Cain landed on the roof of a transport crate hard enough to rattle the bolts. Pain bit into his ribs, but he didn't stop moving. He rolled off the edge, dropped into a crouch, and tucked behind the next container before his breath caught up.
The street beyond stretched open — wide lanes, no lights, crates piled like tombstones, loading arms frozen mid-air. Sector 8's shipping zone had long since been redlined. No patrols, no cameras and no reason for anyone to be here. So why was someone already waiting?
Cain heard the scuff first.
Not rushed. Not stealthy either. Just placed like whoever was coming didn't care if they were heard. He stayed still.
A shadow moved across the container corner. Then a voice:
"Three hops in under six minutes. Not bad. Not normal either."
Cain said nothing.
A woman stepped into view. Mid-twenties. Black jacket zipped to the neck. Thin gloves, heavy boots, and goggles that looked too clean for street work. One hand rested lightly on a thigh holster. Not drawing. Just reminding.
"Relax," she said. "I'm not here to start anything."
Cain stood slowly. She didn't flinch. Just smiled.
"You don't talk much, huh?"
Still, Cain said nothing.
She stepped closer. "You've been walking hot. Every signal you touch throws back three ghosts. You know what that looks like to people who watch for it?"
He stared.
She sighed. "It looks like someone trying really hard not to be seen."
Cain shifted slightly. The woman raised both hands. "Hey. You're not the only one who knows how to ghost a grid. I'm not here to report you. I'm here to see if the heat's real."
Cain's eyes narrowed.
"See," she added, "they're saying there's a Rat running with no Binder, no sig prints, no ID. And if that's you... I needed to know if you move like they said."
Cain took a step to the side.
She followed his angle with a glance. "You won't find cover that way. We've got two drones up. But don't worry. They're set to watch, not bite."
Cain didn't believe her. He scanned the upper rooftops. No hums. No flashes.
"Still nothing?" she said. "Alright. I'll show first."
She tapped the toe of her boot once against the steel beneath her. Sparks flickered under the crate behind her. Heat shimmered.
Cain didn't blink.
The woman grinned. "Tier E, before you ask. Not flashy. But I like it clean."
She stepped closer again, stopping just short of striking range. "Here's what I want, Rat" with a reaction. "I've seen too many kids burn out faking what they can't control. If you're the real deal, I want to see why."
Cain didn't give her what she wanted. Instead, he turned fast. Moved around the crate — low, angled, vanishing into shadow.
The woman blinked. "Seriously?"
She followed. Cain cut back, looped behind her position, and spotted her drone perched silently under a light rig. No weapons, just a camera watching.
He scaled the beam then snapped the core loose. He tossed the drone into the alley. The sound of it cracking turned the woman's head. That's when he moved again. A nearby valve hissed. Cain had kicked it open in passing.
Steam flooded the path between them.
She shouted, "Now that's the kind of thinking I was hoping for!" But Cain was already gone. By the time she reached the far edge, he'd vanished into the fog. The only thing left was a tag clip — small, black, magnetic — missing from her belt.
Cain crouched four blocks south, behind a rusted transit pillar. The tag in his hand blinked quietly. Not gang tech. Not system-issued. A black-market trace scanner, the kind scouts used to map movement heat without triggering signals.
She wasn't there to track him. She was there to study him and someone paid her to do it.
The System buzzed softly:
[Passive Surveillance Escaped – Confirmed]
[Tag Tracker Logged | Sync Adjustment: +1%]
Cain didn't like it.
He pocketed the tag, stood, and walked toward the edge of Sector 8. The streets darkened again. Lights are thinner, fewer signs and fewer voices.
Cain followed the blinking tag signal down a collapsed tram ramp and through a crumbled barricade. Pipes hissed overhead. Somewhere in the dark, wind scraped metal over metal. The air changed near the end of the path — thicker, heavy with battery acid and dust.
He entered a wide clearing beneath the overpass. Hundreds of burner phones lay scattered in the dirt. Some broken, some melted. Gutted for SIMs. Some still pulsed red from dead batteries trying to live while others were fused together like slag.
Cain crouched. He picked one up. It was still warm.
A low hum pulsed from the middle of the yard — buried beneath a crushed telecom relay. He crossed quietly, lifted a metal sheet, and found a cracked storage module wired into the earth with scavenged cable.
The tag from the profiler's belt blinked in sync with the receiver.
This wasn't just a signal bounce. This was a feeder hub.
He traced the wiring through the dirt and found the source node — a signal ghoster unit. High-end tech. Custom rigged. Someone had mapped his every movement over the last four days.
Every stop, every ping, every fake trail and none of it had been random. Cain's hand hovered over the ghoster's drive slot. He didn't trust it but he slid the tag inside. The unit whirred. A small screen flickered.
UNLOCK SEQUENCE VERIFIEDPING FILES: 27 REGISTERED PATHWAYS
Cain hit play.
One by one, his past burner signals played like a map — echo trails, timestamps, location data. But overlayed on the paths were annotations.
"Test 2: Consistent deviation from false lead."
"Signal response exceeds Tier E decay pattern."
"Acceleration spike noted in Zone 4."
They weren't watching him. They were measuring him instead. Cain scrolled down.
A file marked: Asset: GHOST / Status: Unconfirmed / Origin: Blank
Another line under it: Flag Request: MIRE
Cain's hand paused. He tapped the name.
ACCESS RESTRICTED – SECURITY LEVEL: REDLINE
Locked. The only file that wouldn't play. He backed out and scanned for open messages. One existed.
Text only:
"If the Rat crosses Sector 9, initiate Tier Pull. No bind, no witness. Record only."
Cain stared at the line, no Binder, no witness.
Just record.
Whoever was running this didn't want him gone. They wanted proof before he could shut the unit down, the ground lit faint blue beneath him. Not a trap but a sensor grid. The ghoster self-wiped. Heat surged from the core. Sparks shot from the rig.
Cain didn't flinch. He backed away before the small hub exploded, sending a puff of static smoke and half-melted glass into the sky.
[System Ping: Echo Source Destroyed]
[Signal Feed Severed | Passive Surveillance Cut]
He turned. Across the far end of the yard, a concrete slab had been marked. Cain approached it cautiously. Etched into the wall was a name.
MIRE
Just that but it was fresh. Scratched in hard maybe minutes ago. Cain reached out and touched the name. Nothing special. Just concrete but the message was clear:
Someone knew he was coming.
The System pulsed again.
[System Alert: Kill Slot Available – Target Flag: Mire]
[Override Permission: Denied]
Cain froze. Override?
He hadn't requested a kill slot. He never asked for a flag. The System had never been overridden on its own. He stepped back, eyes narrowing.
The screen repeated:
[Override Permission: Denied]
Denied by who? Cain clenched his jaw.
You're not the only one in here, the voice whispered.
Eli.
Cain didn't answer. He turned, checked the shadows again, and began moving.