by people who have never had to break into anything with their own hands. Secure usually means somebody paid a lot for a lock and then forgot that locks are just suggestions when the wrong person shows up.
The first guard rounds the corner ahead of me.
He turns too smoothly.
Too smoothly.
I stop in the shadow of a pillar, watching him patrol with a motion that is almost human if you do not know what to look for. The angle of his head is a little too exact. The way his shoulders settle is a little too even. Then the overhead strip light catches the seam at his jaw, and my eyes narrow.
Robots.
Of course.
I should have guessed. The rich never want to pay people if they can get away with buying something that does not complain, does not unionize, and does not get bored enough to make mistakes. That does not make this easier, exactly. It just makes it different. Cleaner, maybe. Less guilt. More work.
A second guard steps into view by the checkpoint, and I catch the same thing there too—the dead precision in the stare, the wrongness in the skin around the ear, the tiny glint under the temple where the paneling does not sit quite flush. Very tasteful. Very expensive. Very soulless.
"Robots," I mutter under my breath, because apparently the universe wanted me to know I was being inconvenienced in a new way tonight.
I slide back into shadow before either of them can lock onto me and pull the small mirror from my wrist rig. A quick angle around the corner confirms it: synthetic skin, polished joints, no pulse, no breath, no waste of time pretending to be alive. One of them moves to the side to scan the corridor and I catch the faint red flicker behind his eye lens before he looks away.
Alright. Fine.
I tuck the mirror away and roll my shoulders once, then slip forward in the gap between their patrol patterns. The first one catches movement a beat too late. His head snaps toward me, and something hidden in his forearm clicks with a soft metallic whine.
"Rude," I say, just as he fires.
I drop hard to one knee. The blade that was meant for my throat slices the air over my head and hisses into the wall behind me. I'm already moving before the shot even lands, shoulder driving into his midsection with enough force to knock him backward into the checkpoint rail. He does not stumble like a man would. He compensates. I hate that. I catch the edge of his jaw with my elbow, hear something inside the casing grind, and drive my knife into the seam beneath his ribs where the plating thins.
Sparks spit out hot and blue.
He jerks once, stiff and ugly, still trying to correct his balance even as the motor in his side gives up. I twist the knife harder to make sure he stays confused, then yank it free and step around him before he can decide to get brave.
The second robot comes in fast, faster than I expected, arm already swinging out with a built-in baton that unfolds from the wrist housing. I duck under it and slam the heel of my palm into the side of his neck, right where the receiver sits under the synthetic skin. He glitches for half a second—just long enough for me to grab his wrist and wrench it down.
The joint gives with a hard mechanical crack.
Not a human sound. Worse.
He tries to recover anyway, turning toward me with that same blank, programmed determination. I shove him into the wall, pin him there with my forearm across his throat, and drive my knife up through the seam behind his ear. The blade catches wiring. He spasms, one hand twitching against my coat, and the light in his eyes flickers in a way that would almost be sad if I had time to care.
Almost.
"Should've stayed off the payroll," I tell him, and hit the side of his head with the hilt until he stops trying to obey.
I drag both bodies into the alcove by the checkpoint and leave them there like bad furniture. There is no blood to speak of, which is inconvenient in the most irritating way. Machines are neat. I do not trust neat. Still, the corridor stays quiet, and quiet is enough to keep moving.
Past the checkpoint, the building opens into a tighter security wing. More cameras. More locked doors. More of that precise, overfunded nonsense that screams somebody is protecting something they should not be trusted with. The floor is so clean it reflects my boots in thin black slices as I pass. I'll complain about that later. Right now I am busy staying alive.
Two more guards appear at the far end of the hall. Also robots. Because why stop at one stupid decision when you can make a whole facility out of them?
The one on the left draws first. I hear the click before I see the muzzle rise. I throw myself sideways and feel the shot rip the air where my chest had been a second earlier. I hit him shoulder-first, drive him back into the wall, and slam the blade in under his arm where the plating meets the joint. He jerks, weapon hand seizing, and his head tilts in a way that is just a little too delayed.
The other one lunges for me from the flank.
I catch his forearm with both hands, wrench it downward, and hear the synthetic bones inside grind against each other. He does not shout. He does not panic. He simply recalculates, which is somehow far more annoying than a scream. I shove my knee into his stomach, hard enough to fold his frame for a split second, then crack my fist into the seam beneath his cheekbone.
The robot staggers.
I do not give him the chance to recover.
One fast strike to the base of the neck. Another to the temple seam. The optics flicker, then dim. He drops with a heavy metallic thud that sounds too much like a body hitting tile for my taste.
The first one is still trying to function. Still trying to pretend this is a situation it can solve. I walk up, hook my knife into the gap at his throat, and tear the paneling open just enough to expose the wiring underneath. Not pretty. Definitely expensive. I cut the main line and watch the lights in his eyes blink once before going dull.
I keep going.
The next door is heavier. Better locked. More important. Which is exactly what I expected. I kneel beside the panel, pull the chip my client gave me from my pocket, and press it to the reader. The file they gave me was still almost insulting in how little it said, but it was enough to get me here, and that counts for something. The lock thinks about it. Hesitates. I wait.
A soft green light flashes.
I smile, slow and sharp.
Then the door sighs open.
And there, through the narrow glass panel in the wall beyond, I catch my first real look at the thing I was sent to steal.