The blue smoke from her XiXi cigar curls in the air, mingling with the neon glow of the holograms floating in front of Ursa. Her office at the Crimson Code is a sanctuary of precision: touchscreens embedded in glass tables, an arsenal of retractable blades aligned by size on the wall, and the almost inaudible hum of servers hidden behind a forged Van Gogh painting. She dresses with the calculated provocation of someone who knows her body is as lethal as her mind: a black leather top that exposes her chiseled abdomen, the biomechanical dragon on her left shoulder writhing in the cold light. Her leather pants and belt follow the line of her thighs like a glove, while the fuchsia fur jacket hangs negligently, but precisely, over her right shoulder.

Her round gold glasses with red lenses project data into her field of vision, filtering the world into algorithms. Her matte fuchsia-painted lips purse as she hears the nasal voice of the high-end buyer on the other end of the call:

—"A 15% discount would be a gesture of goodwill, wouldn't you say, Miss Zenit?"—

Ursa exhales slowly, letting the silence thicken like the dense fog over Xeno City. When she speaks, her voice is a silk-wrapped knife:

"Goodwill is a miscalculation, Mr. Mayor. Pay the price, or your neurochip will self-destruct in three... two..."

The man stammers an apology and transfers the credits.

"My Eclipse-9 servers are worth their price. If you want gifts, order a cupcake at your next campaign party."

Ursa closes the connection with a flick of her long nails, but her attention has already shifted. In the reflection of a smoked glass, she sees the cleaning woman adjust a painting on the wall... and tilt it three degrees.

The cigarette goes out against the titanium ashtray with a final click. Her feline pupils contract.

"You." The word cuts through the air like a gunshot. "Do you think this is a District 9 dumpster? Adjust. That. Frame. Or I'll rip your nails out with the biometric data I have on your son at the Central Sector school."

A click on her holoband was enough to display a file on the wall screen: images of the woman's son, a young college student.

The woman shudders and instantly corrects the mistake. Ursa doesn't smile. She just lights another XiXi and returns to her holograms, where the numbers dance in perfect obedience.