Sector D-2 didn't show up on any clean maps. No tourist overlays. No CityGrid endorsements. If you weren't born into the trade tunnels or buried a body there, you didn't go. Cain knew that. He still went.
The burner led him to the eastern trade route, a sagging corridor of defunct merchant buildings. Half the security doors were fused shut, and the others swung open on stripped hinges, flapping in a wind that had nowhere to go. Rust climbed the walls like veins, and old projector signs blinked in loops—advertising brands that had folded a decade ago. Cain walked with his collar up. Not to hide, but to think.
The last two digits of the burner's coordinates matched a regional freight index. 17-RF. He traced it to an old manifest depot jammed between a gutted import shop and a fire-damaged pawn stall. The front door had no lock. Just a sliding panel held by a magnet latch. He slid it open and stepped inside.
The depot was smaller than expected. Four steel tables, a half-crushed records scanner, and wall racks of dusty folders. No cameras. No motion sensors. Just one blinking green node in the corner—the tracker waiting for him. Cain moved to the wall rack, pulled the tracker loose, and let it blink in his palm. It buzzed once, then flickered out.
He found the file within a minute. Drawer six. File 24-C. Plastic-sealed and heat-wrapped. Cain slit the edge and flipped through the pages inside. Actual paper. A luxury for real records. The first few pages were standard: shipment logs, cargo quantities, clearance stamps. But on page five, the names started.
His eyes tracked line by line. Half the names meant nothing. Smugglers. Couriers. Trade backups. Then one hit—Kane Ralston. Not the name on his burner's target, but a known alias. He stared at it. Eli didn't speak. Cain flipped further.
Shipment manifest: twelve containers. Date: April 13th, 2028. Location: Ashgate Southline. Escort assigned: Guttercrew–Tier 5. Secondary handler: Ralston. Cain froze. His breath thinned—not from shock, but because something in his spine clicked. He'd read this once before, but not with his eyes.
A throb pulsed behind his temple. Then Eli's voice, clear as stone cracking: "He said I shouldn't have come. Said I was too green. But he brought me. And then he ran."
Cain didn't answer. The file dropped against the steel table. He stepped back and looked around. The depot was empty, but it didn't feel like it. This job wasn't just cleanup. It wasn't another name on a list. This one had roots. Buried in Eli's skin. Cain picked up the file again and read the last note handwritten at the bottom: "Debrief canceled. Field unit lost. No witness."
He snapped the file shut. "Not anymore," he muttered.
The burner in his coat buzzed: Location Confirmed. Proceed to Target Zone. Cain didn't move for a beat. Then he turned, crossed the depot, and stepped out into the cold.
The wind picked up as he exited. The fog above Sector D-2 dragged across broken roof beams like smoke rolling off a battlefield. Debris clattered somewhere behind the next block, and an old drone shell twitched under a tarp by the alley wall, probably set off by the change in air pressure.
Cain moved like he was part of it—quiet, low to the stone. He didn't need to draw eyes. The job didn't demand noise, only resolve. That made it easier. Made it cleaner.
As he moved through the hollow corridor, his mind didn't dwell on the file. It rotated it. Turned it over. Folded it through layers of memory that weren't entirely his. Kane Ralston. Not just a name. A ghost in Eli's final moment. One Cain now had the job to erase.
He passed a skeletal staircase leading into a sunken plaza. Broken metal signs leaned against scorched pillars. At some point, this place held market value. Now it smelled like oil and smoke. A bent bench still bore the remnants of a torn-up courier satchel, straps cut clean through. Cain didn't stop. He didn't need more signs. The job was already personal, whether he admitted it or not.
At the exit ramp on the far side, the burner pinged again and gave a final directional nudge. North-west block. Sublevel access. Direct hit. Cain didn't change his pace. The moment would come. The job always did. What mattered now wasn't getting there. It was what he'd do when the door opened.
The alley to Sublevel Nine was narrower than the rest, tucked between a collapsed freight stack and the ribcage of an old access duct. Cain moved through it without pausing. The burner buzzed with each step, growing sharper as he neared the end. There was a door—steel, matte-black, no lock, no handle. Just a scanner pad built into the frame. A single red dot blinked.
Cain stopped one pace away.
He pulled the burner, let it sync.
ID Verified. Contract Zone Active.
The door clicked. Not open. Just live.
Then a voice came through the intercom above the frame. Not digital. Not recorded. Human.
"You're chasing ghosts, Ghost Rat."
Cain's eyes narrowed.
"You think you're here to finish what was started. You don't even know what that was."
Cain didn't respond.
The door didn't move. No weapons triggered. No alarms. Just that voice—level, clean, quiet. Male. Late forties, maybe.
"You're standing in the middle of someone else's cleanup," the voice said. "You finish this job, and you don't rise. You vanish."
Cain slid the burner back into his coat.
From behind him, another sound whispered through the duct above—a soft mechanical tick, followed by a scrape. He turned just slightly, listening. Nothing moved. But the pressure changed. Someone else was in the alley. Not near. Not close enough to see. But there.
Cain stepped forward. Placed his palm against the door. Cold metal. Still no movement.
"I don't care about your warnings," he said.
The intercom crackled again. "You should."
Then silence.
Cain took one step back. The burner lit again.
Door Unlocked. You may enter.
But the message wasn't automated. It pulsed once, then changed.
He's not alone. Watch the floor.
Cain's jaw tensed. Not because of the message. Because the font style wasn't crew-standard.
Someone piggybacked the signal.
He looked up. No visible cams. No eyes on him. But they didn't need to see him to speak through that line.
Eli stirred.
"That voice," he whispered. "That's not Kane. That's the one who gave the order."
Cain didn't answer.
He stepped closer. The door unlatched with a soft click and shifted open an inch.
Enough for one man to enter.
Inside, there was only black.