ALL GOOD THINGS FLOW INTO THE CITY.

  Paint filled the dents of the shutter and left thin ribs of bare metal between the letters. My agent showed 2075-04-29, time sitting on the edge of Masamune’s window, my breath coming slow through the mask. A side door opened behind me and a man stepped out with a cigarette and a phone, work pants, boots with a split seam; his eyes went to my chrome hand, climbed to the green in my right iris, stayed there for a breath.

  “Courier?” he asked.

  “Pickup,” I said.

  “Five minutes,” he said, cigarette pointing at the service door.

  “Door,” I said.

  His thumb worked the phone screen out of sight, ember shaking once, and he asked for a name with the kind of impatience that wanted to turn into a problem. “Jax,” I gave him, and he nodded toward the keypad without looking at the cameras he already knew were there. Hair slid across my cheek and stuck; I shoved it back and the optic hitch showed up for a fraction of a second, right eye lagging, catching up, and his gaze dropped away from my face.

  Foot traffic drifted past the corner in slow waves, nobody interested in a closed service door. Two cameras covered the concrete in front of the keypad, one high on a bracket, one low on a wall mount; I joined the flow, let the sack hang loose, nudged it against the wall with my toe, kept my right hand open at my side. The low camera blinked once, the high camera finished its sweep, and the deck cable went into my port.

  Heat climbed behind my right eye with the handshake. The other end into the keypad’s maintenance slit and the controller drew more current, requesting a token on the local line every two seconds on a cadence that stayed dumb and faithful. I matched that cadence and fed it the shape it expected, kept small enough to avoid a spike; the latch clicked, the door gave, and the twitch at my jaw rode under the jacket while the fan climbed inside the deck case.

  Inside, a corridor ran straight to a badge door, drain grate cutting across the floor with one edge lifted a few millimeters. My shoe cleared it with a scrape from the sole. A closet door cracked open on my left, a mop bucket rolled out and tapped my shin, and the worker holding it froze with both hands welded to the handle, bleach specks across his sleeve.

  “Badge,” he said.

  I set an eddie chip on the bucket lip. “End door.”

  His throat moved. “End door.”

  I walked past him and let the wheels squeak behind me while his fingers grabbed the chip in a fast blur and shoved it into a pocket. At the badge door, my fingers went to the hinges and left the reader idle; the top hinge pin sat a millimeter high with bright metal showing from a recent pull. A thin wedge under the door edge and my palm lifted steady pressure while the badge reader cycled red, green, red on its timer; I held the tension through the loop, waited for green, pushed with my shoulder, and the door opened two fingers wide with warm air rolling out.

  The gap took my shoulder and I slid through, wedge coming free with my toe as the door settled back into place. Three racks lined the wall, a desk held a terminal with a privacy screen, and a sticker lay crooked over a camera mount with a wrinkle at one corner. The cabinet lock on the nearest rack wore scratch arcs; my flat pick went in and the core turned on the third movement.

  Inside, a cradle held one module with a paint dot on top; I ignored it and read the serial block until the prefix matched Masamune’s string. The module came out dense in my palm, two screws holding the casing with chewed heads; my pick lifted the seam until the plastic complained and parted, and a sleeve sat under the board pinned by foil tape, laminate smooth, label absent, one edge carrying a ridge where someone had started peeling and pressed it down again.

  My agent buzzed once.

  **Masamune**: Ten

  I closed the casing and pressed the seam until it seated, set the module back into the cradle with the tape missing, shut the cabinet, turned the lock, and left the room with the sleeve in my inner pocket and my port still hot. Back in the corridor, the mop worker waited by his closet with one hand on the knob and his eyes fixed on my shoes.

  “Security asked,” he whispered.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, voice cracking on the last syllable.

  At the service door, the cigarette man stared at my sack.

  “Done?” he asked.

  “Done,” I said.

  He watched the sack pass and kept his eyes away from my face. Outside, I walked until the building vanished behind a corner, jaw working on its own, teeth rubbing. A kiosk under an awning sat two blocks over with dried syrup on the port shelf; my sleeve wiped it once and the cable went in, two images sent to Masamune after metadata scrub: the sleeve on my palm, the rack bay with the module seated.

