Chapter 2A: Follow the Coordinates Immediately

The words on the screen burn into your mind:

K.O.'s name lingers like a ghost in the back of your thoughts. The terminal's faint glow is the only light in your apartment as the rain outside grows heavier, hammering against the windows. Your fingers twitch over the keys, hesitating for only a moment. You know you can't stay here. Whoever's tracing you will break through the firewall sooner or later, and corporate hunters don't knock—they incinerate.

You grab your portable rig—a battered but reliable device with years of custom mods—and shove it into your bag. The rig contains everything you need to stay connected: your tools, your backups, your life. Your heart pounds as you double-check your surroundings. The room feels smaller now, as if it's been cut in half. A glitching advertisement blares through the thin walls:

Ironic.

You throw on your jacket, a faded synth-leather relic that still smells faintly of ozone and oil. The moment you step into the corridor, a wave of paranoia washes over you. Your building, a decaying high-rise on the edge of the industrial zone, is almost entirely automated. The lights flicker overhead as the hallway stretches endlessly before you.

Behind you, your apartment door seals shut with a soft hiss. For a moment, you pause, staring at the dented walls and flickering neon. Is it just the rain making everything feel so suffocating, or is someone already here?

Your rig pings again, a soft chime that feels far too loud in the silence. You glance at the display—it's an alert. A trace breach attempt. It's subtle, almost elegant, the work of a skilled operator with corporate tools at their disposal. They've begun peeling away the layers of your encryption, like knives slicing through fabric.

A timer appears on the edge of your HUD:

The elevator is out, of course. It's been out for years, its maintenance long neglected, so you take the stairs. Your boots echo loudly on the metal steps as you descend, each floor darker than the last. The building is mostly abandoned, but you know it isn't empty. Somewhere in the shadows, scavengers pick through discarded tech and rogue bots scuttle through the vents.

The sound of machinery hums faintly above you. Could be old ventilation systems kicking on—or something else. You quicken your pace.

By the time you reach the ground floor, your breath is shallow, your nerves taut. The building's main entrance looms ahead, its glass doors streaked with grime and cracked from years of neglect. Outside, the rain falls in sheets, turning the street into a river of shimmering light.

Your rig buzzes again, this time more insistent. The breach is closer. You pull your hood up and step outside into the storm, the chill biting through your jacket.

The city's lower districts are a labyrinth of forgotten dreams. Crumbling buildings loom overhead, their windows dark and lifeless. Neon signs sputter weakly, their vibrant colours dulled by the rain. Water rushes through the streets, swirling around your boots as you make your way through narrow alleys.

You check your rig, overlaying the coordinates onto your AR display. The map pings faintly, guiding you toward the heart of the industrial sector. The storm muffles the sound of your footsteps, but it also masks any potential threats. You glance over your shoulder every few seconds, expecting to see drones—or worse—emerging from the shadows.

A sudden noise makes you freeze—a sharp metallic clatter, too loud to be the rain. You duck into the shadows, pressing yourself against the cold, wet wall of a derelict warehouse. Your heart pounds as you scan the area.

There, in the distance, you spot a figure. At first, it looks human, but the faint glow of optics gives it away. A patrol drone, sleek and humanoid in design, stalks through the ruins. Its movements are methodical, scanning each building with a cold precision.

You hold your breath, willing it to pass. The drone pauses, its head swiveling in your direction, and for a moment, you're certain it's spotted you. But then it moves on, its footsteps fading into the rain.

You exhale shakily and continue toward the coordinates, moving faster now.

The coordinates lead you to an unmarked structure at the edge of the sector. The building looks ancient, its surface corroded by decades of acid rain and neglect. Vines creep up its walls, and the windows are blacked out, hiding whatever secrets lie within.

You pause, catching your breath as the rain pools around your feet. Your rig pings again, the trace alarm blaring across your HUD. Time's up. You glance back the way you came, half-expecting a squad of enforcers to burst out of the shadows.

But the streets are empty.

The door to the building is slightly ajar, its rusted hinges protesting as you push it open. The darkness inside is almost absolute, save for a faint glow deeper within. You step inside, boots squelching on the damp floor.

The glow resolves into a single active terminal, its screen flashing with text:

Your rig buzzes again. This time, it's not a breach warning—it's a direct message, one line of text appearing on your HUD: