The wind tore across the rooftops like a living thing.
Stitch ran with his chest aching, boots slick on wet concrete, fingers dragging along the edges of rusted beams. Every step was a gamble. Every jump, a prayer.
Above, the storm broke in flashes of neon. Light fractured the mist. Shadows twisted in impossible angles.
He heard them — the pursuers, silent until now — landing lightly, moving as if gravity were optional. Their visors glowed, scanning, predicting. Stitch lunged across a gap, fingertips scraping steel, knuckles bleeding.
A pulse of static surged through the cube in his pocket.
Instinct told him to stop.
The voice cut in again. Soft. Precise. Unseen.
"Left. Drop. Don't hesitate."
He obeyed.
The moment he hit the lower ledge, something shifted. A flash of movement above — a silhouette twisting, guiding him with subtle misdirection. A shadow in the rain. He didn't see her, only the consequences: a falling panel obstructed one pursuer, another tripped over a loose cable, a drone miscalculated and slammed into a railing.
The city around him was chaos — sparks, rain, steel — yet somehow, he survived.
He vaulted a short wall, slid across a slick roof, and landed near the edge of an abandoned industrial yard. His lungs burned. His vision narrowed to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He didn't dare look back.
The voice spoke again, almost intimate:
"One more gap. Jump now."
He obeyed.
Time stretched as he flew. The wind ripped at him, the air tore across his skin. Below, the lights of Tier Nine spread like a circuit board, infinite and indifferent. He landed on a lower rooftop, scraping to stop, chest heaving.
For the first time, he realized he was being guided — not rescued, not chased, but watched. Every move calculated for survival, not for mercy.
Then — a sound above, the faintest shift of a body landing on the steel ridge. Just a whisper, like a thought brushing his shoulder.
He froze, scanning the fog. Nothing but movement behind the neon mist.
The cube pulsed once.
A small metallic object clinked onto the roof beside him — a tag, etched with a glyph he didn't recognize. Its weight was heavy in his palm, almost alive.
The rain fell harder. Sirens echoed from the streets below. Drones recalibrated. Pursuers flanked him on two sides.
And still, the shadow above stayed just beyond perception, silent, unseen, manipulating the chaos.
Stitch swallowed his fear. Adrenaline sharpened his senses. Every instinct screamed: follow the guidance, trust the shadow — or die.
He jumped. He ran.
And he realized — he was no longer just surviving. He was being tested.
The wind howled like something old and wounded.
Rain lashed his face, each drop like a pin of glass. The rooftops blurred — slick metal, broken vents, the glow of endless signs warping across the rain.
Stitch's legs moved on instinct now. Thought had no place here. Only rhythm — the sharp inhale before a leap, the dull ache of landing, the metallic sting of air that never felt clean.
Behind him: pursuit.
Not human.
Too precise.
Too silent.
The city's security drones hunted by algorithm — adapting, learning, predicting. He could feel them watching, each movement calculated, boxed, measured. He veered left through a narrow junction of pipes, ducked beneath a catwalk, vaulted a railing.
A voice — faint in the rain — threaded through static in his mind.
"North sector's sealed. You won't make it that way."
He didn't flinch this time.
"Who are you?"
No answer. Just a pause long enough to make him doubt he'd heard anything at all.
He sprinted again, breath ragged. The rain came heavier now — thick sheets that blurred the lights and turned the world into motion and noise. Ahead, a gap opened between two towers. Thirty feet across. Maybe more.
His body screamed no. His memory whispered yes.
He ran.
Each step felt like a countdown. The roof trembled under him, old structure giving way. He leapt — arms wide, weightless for a second that stretched forever.
Lightning split the skyline.
And something — someone — moved above him.
A flash of movement in the mist. A figure. Not machine. Not part of the chase. The shadow leapt in perfect sync — parallel to him, a blur against the storm. A hand shot out — not to grab him, but to throw something.
A thin filament sliced the air — blue, pulsing — and struck the nearest drone mid-flight. It spiraled out of the sky, burning neon trails into the darkness.
Stitch landed hard on the next roof, rolling twice, breath gone. He looked back — the shadow was gone. Only the storm remained.
"Keep going," the voice murmured again, clearer now, like it was closer. "Don't stop. Don't think."
He obeyed.
The next stretch of rooftops descended into an industrial maze — vents exhaling steam, metal grids slick with rain. He could hear the hum of the mag-rail lines below, the heartbeat of the city.
Two drones appeared ahead — one on each flank. He dove through a maintenance hatch, slid down a chute, and hit ground level. The air here was thick with rot and ozone.
A second too late — a security mech dropped from above, landing like a hammer. It rose taller than a man, armor glistening under the half-light. The red lens fixed on him.
"Target located."
The mech's arm unfolded — a rail baton crackling with energy. Stitch backed away slowly, heartbeat rising to a fever pitch. His palms slipped on the wet ground. He scanned for exits — walls on both sides, no way out.
The mech stepped closer.
Then the light behind it flickered. Once. Twice.
And a shadow dropped from the catwalk above, silent as rain.
For a moment, the world froze. The figure moved — fast, efficient, like choreography in another language. A blade of light slashed through the mech's chest. Sparks. Static. Collapse.
Stitch stared.
The figure straightened, breathing hard, rain streaming off the hood. No words, no gestures. Just presence.
He wanted to speak, but couldn't. His voice felt small here. Fragile.
She turned toward him — only enough for him to see the faint curve of her jaw, the glint of a lens on her temple. Her eyes were hidden, but he could feel them on him.
The voice — the same one that had guided him through the chase — came not through the air, but from her.
"You're fast," she said quietly. "But not invisible."
Then she was gone — back into the storm, as if the city had reclaimed her.
The only sound left was the rain.
Stitch stood there, shaking, staring at the ruined mech. The tag in his pocket burned cold against his palm.
He didn't know her name. He didn't know why she'd saved him.
But the word Ghostline — whispered in the underworld like a rumour, half-myth, half-warning — pulsed in his thoughts.
For the first time, it didn't sound like a legend.
It sounded like an invitation.