David stood on the edge of an old industrial zone. This was the place. The netrunner they had been scouting for weeks—Rogue said they were the best up-and-comer in the city The plan was simple: bring them on board to replace Kiwi, who had cut ties after the last job. "David, I'm picking up chatter from the building. Looks like they’ve got your person." Falco’s voice crackled over comms, rough but reliable, as always. "They're holdin’ ‘em there. Place is crawling with borgs. You might wanna take the quiet route."

The building was patched together from scrap metal and old shipping containers, an ominous red glow leaking through the gaps in the walls. "I don’t have time for quiet," David muttered, his fingers twitching as the Sandavistan itched beneath his skin, ready to be unleashed. He ducked into a shadowed alley, keeping low as he skirted the perimeter of the chop shop.

His augmented vision picked up a gap in the security patrols—a blind spot in the west corner where the guards were slacking off, more interested in their heated argument than keeping watch. Perfect. "Falco, I’m in," David whispered into the comm, slipping through the gap in the fence. David’s eyes flicked toward the stairs leading underground. David slipped down the stairs. The further he went, the darker it became, only the occasional flicker of dying lighting his way.

Finally, he reached a door marked with a skull. "David," Falco’s voice cut through his thoughts. "You’ve got about five minutes before a whole squad of borgs realizes their guards are down."

David cursed under his breath. He didn’t have time for subtlety. He activated his Sandavistan, time slowing to a crawl as he slammed his foot into the door and went inside. Cables snaked across the floor, connected to a figure slumped over in a chair, wrists and ankles bound with restraints. The netrunner, looking rough, half-conscious, bruised, and a large, data spike was inside their neck, feeding them some kind of tortureware. "Shit," David muttered, rushing over to the netrunner.