"You should do this every week," Neith said, her voice settling into the space behind his thoughts where their tether lived.

  Ezra's calloused hands moved with practiced efficiency as he disassembled her rifle configuration, the barrel unthreading with a satisfying mechanical click. "Sure. Only if you do all the cooking from now on."

  He laid each component in precise order on the metal case. The ballistic amour under his gray trench coat shifted as he worked, a familiar presence same as the shield mag-locked to his back and Neith in his head.

  The cargo bay smelled of ozone and rust, fluorescent lights casting everything in sickly yellow that flickered in three-beat patterns.

  "What, really?" Her excitement rippled through the tether. It wasn't quite emotion, nor thought, but something in between that made his fingertips tingle.

  "No, it was a joke." He sterilized the grip, examining bolts and hinges for carbon scorching. Sandstorm was a pre-Cleaving relic, one of the Anubis prototypes, if he remembered correctly. It was getting harder to find replacement parts every year, but she was family at this point. He could manage to maintain her for a few more years.

  "Well, it was a shit joke," she grumbled, and he felt the mental equivalent of her crossing her arms.

  Ezra chose silence, focusing instead on the scope assembly. He'd been doing this dance for weeks now—her nagging him to clean her rifle form when she could complete it in half the time. But she wanted him to do it, wanted this ritual of his hands on her components while her consciousness threaded through his mind. He'd stopped asking why. Some things you just accepted about having a sentient weapon bonded to your brainstem.

  "The beauty of long-distance destruction never gets old," he murmured, taking a moment to appreciate Sandstorm.

  "Careful. People might think you're enjoying this." she teased.

  "People aren't listening."

  The tether pulsed warmer, almost playful. "What am I then?"

  He refused to take the bait, instead working in silence for several minutes, his methodology precise and patient. Checking each component with the muscle memory of hundreds of contracts. The data-broker contract was just another in a long line.

  "This broker actually going to show?" Neith's voice shifted, losing its teasing edge.

  "Intel says he'll be in Akropolis, undercity Bazaar." He held a firing pin up to the flickering light, checking for stress fractures. "Third rotation."

  "You sound certain."

  "I'm not. But the intercepts were specific. Location, timing, security gaps. Either he's careless or—"

  "Or it's a trap."

  "Yeah."

  Ezra pulled his head back, looking up at the cargo hold's ceiling. The bay stretched empty around him except for scattered crates and the smell of poorly maintained life support. Above, the ship's core thrummed steadily, carrying them toward their destination. Toward the broker who might have information about pre-Cleaving, tethers.

  "What's on your mind?" she whispered.

  Her presence wrapped around his shoulder. Sensation cutting through the Kevlar and Synthetic padding as if they weren't even there. The tether wasn't supposed to do that. Mental connection, yes. Shared thoughts, tactical coordination, even emotional bleed over—all normal for paired Remnants. But _touch_? That was new.

  That scared him more than any trap.

  "Something doesn't feel right," he said.

  "The broker?"

  "All of it. Too easy. Too exposed." He set down the muzzle and reached for the bolt carrier. "Data-brokers don't survive by being sloppy. Public location, predictable timing, it screams either amateur hour or bait."

  "So what's the play?"

  "We go anyway." Ezra's jaw tightened. "Carefully. Set up overwatch positions. Multiple exit routes. You keep an eye through the rifle. I make contact."

  "Standard protocol."

  "Standard protocol." He paused, fingers stilling on the rifle components. "If this broker has real information about pre-Cleaving tethers—about why ours is different—we need it. Even if it's a trap."

  "Ah. There it is." Her voice softened in his mind. "You want to know why I can touch you now."

  "Don't you?"

  She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, something vulnerable threaded through the connection. "Every day, Ezra. I wonder every day."

  The fluorescents flickered their three-beat pattern. He'd memorized it an hour ago without meaning to, a side of effect from doing this line of work for too long. Noticing everything. Cataloguing every detail. Preparing for every contingency.

  "How long until we dock?" he asked.

  "Four hours. You'll have me cleaned and calibrated by then?"

  "Three hours. I'm thorough, not slow."

  "My hero."

  He snorted, but paused. A pale calloused hand moved to touch the shield mag-locked to his back. The Aegis, was a crude tool by most standards, but terrifyingly durable. The shield was the last thing he had from his mentor, why she had given him her prized family heirloom before disappearing, he wished he knew.

  "Everything alright?" Neith asked, concern clear in her voice.

  "Yeah" he whispered, his words coming out flat as he went back to work, hands steady even as his mind ran through tactical approaches for the Undercity meet.

  Hunt the broker. Extract the data. Find out why their tether was evolving into something that shouldn't exist. Get out clean.