  **Masamune**: Good

  **Masamune**: Drop tonight. Same rules

  The Galena started on the first try and shook at idle. I drove with the radio off, windows up, eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel cover’s worn spot, and traffic did its blunt math around me. Under the unit, I sat for a moment with the engine running and watched the rpm needle wobble, itch under the port strap staying awake; I killed the engine and carried the deck case upstairs.

  Chain up. Deadbolt turned. The room held the same stains and the same damp patch. I tucked the sleeve under the counter mat and left my palm over it for a breath. My balance sat higher than it had any right to; I pulled it up, scrolled, closed it, opened it again, and set the agent down without locking the screen, daring the room to steal it.

  A ripper chair cost sat on a folded receipt in my drawer. A second number lived in my head, the kind of cash you needed to buy a car that could leave a street fast and still stop at the next light without drifting into the crosswalk. The Galena did fine. The Galena also made every block feel longer, and I kept circling listings on my agent and deleting them, circling again, deleting again, mouth tight, fingers restless.

  Laundry went into the basin and soap went in. I worked the fabric until the water turned dark, wrung it out, hung the shirt from the shower rod, watched it drip into a small puddle on tile. A neighbor’s TV bled through the wall, laughter on cue, and I sat on the cot and watched a drip line crawl down the damp patch until it hit the baseboard, eyes unfocused, brain running inventory without my consent.

  **UNKNOWN**: You still wear his face

  The line arrived on my agent and stayed there while I stared at the screen. My thumb swiped it away and the display cleared. The deck case sat on the counter with its latches aligned, cable rolled, ports cleaned, everything neat enough to irritate me.

  Near midnight, I pulled the sleeve from under the mat and set it on the counter.

  RED

  Text sat at the edge of my vision and stayed there. I slid the sleeve back under the mat and left the unit with empty hands.

  My agent buzzed again. No preview.

  Downstairs, a vendor had a pot on a folding table and a line of people with paper cups. I joined and watched hands. The vendor glanced at my chrome, glanced at my iris, kept his gaze on my money hand.

  “Same?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  A man behind me bumped my elbow and smiled with one tooth missing.

  “Watch your parts,” he said.

  “Walk,” I said.

  He laughed once and drifted away when another customer stepped between us. I took the soup to a curb with my back to a wall, cup warming my fingers, and finished it without tasting much, eyes tracking the lane until the line thinned.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Masamune’s drop rules stayed the same in practice: bag, kiosk, keep moving, stay out of anyone’s frame for longer than a breath. At 21:53 the next night, the sleeve sat sealed in plastic inside the deck case; the stairwell smelled of old piss and cleaning spray, and my mask stayed on.

  Under the stack, the kiosk screen showed burn-in from an old ad. A man leaned on a pillar with a coffee cup. A second man sat deeper in the dark with a phone glow on his face.

  “Name,” the pillar man said.

  “Jax.”

  “Show.”

  I opened the case and held the sealed sleeve up. He took it with two fingers, turned it once, gave it back.

  “Wait,” he said.

  Second man walked a few steps away and spoke into his phone, voice low enough to disappear under traffic, came back and nodded.

  “Done,” he said.

  My agent buzzed while I walked away.

  **Masamune**: Received

  **Masamune**: Payment in ten

  Payment landed before I reached the Galena. The number climbed again. My throat tightened, hands steady on the wheel.

  Back at the unit, I washed my hands until my skin squeaked and the itch under the port strap stayed awake. Another message arrived.

  **UNKNOWN**: Storage key still works

  **UNKNOWN**: Same locker. Bring cash

  A photo followed: a brass key on a ring, three digits stamped into the metal. The stamp matched a paper receipt under the floorboard. I pulled it out, held it under the lamp until the ink stopped swimming, locker number sitting in the corner with a date older than my first week in the city, and I sent one word.

