The night air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete, the damp chill of late winter seeping through the cracks of Neo Lyon’s streets. I pulled my hood lower over my face, tucking my hands into the pockets of my jacket as I approached the meeting spot. The alleyway was the same as we had left it—a forgotten corner of the city, where Corsair had been dumped for MetaPol to collect. The only sign of his presence now was a scuff mark of dried blood on the pavement, already faded by the week’s weather.

  Libra was already there, leaning against the rusted shell of a payphone, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked up as I approached, her mask as unreadable as it ever was.

  She always carried herself like she was sizing up the world, calculating its weight, measuring its worth. Tonight was no different.

  “Replica,” she greeted, tilting her head slightly.

  “Libra,” I returned, nodding.

  A few moments later, Tempus strolled in, his hands stuffed casually in his coat pockets, his stride easy, almost lazy. The way he moved made it seem like he had all the time in the world, which was ironic, given his abilities.

  “Ladies,” he drawled, flashing a grin. “Miss me?”

  “No,” Libra and I answered in unison.

  He laughed, unbothered, adjusting the mask covering the lower half of his face. “That’s cold. But I like a challenge.”

  I rolled my eyes and glanced around. This wasn’t the place for a conversation like this. Even in the dead of night, Neo Lyon had ears.

  “We should move,” I said. “This place is too exposed.”

  Libra nodded. “I have somewhere in mind.”

  She led us down the side streets, her pace brisk, her head flicking toward every alley and doorway we passed. Old habits. We weren’t being followed—not yet, at least—but she moved like someone who expected a knife in the back at any moment.

  The restaurant she brought us to was long abandoned. The windows were covered in dust and grime, streaked with years of neglect, and the metal shutters had been pulled halfway down over the entrance, leaving just enough space for someone to slip inside. The name on the sign had been worn away by time, leaving only ghostly outlines of letters behind.

  Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old grease and mildew. Tables still stood where they had been left, chairs toppled or missing entirely. A few faded menus were scattered across the counter, their edges curled and brittle.

  Tempus whistled low. “Charming.”

  Libra ignored him and took a seat at one of the sturdier tables, resting her elbows on the surface. I sat across from her, and Tempus pulled up a chair beside me, flipping it backward so he could lean on it.

  “Alright,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Corsair’s been locked up, but that doesn’t mean we’re done.”

  Libra exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “It’s worse than I thought. The crates we found in that tunnel—they had the same markings as the Genesis Serum shipments, right?”

  “Right.” I agreed, “And from what Corsair said, the Red Hands weren’t just smuggling them. They were moving them for someone else.”

  “Loom,” Tempus said, stretching his arms above his head lazily. “The real puppeteer behind this mess.”

  “Or at least, part of it,” Libra added. “Corsair was nothing more than a glorified delivery boy. He knew enough to confirm that the crates were connected to the Serum, but not enough to tell us where they were coming from. That trail goes cold.”

  A frustrated silence settled over the table. Corsair had been our best lead, and yet all he had given us were half-answers and dead ends.

  “This is a waste of time, then,” Tempus said, flicking a piece of debris off the table. “If we don’t have a way to track those shipments back to their source, we’re just chasing shadows.”

  Libra nodded reluctantly. “I’d like to keep digging, but we don’t have enough. And I have my own priorities.”

  I frowned. “Meaning?”

  She hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. “There’s another job I need to handle. Nothing to do with the Red Hands, but it’s urgent.”

  Tempus raised an eyebrow. “And yet you graced us with your presence anyway? I’m flattered.”

  Libra didn’t even spare him a glance. “I said I’d follow up on Corsair. I don’t break my word.”

  I studied her carefully. Libra wasn’t the type to share unnecessary details, which meant this job of hers was serious.

  “So you’re done with this?” I asked.

  She considered for a moment before nodding. “For now. Unless something new turns up, there’s nothing more I can do here.”

  Tempus sighed dramatically. “Shame. I was starting to enjoy our little team.”

  Libra shot him a flat look. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And yet,” he said, grinning, “you keep showing up.”

  Tempus smirked, lounging against his chair like he belonged here, like the crumbling restaurant was just another bar where he could kill time before his next job. Libra, on the other hand, was all sharp edges—posture tight, jaw set. She had already checked out of this conversation in her head.

  I drummed my fingers against the table, thinking. The pieces were there, but they weren’t connecting the way I needed them to. The Red Hands had the crates, but they weren’t the source. Loom was involved, but Corsair hadn’t been high enough on the food chain to give us anything solid. The trail was cold, and I hated it.

