Back in the soy-processing hole now, hunkered down behind three meters of reinforced plasteel & enough signal masking to ghost a Great Dragon. It’s quiet, but it’s that still, heavy, synth quiet you only find when you’re deep enough under the pavement to forget the Seattle drizzle exists. Mouse is still in the next bay, her low murmurs into a scrambled comm the only proof I haven't gone totally null sheen. I’ve got my boots up on a crate of expired protein paste, watching the Fuchi’s fans spin down. The hum in my jaw has finally dulled to a low-grade ache, though I still can't shake the ozone tang of that fragging mage’s astral signature.

The manifest is still glowing on the secondary screen, those twelve drop sites pulsing like a rhythmic heartbeat in the dark. Funny, really; a week ago, I was just a gutter-slug looking for a place to leak, and now I’m sitting on the detonator for the biggest corporate hoop storm in the sprawl. I’ve spent the last hour cleaning the slide on my Cyber-6, the mechanical clicking keeping my nerves from frying while Elias Thorne's digital ghost gets shredded on the public grids. It’s low-key for now, just me, the static, and the wait to see which shark Mouse managed to bait with our little slice of paydata.

The suits think they’ve got the perimeter slotted, but they don't know the Redmond dregs like the rats do. I’m done running, mostly because there’s no more grid to jump to, but also because I’m starting to like the leverage. I’ll stay here in the black, huffing rust and ancient soy, until Mouse gives the word. The countdown is still ticking, but for the first time in a month, I’m not just some mark in a corporate crosshair, I’m the glitch they can't reboot.

I tapped the master override on the Fuchi, shunting a trickle of power to the slaved sensor array Mouse had rigged around the soy plant’s upper vents. My vision swam for a second, that fragging ASIST jitter again, before the flickering wireframe of the perimeter map stabilized in my neural link. At first, it was just the usual Barrens static: a couple of scrawny devil rats gnawing on a discarded power coupling and the thermal bloom of a nearby hobo fire. Then, the passive acoustic sensors picked up a rhythmic thrum, too clean, too muffled for a civilian vehicle.

I zoomed in on the north alley feed, enhancing the low-light gain until the shadows bled grey. There, hovering just past a rusted loading dock, was a black-on-black Ares Citymaster. No lights, no transponder, just a sleek, armored predator idling in the rain. My heart did a slow roll in my chest when I spotted the second one flanking the rear exit. These weren't local gangers looking for a payday; these were professionals. They were moving in a staggered "diamond" formation, the kind of tactical maneuver that screamed high-threat response team.

"Mouse," I hissed, my voice cracking through the internal comm. "We've got company. Two armored rigs, staggered entry. They aren't knocking."

I grabbed my Cyber-6, the smartlink buzzing against my palm as it established a handshake with my cybereyes. On the monitors, the motion sensors in the main elevator shaft just went red. Someone just cut the mag-locks from the outside. The Hedgehogs, or worse, the Samurai, had found the nest. The low-key waiting game was officially over; now we were just minutes away from seeing if this bunker was a sanctuary or a tomb.