A week.

  It’s the time I’ve spent shadowing, studying, and pretending I belong here. This routine—if you can even call it that—might stop tonight. Maybe chance will dictate that it has to.

  The MetaWiki was my starting point. It had an unnerving amount of information about the comings and goings of factions in Neo Lyon, down to MetaPol’s patrol schedules. But the more I studied it, the more I realized its limits. It wasn’t trustworthy. It could just as easily be a trap laid by MetaPol to lure villains into a false sense of security.

  That’s why I’m here again, roaming the streets of Voltaire Part-Dieu.

  This district is dangerously close to MetaPol’s Headquarters, right in the beating heart of the city. But that proximity also makes it a hub of activity. Businesses thrive here under the shadow of MetaPol’s so-called “aura of protection.” Bankers, executives, and the occasional rogue with deep enough pockets all converge here to indulge in the city’s shiniest facade.

  But the shine doesn’t fool me.

  The streets are unnaturally clean, not just free of litter but scrubbed of the life that marks most of Neo Lyon. There’s no graffiti, no cracks in the pavement, no signs of the entropy that grips every other corner of the city. Everything gleams with a sterile perfection that feels more like a warning than an invitation.

  MetaPol wants people to know they’re watching, even when their agents aren’t patrolling.

  I keep my pace casual, blending in with the crowd as best I can. Hoodie up, hands shoved in my pockets, eyes scanning every reflective surface for signs of a tail. Surveillance cameras are everywhere, their unblinking lenses perched on building corners like carrion birds. The weight of their gaze settles between my shoulders, urging me to move faster, to get out of their sights.

  But I can’t. Not yet.

  The streets are crowded tonight. Office workers in sharp suits march to catch the last trams, their steps brisk and determined. Couples walk arm-in-arm, heads close together to shield against the biting wind. The air smells faintly of roasted chestnuts from a vendor’s cart, its steam curling like smoke signals into the twilight.

  I should feel safer here. This is the epicenter of MetaPol’s reach, after all. But the truth is, this part of town terrifies me more than the unclaimed districts, where chaos reigns. Here, the order feels oppressive, like a vice closing around the city.

  My target is a small jewelry shop. It’s wedged between a chic cafe and an unassuming bookstore on the district’s outer edge. Not quite in MetaPol’s direct sightline, but close enough that any mistakes will bring down a world of trouble.

  The shop’s modest appearance is misleading. Beneath its quaint facade lies a safe stuffed with cash and untraceable gems—profits from high-end clientele who don’t ask questions and pay in kind. The perfect target for someone like me.

  But this isn’t just about the money.

  I take a detour, looping around the block to ensure I’m not being followed. The rhythm of my footsteps blends with the city’s pulse, each step calculated and deliberate. My eyes dart to the glint of a surveillance camera overhead. It sweeps lazily across the street, its motion fluid and indifferent.

  For now.

  I make a mental note of its range before slipping into a narrow alleyway behind the jewelry shop. The air here is damp and smells faintly of rot—Neo Lyon’s true undercurrent, seeping through the cracks of its polished veneer.

  The alley’s shadows swallow me whole, muffling the city’s noise.

  I crouch beside a dumpster, pulling a small notepad from my pocket. The scrawled notes inside are messy but thorough. Surveillance camera angles, patrol routes, guard shifts. Everything I’ve observed over the past week is here, pieced together like a puzzle.

  But there are gaps in my knowledge. The store’s security system, for one. I’ve seen the keypad by the entrance and the faint glow of motion detectors inside, but I can’t risk testing them—not yet.

  That’s where my next step comes in.

  I pocket the notebook and make my way down the alley, keeping to the shadows. A few blocks away, there’s a bar frequented by off-duty MetaPol agents and other security personnel. It’s loud, crowded, and the perfect place to overhear things people shouldn’t say out loud.

