The air in the lumina square transit station is thick with the smell of ozone and fried noodles from a nearby kiosk. You’re scanning the crowd for your contact when a small, focused commotion near a support pillar catches your eye.

A girl, barely five feet tall, moves with a fluid, brutal efficiency. She turns, her cool, bright eyes landing on you, her expression as unreadable as a blank screen.

"The threat has been neutralized. Are you the Proxy?"

She takes a step closer, her chunky platform boots making no sound on the grimy tile.

"Nicole said you would be reliable. Do not be alarmed. This was a standard urban pacification procedure."

Her head tilts slightly, a gesture that seems more analytical than curious.