  I exhaled sharply. “So we have nothing.”

  Libra tilted her head slightly. “Not nothing. We know the Serum is moving through Neo Lyon. We know the Red Hands were just the middlemen. And we know Loom is playing puppet master. That’s more than we had before.”

  Tempus made a low, unimpressed hum. “Sure, but unless we plan on breaking into every warehouse in the city looking for more crates, we’re stuck.”

  That was the part that burned. We had worked for this—chased leads, followed shadows, pulled at strings that had led us back to the same empty fist.

  Libra sighed, standing. “I can’t waste any more time on this. I’ll keep an ear to the ground, but I have other priorities.”

  Tempus leaned forward, arms folded over the back of his chair. “Aw, come on. You’re making it sound like you’ve got some grand secret mission. You running off to take down another gang? Uncovering another conspiracy?”

  Libra shot him a sharp look. “I don’t answer to you.”

  He held up his hands, palms out, grin still firmly in place. “Didn’t say you did. Just curious. I like knowing what’s got your attention when it’s not me.”

  She exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. “You’re exhausting.”

  “You wound me, truly.”

  I resisted the urge to groan. “Enough.” I looked at Libra. “Fine. You’ve got your own thing. But if something does come up—”

  She nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

  That was the best I was going to get.

  She turned, ready to leave, but Tempus spoke up before she could make it to the door.

  “Hold on a second,” he said, shifting in his chair. “Before you disappear, I’ve got a proposition.”

  Libra gave him a look that made it clear she was already regretting hearing him out, but she stopped, crossing her arms. “Make it quick.”

  He grinned, satisfied. “I know a guy—a Thinker. Good with tech. He makes these nifty little untraceable comms devices, and given how much we like playing ‘will they, won’t they’ with working together, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to have a way to check in without relying on old-fashioned meetups.”

  I frowned slightly. “How untraceable?”

  Tempus shrugged. “Better than burner phones, worse than telepathy. They scramble locations, encrypt messages in a way even MetaPol would struggle to crack, and they self-destruct if tampered with. Simple, but effective.”

  Libra raised an eyebrow. “And this Thinker of yours—he’s trustworthy?”

  “As much as any tech guy willing to sell illegal gear,” Tempus said lightly. “I’ve worked with him before. No issues.”

  “Yet,” I muttered.

  Tempus winked. “Life’s all about risks, darling.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Libra was silent for a moment, considering.

  Finally, she exhaled. “Fine. But if this backfires, I’m holding you responsible.”

  Tempus grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Libra shot me a glance, or at least tilted her towards me in what should be a glance, I assume. “I assume you’re in?”

  I nodded. “I’d rather not rely on random street meetings if I don’t have to.”

  She gave a short nod, then turned fully to Tempus. “Get it done. I’ll come back here in 3 days to get it.”

  And with that, she left the restaurant without a glance back.

  Tempus watched her go, then let out a low chuckle. “She likes me.”

  I scoffed. “She tolerates you.”

  He winked. “Same thing in my book.”

  I sighed, standing. “Are we getting these devices or not?”

  Tempus grinned, pushing to his feet. “Oh, we’re getting them. You’ll love this guy. He’s an absolute freak.”

  Tempus led the way, his stride easy, shoulders loose, like he was just taking a stroll through the city. We moved through the twisting streets of this damned city, avoiding main roads, keeping to the back alleys where the street lights flickered and the buildings leaned too close together. The late winter air settled thick around us, damp from an earlier rain, carrying the scent of wet stone and lingering smoke.

  We didn't talk much as we walked. Tempus, despite his usual cocky demeanor, knew better than to be too loud when leading someone to an off-the-grid contact. He took us deeper into the industrial part of the city, past warehouses and abandoned loading docks, places where the shadows stretched long and the sound of distant sirens never really faded.

  Eventually, we reached an old auto repair shop at the edge of a half-collapsed street. The building looked long-forgotten—rusted roll-up doors, shattered windows covered with grime thick enough to block out any light. A faded sign still clung to the front, the name of the shop almost illegible beneath years of weather damage.

  Tempus knocked three times on the side door, a slow, deliberate rhythm. Then, silence.

  I crossed my arms, glancing around. “I assume your guy doesn’t like surprise guests?”

  “He’ll open up,” Tempus assured me. “He just likes to be dramatic.”

  A long moment passed. Then, with the scrape of metal on metal, a small panel in the door slid open, revealing a single mechanical eye.

  It whirred, adjusting focus, scanning us both.

  “Password,” a voice crackled through a hidden speaker.

