Location: The Westway Strip, Maatari – The Syndicate Loft
Time: 9:45 PM
Rain traced the windshield like broken code.
The burner car idled beneath a half-dead streetlight outside a QuikRig on the Westway Strip, its rumble lost under the hiss of drizzle and late-shift traffic. The glow from the station's neon sign stuttered between rust-orange and ghost-white, painting Scars' grin in alternating colors.
"Target just fueled up," Scars said, watching through the smeared glass. "Keeps checking the mirrors like he's scared of his own reflection."
Khazim sat wordless in the passenger seat, fingers resting against the Hunterfly's folded hilt.
Drev's voice had already gone cold over the comms before cutting out,
"Clean. Silent. Final."
The car's wipers dragged another smear of water across the glass.
Outside, Vorrin Kett leaned against the pump, eyes darting, muttering into his halosync. A duffel sat on the hood of his car. Noticeably too heavy for groceries and too deliberate for travel. The rain didn't bother him, paranoia did.
Scars flicked his lighter open, flame blooming for a second before he shut it again. "Man's nervous. Think he knows we're his confession."
Khazim's tone was flat. "He'll believe it when he sees us."
Vorrin tossed the duffel into his trunk, paid at the meter, and pulled off toward the lower lanes.
Scars grinned. "Field trip."
The burner car rolled out behind him, with the engine whisper tuned by a NullTone rig to vanish under the city's static. The road narrowed, lights thinning until only the Verge's industrial existence remained, a menacing glow beneath the ribs of Maatari.
"Two blocks more," Scars said, eyes cutting through the mist. "He'll think he lost us."
Khazim's gaze stayed on the taillights ahead. "Let him."
A flicker of movement. Vorrin's car turned into a cracked service lane, past rusted signage and sagging wire fences.
Scars eased the wheel, killing the headlights.
What waited beyond was a blur of scaffolds, leaking pipes, and rain-slick alleys.
A place where even ghosts checked their exits.
The Verge sat on the edge of Maatari's pulse, where light thinned and everything smelled like rusted wire. They parked two blocks off a flickering QuikRig sign, the kind of place where even ghosts double-checked their exits.
Scars killed the engine. "You ready, church mouse?"
Khazim stepped into the night. Scars followed.
The rain hit in fine needles, quiet enough to hear the static of broken streetlamps. They shadowed the runner down a side lane where the markets bled into warehouses.
A woman at a food cart ladled ashpepper stew into plastic bowls, muttering about prices. Two kids argued over a cracked halosync. The city still lived, even in decay.
The runner cut across a back lot and ducked into a dead QuikRig. Only one bulb glowed inside, trembling with every gust.
Scars nodded toward the side door. "Round em up."
Khazim moved along the wall, water dripping from the eaves. Inside, Vorrin dumped the duffel onto a stained table.
Bags of GlitchPak glittering under the weak light. He counted them like prayer beads.
Khazim slipped through the back entrance. No noise. No hesitation. The Hunterfly unfolded in his hand, metal whispering. He came up behind the man and set the blade beneath his jaw.
"Don't move. Don't think."
Vorrin froze, air choking in his throat.
Khaz calls out to Scars. "Clear."
The front door creaked open. Boots, then Scars' voice. Low, confident.
"Evenin', Vorrin. Boss says you've been creative with inventory."
Vorrin's hands trembled. "I can fix it—just give me time."
Scars took a slow step closer, the tip of his knife tracing the air. "You've had time. What I need now are names."
The runner tried to speak; fear tangled it. Scars twisted his arm behind his back until something in his shoulder popped.
"Where's the rest?"
"Attic, behind the vent," Vorrin gasped. "Two others, Nial and Vos, they move through the port tunnels."
Scars smiled like the answer tasted good. "See? Honest. That's worth something."
Vorrin's face relaxed in disbelief. "I can't believe I'm gonna walk away from this."
Scars crouched. "I said I wouldn't kill you." He looked up, grin cutting sharper. "Didn't say you'd live."
Khazim moved. One clean motion, nothing theatrical. The blade flashed, then quiet. Vorrin collapsed, the sound no louder than a breath ending.
For a moment, the only noise was rain on metal and the low whir of the dying bulb.
Scars exhaled smoke through his nose. "Could've at least let it sink in first. Adds drama."
"Drama's for theaters."
Scars snorted. "Right. You're all function, no flair."
He looked up at the ceiling vent. "Grab the stash."
Khazim climbed, dust sticking to his gloves. Half the duffels were up there, lined neat in old insulation. He tossed them down, each thud echoing through the small room.
When he dropped back to the floor, Scars was checking the walls, eyes sharp. He found the main valve for the old fuel system and twisted it slow. A hiss answered. He dragged a metal can across the floor, pouring a thin line from the doorway to the curb.
"Drev likes clean scenes," he said, almost to himself. "Nothing sterilizes better than heat."
He snapped his lighter open, letting the tiny flame hover just above the trail.
Khazim watched it, expressionless. The light painted his scar in orange and violet.
Scars grinned. "You blink now, or later?"
"Neither."
Scars let the flame fall.
The fuel caught with a quiet roar as they stepped into the night.
The flame walked the ground like it had been waiting for permission.
A thin orange line crawled along the wet concrete, then took a breath and swelled. The first pane shattered inward with a flat pop. Heat rolled out and skimmed the car's hood in a wavering glaze.
Scars didn't watch the building so much as he watched Khazim watch it.
"Pretty," he said.
Khazim's face didn't change. The reflection made his dead eye look like it had learned a new color and decided not to keep it.
Sirens didn't sing out here. Condemned buildings died in private.
They loaded the last duffel into the trunk. Scars flicked his lighter closed and palmed it like a keepsake. The station exhaled again—ceiling giving, metal bending, fire blooming through dust like memory catching air.
"Drive," Khazim said.
Scars grinned and slid behind the wheel. The car coughed, then settled into a low growl as they pulled away. In the rearview, the QuikRig collapsed into itself with a patient hunger. Sparks climbed the night and dissolved into wet dark.
For three blocks, neither man spoke.
At the fourth, Scars cracked a fresh bakky and bit the end clean. "You been around that kind of heat before."
Khazim watched streetlamps pass like measured beats. "I've been around everything."
"That right." Scars rolled smoke between his teeth. "I'll find the place that makes you flinch."
"Spend your own time how you want."
Scars laughed once, smoke cutting across the dash light. "Oh, I will."