  The bar hums with a strange blend of energy and fatigue, like a machine running on fumes but refusing to quit. Neo Lyon’s elite mingle with off-duty agents, their sharp uniforms softened by loosened ties and half-drained glasses. The air is thick with the smell of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and the faint tang of stress.

  I slip into a corner booth, out of sight but with a clear line of view to the bar. My hoodie shields my face, and I keep my movements deliberate. People are less likely to notice you when you act like you belong.

  The bartender—a wiry man with a tattoo snaking up his arm—moves with precision, pouring drinks and cracking jokes without missing a beat. He knows his regulars well, and they seem to know him too, laughing a little too loudly at his quips.

  The crowd is a mix of regulars and off-duty types. I spot the uniforms immediately—shirts untucked, badges tucked into pockets, weapons left at home but muscles still taut from years of training. MetaPol agents. Their conversations are animated, laughter punctuating their words. Confidence oozes from their body language.

  Good. That means they’re comfortable.

  A group of four agents occupies the center table, their drinks already halfway gone. One of them—a tall woman with sharp features and a commanding presence—leans back in her chair, laughing at something her colleague said. Her laugh is loud, boisterous, and just tipsy enough to suggest she might be my best target.

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  Their voices rise over the noise, snippets of conversation drifting toward me.

  "...and then he had the audacity to suggest we double back through the district, as if the entire perimeter wasn’t already secured. Typical brass, am I right?” the sharp-featured woman said, her voice dripping with disdain. The group laughed, raising their glasses in a collective toast to the incompetence of their superiors.

  I leaned back in the booth, feigning disinterest while my ears honed in on their words. Their table was close enough for me to catch fragments of conversation, but not so close as to draw suspicion. This was the balance—close, but not too close. Invisible, but listening.

  The woman’s voice cut through the din again. “Anyway, that idiot Corsair has been quiet lately. Feels like a setup, doesn’t it?”

  “Or he’s finally running out of goons dumb enough to follow him,” one of the others chimed in, a burly man with a buzz cut. He tilted his glass back and drained it in one go.

  The burly man slammed his glass down with a smirk. “What kind of idiot robs a district under MetaPol's thumb anyway? It’s like painting a target on your forehead.”

  The sharp-featured woman snorted. “You’d be surprised. People are desperate, and Corsair's not exactly known for subtlety. Still, it’s odd. Normally, his gang loves stirring up trouble in Brotteaux. Why the quiet?”

  Their table fell into a lull as they considered this. I filed the information away. Corsair’s movements—or lack thereof—weren’t directly relevant to me right now, but anything connected to Neo Lyon’s factions was worth noting. He could be a useful distraction if things went sideways.

  “Eh, maybe he’s lying low after the last raid,” another agent—a younger man with sandy hair—offered. “MetaPol hit them hard last time. Even Corsair has to lick his wounds eventually.”

  The woman shook her head. “Doubt it. He’s too cocky for that. If he’s quiet, it’s because he’s planning something.”

  A quiet Corsair was no less dangerous than an active one. In fact, it was worse. Unpredictability made him a wild card in a city already teetering on chaos. The thought gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside for now. Focus.

  Their conversation shifted to lighter topics, meaningless anecdotes about patrol mishaps and office politics. I waited, patient and still, until another thread of useful information emerged.

  "...and then, the last thing you want is to fumble the override code during an inspection. You’d think they’d streamline it by now,” the younger man with sandy hair grumbled, swirling the last of his drink in his glass.

  Override code. My ears perked up, and I adjusted my position in the booth slightly to catch every word.

  The sharp-featured woman rolled her eyes. “Streamline? Ha! Like MetaPol’s going to make life easier for us. They’d rather we memorize a dozen variations than admit the system’s outdated.”

  “You think they’ll ever replace the guards at the vaults with automated drones?” the burly man asked, leaning forward.

  “Not in Voltaire,” the woman replied, her tone dismissive. “Too high-profile, too many clients who want the personal touch. Keeps the tech flashy but relies on warm bodies for security. It’s all about appearances there.”