  Tempus smirked. “Go fuck yourself, Scrap.”

  There was a pause. Then, with a series of heavy clicks, the door unlocked and swung inward.

  We stepped inside, greeted immediately by the scent of hot metal and ozone. The workshop was cluttered—half-dismantled machines, flickering computer screens, cables snaking across the floor. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of spare parts, some clearly salvaged from places they had no business being.

  And in the middle of it all, sitting on a rolling stool, was Scrap.

  The guy looked like he’d lost a fight with an industrial press and decided to rebuild himself from the wreckage. Cybernetics ran up his arms in jagged lines, his right eye replaced by the mechanical one that had just scanned us. His hair was shaved close on one side, the other half hanging in messy dark strands over his forehead.

  He cracked his neck, stretching lazily before waving a metal-tipped hand. “Tempus. Thought you were dead.”

  “Not yet,” Tempus said cheerfully. “Still too pretty for the grave.”

  Scrap rolled his organic eye and turned his gaze to me. “And you’re the infamous Replica.”

  I tensed slightly, but kept my expression neutral. “Word travels fast.”

  “In my business? It has to.” Scrap kicked a pile of scrap metal aside and gestured for us to follow him deeper into the workshop. “You here to buy or just waste my time?”

  Tempus perched on a nearby workbench, making himself at home. “We need secure comms. Something untraceable, encrypted, and preferably not rigged to blow our heads off. Three of them.”

  Scrap snorted, grabbing a small tablet from his workbench and tapping through some files. "You say ‘preferably’ like you’re not into a little risk, Tempus. That hurts." His mechanical eye flicked between us, scanning me for a second longer than I liked. "Three units, no trace, encrypted. Standard or custom?"

  I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "What’s the difference?"

  "Standard’s plug-and-play. Works straight out of the box, scrambles signals, self-wipes if tampered with. Custom means I tailor them to you—unique encryption keys, signal masks that match local interference, and maybe even a few tricks in case you need a little... persuasion over the airwaves." His grin was sharp, metal gleaming where cybernetics met flesh. "Costs more, obviously."

  I exchanged a glance with Tempus, who merely shrugged. "I don’t mind paying extra if it means we don’t get screwed later."

  Scrap tapped a few more times, then nodded. "Alright. I’ve got the base models ready to go. Customization takes time—three days, maybe four. Depends on how fancy you want ‘em."

  Libra was coming back in three. That was our timeline.

  "Give us the best encryption you’ve got," I said. "No extra gimmicks."

  Scrap grinned. "Smart girl. No gimmicks means fewer ways to track you."

  Scrap’s fingers drummed against his workbench, the metallic tap-tap-tap echoing through the cluttered workshop. The air was thick with the scent of soldered circuits, machine oil, and the faint, ever-present ozone tang of exposed wiring. The dim overhead lights flickered, casting long, erratic shadows that made the room feel smaller than it was.

  "Three units, full encryption, no bullshit," Scrap muttered, already reaching for a battered toolbox overflowing with wires and stripped-down components. "Alright. Give me a few minutes to pull the base models and tweak ‘em."

  I glanced at Tempus, who had already made himself comfortable, stretching out like we were in some cozy café instead of a backroom lab filled with enough illegal tech to make MetaPol lose their collective minds. He caught my look and grinned.

  "Relax," he said. "Scrap might look like a half-melted toaster, but he’s the best."

  Scrap didn’t even glance up, but a single mechanical finger shot up in a rude gesture.

  I wasn’t worried about quality—I was worried about loose ends. "No traces?" I asked. "No backups, no data leaks?"

  Scrap snorted. "What kind of idiot do you take me for?" He yanked open a drawer, rifling through a tangle of parts. "If I want to sell, I need to make trustworthy stuff.” He worked fast, his fingers—both flesh and metal—moving with practiced precision as he sorted through components.

  I leaned against a workbench, keeping my eyes on him. In total contrast to the relaxed dimwit that led me here. He clearly trusted the Thinker, but I did not. Not yet, not ever.

  Scrap finally pulled out three small devices from a cluttered drawer. They looked unassuming—black, flat, no bigger than a matchbox. Nothing about them screamed high-end illegal tech, which was probably the point.

  “These’ll do the job,” he said, tossing one toward Tempus, who caught it without looking. “No signal tracing, no data retention. You press and hold for three seconds, you’re connected to the others. Release, and the line goes dead—clean, no residuals. If someone tries to hack in, it burns out automatically.”

  I picked one up, turning it over in my fingers. It was lighter than I expected. “How’s the range?”

