The rain never really stopped in Echelon-5.
It only changed rhythm — from whisper to roar, from mist to flood. By the time the city's neon dimmed into dawnlight, the rooftops looked like wet mirrors reflecting the veins of traffic far below.
Stitch sat on the edge of the safehouse roof, boots tapping against rusted steel, watching the city breathe. The air smelled like ozone and old circuitry.
Mira approached quietly, the sound of her steps lost under the hum of a nearby generator. She leaned beside him, hood up, watching the skyline where the towers faded into fog.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
"Didn't try to."
He flicked a small stone into the air, watched it disappear into the dark. Somewhere below, a drone whirred past, its spotlight slicing the rain.
"Ghostline's putting us on something tonight," she said. "A vault job. East Sector grid."
He glanced at her, curious. "Why me?"
She half-smiled. "You're fast. And reckless."
"Not sure those are strengths."
"They are here."
She handed him a folded schematic — rough, printed on old composite paper, annotated with red lines. Entry point. Extraction route. Contingencies. He studied it under the flicker of light.
"What's the take?"
"A data core. Corporate archive. Encrypted. Worth enough to feed the district for a month."
"Ghostline's that charitable?"
She gave him a look — hard, unreadable. "Ghostline's hungry. That's all."
The silence stretched between them. Somewhere below, a mag-train screamed across the elevated track, its lights cutting through the fog like a blade.
He turned the paper over in his hands, tracing the lines. "So that's it? In and out?"
"In and out," she said, then paused. "If we're lucky."
Her tone carried a weight he couldn't quite name — something like memory.
⸻
By nightfall, the city was a different creature.
Wet neon reflected off every surface, advertisements flickering through the haze, each one promising something no one could afford.
Stitch adjusted his gear — light armor, mask, mag-gloves — and met Mira on the edge of a half-collapsed overpass overlooking the SubGrid compound.
"This place looks locked down," he murmured.
"It is. That's why we're going through the maintenance ducts."
"Great."
Mira crouched, scanning the compound below. "Ghostline's jamming uplinks for eight minutes. That's our window. You breach the east node with this." She handed him a small pulse key, the device humming softly in his palm.
"What about you?"
"I'll divert the cameras. And the guards."
He hesitated. "Mira…"
She looked up. "Yeah?"
"If something goes wrong—"
"It always does."
A small smile — quick, brittle. Then she jumped.
⸻
The mission unfolded like clockwork — until it didn't.
They moved through ducts slick with condensation, through tunnels that smelled of oil and static. The hum of the vault drew closer — deep, resonant, mechanical.
"Two guards ahead," Mira whispered through comms. "Wait for my signal."
Stitch waited, pulse tight. Then the lights flickered — once, twice — and the guards turned toward the disturbance. He moved.
Silent. Swift. A ghost through the dark.
By the time they reached the vault, the rain outside had turned violent again, thunder rolling over the towers. The vault door shimmered with internal light.
He set the pulse key. "We're in."
Mira scanned the area. "Two minutes. Get the core."
He stepped forward — saw it there, suspended in magnetic field, rotating slowly like frozen lightning. The data core.
Then something changed.
A flicker. A hum too deep, too deliberate.
"Mira," he said quietly, "they know."
Her eyes went wide — that flicker of blue from her implant flaring bright. "Run."
And the alarms began to scream.