He moved first.
Didn't wait to see what they were — or how close. Instinct had already made the choice.
The cube vanished into his pocket.
Boots hit metal.
He was gone.
⸻
The bridge stretched across the southern artery, forty stories up, slick with rain and rust.
Below, searchlights carved through the fog like blades. Drones hovered in loose formation — hunting patterns, scanning for heat.
He vaulted a pipe, dropped low, and rolled as a bolt of blue plasma scorched the railing where his head had been.
The sound was a whisper — sharp, clean.
Corp-grade weapons.
So this wasn't a patrol.
It was a hunt.
⸻
He cut left, sprinting along the service rails.
Behind him, shadows split and multiplied — six figures, moving in perfect sync. No hesitation, no noise. Their visors burned white in the dark.
Another shot hissed past. Metal screamed.
He didn't look back.
The rooftops of Tier Nine blurred into a map only he could read — jumps, drops, gaps that had no names but muscle memory.
He cleared them all, heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of rain and footfall.
Every leap was survival.
Every second was borrowed.
⸻
A voice crackled through the fog — low, mechanical, distorted by static:
"Target on Sector 9 bridge. Confirmed extraction candidate."
Extraction.
Not arrest. Not kill.
He didn't know which was worse.
⸻
He cut across a vent line and dropped onto a rooftop market — canopies snapping in the wind, cables hissing with heat. Vendors screamed as the first pursuers landed behind him, weapons lighting the rain.
He slid under a stall, grabbed a crate, and hurled it at a shadow — the impact sent a figure staggering back, visor fracturing.
But two more replaced them instantly.
He turned toward the edge.
A forty-foot gap yawned between buildings.
No time. No choice.
He ran.
⸻
The air tore past him, cold and infinite.
For a heartbeat, he wasn't falling — he was flying.
Then the ledge hit hard. Pain burned up his leg. He stumbled, caught himself, rolled.
Behind him, one of the pursuers missed, slamming into a neon sign before disappearing into the dark.
He didn't stop.
⸻
The next roof ended in a steel lattice. Too high to climb.
He glanced back — three left, closing in.
His breath came in sharp bursts.
His hands trembled.
He wasn't going to make it.
Then —
A voice, soft and precise, cut through the chaos:
"Two steps back. Left corner. There's a drop rail."
He froze.
The sound came from nowhere — inside his comm, hijacked, smooth and calm.
"Who is this?"
"Move, Stitch."
He didn't think.
He obeyed.
Two steps back.
Left corner.
There — a narrow pipe hidden under a ridge.
He swung onto it just as a bolt of plasma tore through the air where his head had been.
The pipe bent under his weight, screeching.
He slid down, boots scraping sparks, landing on a lower ledge with a grunt.
He looked up — no sign of the voice's owner.
But something moved in the fog above him — a shape, barely there.
A figure in black, crouched on a power line.
Eyes glowing faint gold beneath a hood.
Watching him.
⸻
"Who are you?" he called.
The figure tilted their head, rain dripping from the mask.
Then — static "eyes on target"
He peaked over his shoulder, caught the glare of visors fixated on him
He looked up again.
The figure was gone.
⸻
Sirens echoed in the distance — the lockdown spreading.
The cube in his pocket pulsed once, faintly — like a heartbeat syncing with his own.
⸻
Somewhere above the rooftops, the voice whispered through the comm again — softer now, almost kind.
"Welcome to the line, Stitch. Let's see if you survive it."