Mouse is still breathing, but she’s running on fumes and a prayer to the digital gods. She took a burst of flechette to the shoulder when the north wall buckled, and her rhythm’s all off. We scrambled through the ventilation baffles while the Red Samurai, or whatever drek hot strike team they bought started painting the room with lead. I’m currently hunkered down in a maintenance crawlspace near the Redmond-Bellevue border, the kind of ghost spot where the sensors are too ancient to scan a flea. My Cyber-6 is heavy in my grip, and the smartlink is screaming for a handshake with a deck that’s currently cooling in a pile of rubble. The hum in my jaw is back, a jagged ASIST jitter that makes the shadows look like they’re breathing.

We’re sitting on the hottest optical chip in the sprawl, and every corporate shark from Renraku to Aztechnology is probably scenting the blood in the water. I’ve got the paydata taped to my skin, a jagged little piece of leverage that feels more like a ticking thermal detonator with every passing tick. Mouse managed to punch a high-density burst out to Kestrel just as the mag-locks gave way, but if that fixer doesn't slot the invite soon, we’re just two more gutter slugs waiting for the "Delete" key. The sound of mag-resonance scanners is echoing through the pipes above us, a rhythmic thrum that says the suits aren't done hunting.

I’m done playing the "glitch in the system" routine; right now, I just want to be a ghost. If we can bypass the perimeter drones and hit the surface by dawn, we’re going to dump this data for enough nuyen to buy a one way ticket to Neo-Tokyo or anywhere the rain doesn’t taste like industrial runoff and desperation. My boots are soaked, my chrome is sparking, and I’m down to my last clip of APDS rounds. It’s a long shot, but in the Barrens, a long shot is the only thing that ever pays out. Time to see if Kestrel is the real deal or just another suit in a street doc’s clothing.