Steam hissed through the vents as Aris Kael pressed himself against the manifold pipe, heart pounding in time with the distant hum of Neon Market's core systems. Cipher's footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor before fading entirely, leaving Aris alone in the half-light, clutching the bag of Sonara spores and nursing the strange warmth under his skin. He tried to steady his breathing. Ten minutes wasn't much time to decide whether to trust a stranger. But the alternative—waiting helplessly while Wardens scoured every exit—felt worse.
He flexed his right hand. The rune beneath his skin glowed, as if impatient. Aris exhaled. Fine. He'd give Cipher his audience—and see exactly what the man wanted in return.
A few meters ahead, half-hidden by a tangle of conduits, stood a reinforced maintenance hatch. Its surface was camouflaged to match the surrounding metalscape, save for a faint tally of stamped serial numbers. Cipher's words replayed in Aris's mind: "Meet me by the manifold pipe three levels down." He hoped this was the right entrance.
Aris tapped the panel beside the door. A soft click, a hiss, and the hatch slid inward. Cool air from a side tunnel wafted in, carrying the tang of ozone and recycled mana. He stepped through.
The corridor beyond was narrower, framed by bundles of spliced fiber-optic cables and low-pressure conduits. Red warning lights pulsed along one wall; steam vents dripped at regular intervals. Aris held his breath and walked forward, senses sharpened. He forced himself to stay calm—no sudden moves, no panicked thoughts. He needed to keep control.
Halfway down, a gentle glow materialized at the far end: a single, low-profile lamp, its light diffused through frosted glass. Beneath it, Cipher leaned against a maintenance ladder, arms crossed, one boot propped on a rusted pipe flange. The haze of steam gave his silhouette an almost spectral quality.
Aris approached warily. The stranger's pale eye-patch glinted. He was impossibly still. Then Cipher straightened, tucking his hands into the pockets of his dark trenchcoat.
"Glad you made it," Cipher said, voice low enough to blend with the hiss of steam. "I trust your bag is intact?"
Aris nodded, thumbed the strap of his knapsack. "Everything's here. You got those codes?"
"Right here." Cipher produced a slim data-skimmer from an inner pocket. He tapped a sequence on its touch-sensitive face. A holographic readout flared to life between them, showing a grid of sub-levels and service shafts. "This vector leads to the service elevator on Level Nine. It's been re-flagged as a secondary access point for the Market's refrigeration units. Minimal patrols—if any."
Aris leaned in, memorizing the path. "And the comm-beacon?"
"Activated." Cipher tapped again. "Encrypted frequency, untraceable uplink. I'll ping you if things get hot. Likewise, you can call me… but don't broadcast. Only one code word."
Aris raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"Umbra." Cipher smiled, brief but sincere. "That's your password. I'm hosting a small gathering in the Alloy District tomorrow night. It's a place for—people like us." He paused, eyes drifting to the rune on Aris's palm, barely visible beneath the cuff of his jacket. "Step outside the law long enough, you learn the right company matters."
"People like us?" Aris echoed. He felt a flicker of unease. He'd always worked alone: less chance someone could betray him. Yet the idea of community—real alliance—was strangely appealing. "What do you want from me?"
Cipher's gaze sharpened. "I want you to see that you're more than a courier. And I want you on my side." He tapped the skimmer. "Tomorrow, when you've dropped the spores and collected your creds, I want you to join us. Meet me at the Blackforge Bar, deep in the Alloy District. Doors open at twenty-two hundred. Ask for the Crimson Talisman."
Aris closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured the high-rise apartments he could never afford, the glow of holo-billboards that promised delivery of every want, and the cold eyes of the Wardens on every checkpoint. Community sounded like a lifeline. But alliances could also be shackles.
"What's the… organization?" he asked quietly.
Cipher tilted his head. "Some call us the Neon Umbra. We're data-smugglers, ex-netrunners, rogue engineers… anyone who can't—or won't—play by corporate or consulate rules. We protect anomalies. People whose genetics or augments don't fit the sanctioned profiles."
Aris let out a slow breath. His insides warmed, partly from adrenaline, partly from the rune's glow. He'd always thought of himself as ordinary—a scrappy kid surviving by his wits. But the sigil under his skin, the way it responded to stress, the instant recognition on Cipher's part… something inside him shifted.
Cipher studied him. "You want proof?"
Aris shook his head. "Not yet. Send me something—some yardstick—before I expose myself."
Cipher nodded, as though he expected the caution. "Understood. I'll ping you coordinates to a safehouse. It's old, abandoned workshop space beneath the old glassworks. I'll leave a datapad there with some… reading material." He bit his lip. "And a demonstration. I think once you see what we do, you'll understand why I want you with us."
Aris pressed his lips together. "Fine. Tomorrow night. Blackforge. 'Crimson Talisman.'" He took a step back, gathering his coat around him.
"Good." Cipher's lips curved in a half-smile. He swept a hand at the corridor behind him. "Now go finish your job. I'll be watching."
Aris shouldered the spores and turned to leave—but paused at the mouth of the tunnel. He glanced back. "Cipher?"
The man looked up, expression open.
"Why help me?" Aris asked, voice low.
Cipher's gaze softened. "Because you're not the only one out here in the Neon Market's guts with a secret. And because something has started, something bigger than any of us. I've seen its spark in you. You should know: if you refuse, I can't protect you from the Wardens. And if you accept—well, you'll have more adversaries than you've ever known."
Aris met his gaze. The steam swirled around them. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the hiss of the pipes and his own breathing. Then he nodded.
"I'll be there."
Cipher inclined his head and stepped aside. "Good luck with the drop. And Aris—keep an eye on that rune."
Aris swallowed. His palm tingled. He ducked through the hatch and slid it closed behind him. In the momentary darkness he placed his hand over the sigil and studied it by the faint glow of his reactive jacket. It was a slender spiral of energy—no more than a whisper beneath his skin—but it felt like a beacon, calling him onward.
He retraced his steps up the grated staircase, heart thudding in his ears, mind racing with questions: Who—or what—was Cipher really? What was the Neon Umbra's agenda? And what did it mean that he, a nobody courier, now bore a symbol no one around him had seen before?
By the time he reached the service elevator on Level Nine, the Market above had resumed its familiar clamor. Consumers bargained for illicit arc-wands. Street performers juggled floating orbs of plasma. Overhead, holo-ads dazzled with images of perfect cityscapes and synthetic paradises.
Aris waited for the elevator, letting the mundane hubbub wash over him. He felt different now—exposed, unanchored, yet inexplicably awakened. He clutched the spores close and replayed Cipher's words: "We protect anomalies."
When the shaft doors hissed open, he stepped inside. The soft purr of the lift carried him upward. As the digits ticked by—eight… nine…—he squared his shoulders. He had a delivery to make, credits to collect, and a meeting to keep.
And then… the Neon Umbra beckoned.
Tomorrow night, at Blackforge Bar, he would decide whether to remain just another ghost in the Market's crowd—or step into the neon shadows and become something entirely new.