  The burly man smirked. “Right, ‘cause a warm body can override a system when it malfunctions.”

  The group laughed, and the younger man shook his head. “Still better than Brotteaux. That place is basically held together with duct tape and prayers.”

  Their laughter drifted into other topics, but I had heard enough. Voltaire’s security might rely on a mix of tech and people, but if there was an override code for the jewelry shop—or even a pattern to MetaPol’s system—it was critical intel. The next step was figuring out how to leverage that information.

  I waited until the group was thoroughly engrossed in their drinks and stories before slipping out of the booth. The bar’s exit was a few steps away, but I hesitated, glancing at the bartender. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room with the precision of someone who had seen his share of trouble. If I left too quickly, it might draw attention.

  Instead, I took a detour toward the restroom, blending into the ebb and flow of patrons moving through the space. Inside, I leaned against the sink, letting the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights drown out the noise in my head.

  The pieces were coming together. The jewelry shop’s security, MetaPol’s patrols, and now the potential for an override system—it all pointed to a plan that was just within reach.

  But it wasn’t complete yet.

  Later that night, I found myself crouched on the rooftop of a building overlooking the jewelry shop. The cool metal beneath me was slick with condensation, and the city’s lights cast long, jagged shadows across the alleyways below. From this vantage point, I could see the shop’s entrances and the surrounding streets.

  The shop had closed hours ago, but a lone security guard paced inside. His flashlight’s beam swept lazily across the room, a pattern as predictable as clockwork. Outside, a patrol drone buzzed by, its red light scanning the street before it moved on.

  I waited until the drone was out of sight before descending the fire escape. My boots hit the pavement with a muted thud, and I melted into the shadows.

  The shop’s back entrance was my focus tonight. It wasn’t time for the heist yet, but I needed to confirm the layout and security system. If the keypad by the entrance was connected to a central alarm, I’d need to figure out how to disable it—or bypass it entirely.

  I approached the door cautiously, my breath misting in the chilly night air. The keypad’s faint blue glow illuminated the metal surface around it, casting soft light onto the otherwise dark alley. A small sticker next to it bore the logo of a well-known security company—MetaPol’s favorite contractor—The Guild.

  As I examined the keypad, I noticed a faint smudge of fingerprints on the most frequently pressed buttons. It wasn’t much, but it gave me a starting point.

  I pulled out a small device from my pocket—a portable scanner I had lifted from a pawnshop weeks ago. It wasn’t sophisticated, but it would pick up the electromagnetic signals of a basic security system. I held it near the keypad, watching as the display flickered to life with a series of numbers.

  The shop’s alarm system wasn’t as advanced as I’d feared. It was connected to MetaPol’s grid, but the signal wasn’t encrypted. With the right tools, I could create a temporary loop to prevent it from triggering when I entered the code.

  Satisfied, I stepped back into the shadows and made my way to the alley’s exit.

  The next few days were a blur of preparation. I scoured the pawnshop circuit for tools I’d need—a signal jammer, a set of lockpicks, and a cheap, unregistered phone to use as a burner.

  Each night, I returned to the jewelry shop, watching, waiting, and noting every detail. The guard’s pacing remained consistent, and the patrol drones followed a predictable route. It was almost too perfect, too clean.

  On the fourth night, I spotted something that made my blood run cold.

  A man in a dark coat loitered near the shop’s entrance, his movements casual but deliberate. He wasn’t a guard, and he didn’t fit the profile of a typical passerby. His eyes darted to the shop, then to the surrounding streets, as if he were scoping the place out.

  Was he another thief? A MetaPol plant?

  I watched him from my rooftop perch, my mind racing. If he was after the same target, it could complicate everything. But if he was a decoy—someone meant to draw out others like me—then my entire plan was already compromised.

  The man lingered for a few more minutes before disappearing into the night.

  I stayed on the rooftop long after he was gone, my thoughts tangled in a web of paranoia and strategy.

  Neo Lyon’s shadows were never quiet for long.

  Tomorrow had to be the night.