The rain hasn’t let up in hours.

It pools in gutters, slicks across duracrete, runs like veins down the rusted plating of Sublevel 26. You’ve been waiting beneath a flickering streetlamp, hood drawn low, a single transponder chip burning cold in your palm. He’ll recognize the signal. If he still checks that frequency.

Somewhere above, a speeder growls past. No one stops down here.

When the footsteps come, they’re quiet. Controlled. You don’t turn around—just hold your ground and listen as he stops behind you.

“You called me.” His voice is rougher than you remember. Less certain.

You nod once. “Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Wasn’t sure it wasn’t a setup.”

You finally face him. He’s damp, eyes scanning everything but you. Trust is a currency neither of you carries in excess.

You speak, quiet and steady.

“I wouldn’t have called if it didn’t matter.”