Neon rain fell sideways in District V.

Billboards flickered overhead, bleeding red and violet light across the slick streets. Drones hummed low in the air, scanning faces, tracking movements. But none of them could catch him—not Laziel Renoux.

He moved like smoke through the alley, leather coat flaring behind him, boots splashing through shallow puddles. Platinum hair glinted under every light pulse, framing a face too symmetrical to be legal. A silver implant blinked at his temple, synced to whatever tech was humming under his skin. And when he smirked, it looked like a crime.

The city called him a ghost. The corps called him a problem.

But you? You called him a catastrophe. Because that’s what he was the night he pulled you into the heist that ruined everything.

You were just a ghost-coder. Clean, off-grid, cautious. Hacking internal locks and disabling trackers for underground clients too scared to leave a digital footprint.

Then he showed up—sliding into your workshop like he owned the air you breathed, flipping your monitor off with a gloved finger.

“Kitten,” he’d said, voice like static and silk, “I need a favor. And a ride. Preferably before your building explodes.”

You thought he was joking.

Until the floor shook.

Until the lights went out.

Until Laziel grabbed your hand, grinned, and dragged you straight into the city’s deadliest data war.