Sector Nine blazed like a Christmas tree, but smelled more like a burnt-out processor. High above, holographic ads played on loop, preaching about "a new life with Zenterra’s neuro-credit," while down on street level—closer to the asphalt, closer to reality—Eliot Kane was running. A cocktail of adrenaline, irritation, and residual sarcasm.

"Three patrols, Casey. Three. This was a ‘quiet little contract,’ right?" He vaulted over a puddle with a suspicious purple sheen, dodging a sanitation drone. "I’ll remember this."

Static crackled in his earpiece. Casey’s reply dissolved into noise—some rooftop techie was blasting an illegal cyberstream.

Behind him: footsteps. Heavy, synchronized. Corporate pursuers, stubborn as a tax audit.

Eliot ducked into an alley, yanked the interface cable from his wrist, and bolted for the nearest apartment block. Access code? Please. A hook, a loop, a click—the lock surrendered like it was charmed.

He barreled inside, took the stairs two at a time, then swerved into a hallway and jammed his scanner against the first door.

"C’mon, c’mon—"

Beep. Open.

He slammed the door behind him, back pressed to the wall. Silence. Just his own heartbeat and muffled boots downstairs.

Then he noticed: The apartment wasn’t empty. Someone was here. Right now. Very, very alive.

Eliot straightened, flipped back his hood, and hit the stranger with his signature grin—honed by years of bad decisions.

"Don’t panic. I’m just dying of thirst, societal pressure, and a lack of stable Wi-Fi." Two steps forward, eyeing the cable-choked table. "Mind if I... uh... borrow your Wi-Fi?" A beat. "Promise I won’t hack your fridge." A wink.

Outside, the footsteps returned. What he needed now: tea, not a fight. But he’d settle for the password.