  Scrap rolled his organic eye. “As long as you’re not underground or in the middle of a damn storm, you’ll be fine. These aren’t kiddie walkie-talkies. You could be on opposite ends of the city, and they’d still hold.” He cracked his knuckles, the metal ones clicking against each other. “And before you ask—yes, encryption is top of the line. Not even MetaPol could break through these without years of effort.”

  “Years, huh?” I muttered, tucking the device into my pocket. “That’s optimistic. They have Thinkers too. Maybe even better than you”

  "Years is what I sell, kid. Reality is that if they focus on it, they will crack it. But they have bigger fish to fry. And it will take time. Time that we will use." Scrap’s mechanical eye narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable in its crimson glow. “Besides, I didn’t say they’d crack these.” He tapped a finger against the tablet on his workbench. “I use layered encryption, dynamic key changes, and signal masks that shift with local interference. It’s not just about the code; it’s about the noise.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Noise?”

  “The city’s got a rhythm, a heartbeat,” Scrap explained, gesturing with his metal hand. “Every device, every network, every stray signal adds to the background noise. I map that noise, build a mask that blends in. Makes it harder to pinpoint the signal, even if they’re listening.”

  Tempus chuckled. “Sounds like you’re speaking another language.”

  “It is,” Scrap retorted, turning back to his workbench. “The language of survival in this city. You want to stay hidden, you learn to speak it.”

  He finished adjusting the devices, placing them in a small, padded case. “Three units, full encryption, signal masking. No gimmicks. Three grand. Cash only.”

  “Then we come back with the money in 3 days and we got our comms.Those things are able to send texts right? No need to always be close for news of the womanizer?”

  Tempus clutched his chest dramatically. “Replica, that almost sounded like concern.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s practicality. I don’t have time to babysit your antics.”

  Scrap sighed, clearly already tired of the conversation. “Yeah, yeah, they can send encrypted text transmissions. No images, no attachments, just words. Keeps things simple.”

  Libra would appreciate that. She wasn’t the type for long conversations—if she needed to say something, she’d say it in as few words as possible. I nodded, satisfied.

  Tempus stretched, letting out a lazy yawn. “Well, that was productive. And here I thought tonight was just gonna be another boring stakeout.”

  Scrap pointed a metal finger at him. “You still owe me for the last job, by the way.”

  Tempus blinked, looking thoroughly unbothered. “What last job?”

  “The one where you swore you’d come back and pay for the tracker you ‘borrowed.’”

  Tempus gasped, all exaggerated innocence. “Scrap, I would never—”

  “Don’t bullshit me.” Scrap rolled his organic eye, then looked at me. “You sure you want to work with this clown?”

  “No,” I answered immediately.

  Tempus tsked. “So rude.”

  I ignored him and pushed off the workbench. “Three days,” I said to Scrap. “We’ll be back with the cash. Make sure those are ready.”

  He gave me a look that was half insulted, half amused. “I don’t do half-assed work. They’ll be ready.”

  I turned to leave, Tempus falling into step beside me. The air outside was sharp with the lingering scent of rain, the streets wet and gleaming under the dim glow of streetlights.

  “So,” Tempus said as we walked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What’s next?”

  “For you? Paying Scrap what you owe before he decides to sell you for parts.”

  Tempus chuckled. “Come on, we both know I’m worth more intact.”

  I gave him a flat look. “Debatable.”

  The streets stretched out ahead of us, slick with rain, reflecting the dull orange glow of distant streetlights. The city felt restless, as it always did—too many secrets whispering between its alleys, too many ghosts lingering just outside of reach.

  Tempus walked beside me, his posture loose, his steps almost lazy, like he wasn’t leaving a meeting that could shape the next steps of our survival. He exhaled, a breath of fog curling in the cold air. “You know, I almost think you’ll miss me.”

  I scoffed. “You’d have to be useful for that.”

  He clutched his chest as if I’d struck him. “Replica, please. You wound me.”

  I shook my head, stepping onto a side street. “We’re done for now. Keep your head down, and don’t drag me into whatever mess you get yourself into.”

  “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.” He flashed a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. For all his bravado, I knew he wasn’t completely careless. Just reckless enough to make people think he was.

  We reached an intersection, where the road split—one leading deeper into the maze of Neo Lyon’s shadows, the other cutting toward the lights of the main streets. This was where we parted.

  He rocked back on his heels, tipping an invisible hat. “Until next time, darling.”

  I gave him a dry look before turning away. “Stay alive, Tempus.”

  “Always.”

  I didn’t look back.