  WHERE

  **UNKNOWN**: Same place

  **UNKNOWN**: Before close

  Sleep came in scraps. I woke with my jaw sore, carried the day with chores that kept my hands away from the deck case: strap swap on the holster, port swab with alcohol, battery clamp on the Galena tightened, used-car feed opened and closed and opened again until my eyes burned. A compact hatch sat at the top with a low price and a clean photo, seller number padded with extra digits; I copied the number to paper, wrote it again, tore the paper in half.

  By late afternoon, an envelope of cash rode my inner pocket and the Galena carried me across the city with mirrors checked and routes looped until my shoulders loosened. The storage lot held three cars and a van with a dented side, camera over the office door lens scratched. Inside, a clerk sat behind glass with hair shaved close and a cheap tablet on a stand.

  “Locker,” I said, eddie chip under the slot.

  “Name,” he said.

  “Jax.”

  He typed and held up a key ring stamped with the digits from the photo.

  “Ring,” he said, holding it up through the glass, and I answered, “I came for it,” while his eyes stayed on my right iris. “Signature,” he added.

  The tablet was pushed under the glass and I signed, letters coming out fast in a style that arrived from somewhere deeper than my wrist. The clerk watched the signature, watched my face.

  “You changed,” he said.

  “Key,” I said.

  He pushed the ring under the glass. I left the eddie chip until the keys hit my palm.

  The corridor of lockers ran long with roll-up doors. My lock sat bright against older scratches. Key turned. Door rolled up with a grind. A plastic bin sat inside with tape across it, marker on the lid: JAX MORROW, under it in smaller print: Return if found.

  I carried it out with both hands and set it on the passenger seat. My chrome fingers left faint scuffs on the plastic where they gripped. Back at the unit, the bin sat on the cot and I stared at the tape until my throat tightened again.

  Tape peeled with a slow rip. The latch popped and the lid came free: photo strips, an employee badge with a logo scratched into blur, a folded paper map with corners rubbed smooth, a shard labeled HOME in a sleeve with a thumbprint smudge. Under the HOME shard sat another shard without a label, wire loop hugging its base, solder uneven.

  I left that one where it was and slotted HOME. The junkyard fan spun and warmed under my palm while directories opened on my view: receipts, names, transfer lists, phone numbers with notes clipped in short phrases, a folder holding a video file with a date stamp and a name: JAX.

  Old Jax filled the frame, hair shorter, skin cleaner, green eyes centered, bruise at the jaw, cut at the lip. He leaned close and held the lens with his stare.

  “Jax Morrow,” he said. “If you’re watching this, you’re driving my body.”

  My mouth went dry. I paused the video and stared at his face, the curve of his cheek, the tension at the corner of his eye, and my optic hitch pulsed once, a small lag; the hardware blinked without permission.

  **Masamune**: Tomorrow. New work

  **Me**: Copy

  The video played again.

  “You keep my face,” he said. “You keep my bills, you keep my mistakes, but you won’t remember me.”

  His eyes flicked off-screen. A truck passed and shook his room. He held his breath for half a second and stared again.

  “RED.”

  “It doesn’t keep time straight.”

  The audio clipped and came back.

  “You can walk away,” he said. “You can keep doing jobs and buying parts and pretend the city cares. Or you can take the hit and pull the thread.”

  His hand came into frame holding something small. The camera refused focus on it.

  “I took the first one,” he said. “It took something back.”

  Static ate the last second. The file ended.

  The map on my cot had a circle in pen around a block I recognized from a drive-by months ago. The badge carried a stamped number on the back. The photo strips showed a woman’s face twice, eyes turned away from the lens, mouth tight.

  I sat with my elbows on my knees and the bin open at my feet, letting the room be quiet, letting the hum of the building fill the gaps. Four months sat between the fireworks and this cot, between the first days of running on panic and the routine that kept me fed; the routine had grown teeth. Money sat in my account with weight now, enough to buy a cleaner optic set, enough to buy a stronger port mount, enough to buy a car that stopped telling strangers my story, and the bin on my cot carried a different weight that pulled at the same place in my chest.

  The unlabeled shard stayed in the bin. The wire loop hugged its base, solder uneven against the plastic wall. I took it out and set it on the counter beside the deck case, fingers hovering over it and pulling back, mouth tasting of metal.

