The rain followed them underground, dripping through the old veins of the city. Rusted pipes sang their hollow songs above as Stitch limped behind her — one hand pressed to his side, the other steadying himself on the curved concrete wall.
The tunnels widened, light bleeding through cracks in the metal plates ahead. He heard voices first — soft murmurs layered with static — then the hum of unseen machines.
Mira stopped at a sealed hatch door, fingers moving across a keypad that looked half-built, half-hacked from scrap. A low hiss followed, then a whisper of air as the seal broke.
She looked back at him once.
"Don't talk," she said. "Just follow."
When the door opened, the light inside hit like sunrise through fog — dim but alive, flickering across a maze of glass panels, neon strips, and old server racks stacked like tombstones.
This was Ghostline.
They weren't soldiers or syndicate men — they were ghosts in hooded techwear, fragments of faces reflected in glowing lenses. The air smelled of ozone and metal.
As Mira led him inside, every gaze turned their way.
Someone killed the music.
"Back early, aren't we?" a voice said.
A man leaned against one of the terminals — tall, wearing a torn coat lined with cables. His eyes were cold light — mechanical, but expressive. This was Raze, Ghostline's field lead.
He didn't look at Stitch right away. His focus was on Mira.
"You cut comms," Raze said quietly. "You broke command."
"I did what I had to," she replied, still calm, still hiding the tremor in her voice.
Raze took a step closer. "You dragged a civilian into an active sweep zone."
"He's not—"
"You don't know what he is," Raze interrupted. "You just decided."
The silence in the Den tightened. A girl sitting near the holo-maps shut down her terminal, eyes darting between them.
Stitch felt the tension like heat. He didn't understand their hierarchy yet, but he could tell this wasn't just protocol — it was personal.
Raze exhaled sharply. "You had a direct extraction route. You chose to vanish instead."
"I chose to survive," Mira said. "And so did he."
For the first time, Raze's gaze shifted to Stitch — scanning him top to bottom, as if reading his bones.
"Name."
"Stitch," he said quietly.
"That supposed to mean something?"
"No."
"Good." Raze turned back to Mira. "You better pray he's worth it. Because now we're all on their radar."
He started toward the far corridor, hand brushing against the flickering holo-map of Echelon-5.
"You've got one hour to rest," he said without turning around. "Then you explain everything — in full."
The room's hum resumed — whispers, screens, static. Mira let out a breath she'd been holding since the chase.
Stitch finally spoke.
"Did I just get you in trouble?"
She looked at him — tired, unreadable — then walked past him toward a row of empty bunks.
"You have no idea," she said.
The Den lights flickered again, as if the city above had felt their presence.
And somewhere through the static of the comms board, a voice crackled faintly — an external frequency trying to breach their signal.
Ghostline wasn't alone anymore.