  Water ran over my hands at the sink, cold on skin, and my chrome fingers tapped the basin when I set them down. Back at the counter, the shard waited. The wire loop caught on my glove and tugged; I pulled the glove off and let skin touch the laminate. A pulse hit behind my right eye. My jaw clicked.

  The shard went into the port and heat climbed fast, the room narrowing to cot, counter, sink, bin. The system block appeared into the center of my view.

  QUEST COMPLETE

  REWARD: BLOODY BARON — EPIC

  ACCEPT

  DECLINE

  GARAGIST — COMMON

  GARAGIST — REMOVAL

  SKILL RETAINED: ENGINEERING

  SKILL RETAINED: BARGAIN

  PERK RETAINED: 1

  BLOODY BARON — INSTALL

  Garagist had kept my hands steady and my mouth sharp, saved eddies in small bites, fed tricks into my head that came too easily when money ran short. The name on the screen belonged to a cracked memory: keep gate, wooden hall, a man who wore guilt as a coat and still barked orders. My thumb hovered above the choice and pressed ACCEPT.

  Pain arrived as a clamp behind my eyes. My knees folded and my head struck tile. The impact flashed white.

  A hole opened in my head and the scam ladder vanished, seller voices losing their hooks, the instinct that read a listing photo and spotted a swapped part going quiet. Other knowledge stayed put: torque values, fastener patterns, wire colors, the way a cheap connector failed under vibration. Engineering. Bargain. The rest fell out of me and hit the floor in the dark.

  A wooden hall filled my vision with men pounding cups on tables under a banner on a beam, mud caking boots, a girl staring with hate kept sharp, a woman turning her face away with a bruised cheek, and a hand slamming wood hard enough to quiet the room on command.

  Crow’s Perch.

  The word landed in my mouth without my consent.

  My fingers scraped tile while my chrome hand dragged a line across it, the deck fan screaming once before darkness took the room and air came back in bursts. Copper taste filled my mouth. My ribs flared on breath and the port strap cut into skin. A stim wrapper lay open on the counter, one bay in the med tray empty, thigh burning with a fresh puncture ringed by dried blood.

  My agent lay on the floor with Masamune’s thread open. Two sent messages sat at the bottom.

  **Me**: Job closed

  **Me**: Still breathing

  I stared at those words until my throat tightened. The timestamps sat inside the blackout.

  BLOODY BARON — EPIC

  PERK UNLOCKED: CO-PILOT

  PERK ACQUIRED: BARON'S DECREE

  SKILL UPGRADED: BRAWLER > RED RIVER(1/100)

  BODY: 8/12

  COOL UNLOCKED

  COOL: 5/9

  DRIFT: HIGH

  The block jittered and collapsed to the edge.

  Co-Pilot sat beside the empty stim bay and the sent messages. My stomach rolled. Fingers pressed the puncture mark on my thigh and pain cut through the tremor. Memory fragments hit in a rush: fist on a table, shout, a girl turning her face away, a woman’s hair knotted, a man’s breath stinking of booze, a child crying under boards; my jaw clicked again and a second laugh rode under it, quiet, amused.

  Chrome fingers flexed once without my cue and reached for the cot frame. I slapped my own wrist with my left hand hard enough to sting and the fingers stopped. I hauled myself onto the cot and sat with my back against the wall, sweat running down my neck, port strap biting under my ribs, lungs pulling air in shallow bites.

  A thought rose and it carried a cadence built for a room full of men who answered to it.

  Get up.

  My teeth ground. My shoulders tensed. My body leaned forward a fraction, obeying before my mind caught up. I forced my hands to stay on the blanket, palms flat, tremor slowing, coming back, slowing again. The bin stayed open on the floor. Old Jax stayed frozen on the paused frame in my deck view, bruised jaw, cut lip, eyes centered, and my account balance sat higher than it had any right to with a different bill attached to it now.

  My eyes closed and the hall returned: cups, shouting, a gate, a horse, mud, orders baked into the images, blunt and ugly. A second voice, mine, scraped out of my throat.

  **Masamune**: Any vision artifacts?

  “Fuuuuuck.”