A Bug in the Code

The stench hit her first.

Rotting synth-protein waste, clogged in the gutters. The acrid tang of industrial smog, clinging to the back of her throat. And underneath it all—the stale, metallic reek of fear. The kind that seeped into the city's bones after years of watching your neighbors vanish in the night.

Miyu stumbled as Kai dragged her through the Choke—a labyrinth of black-market stalls and crumbling neon signs, where the Sentinel's drones rarely patrolled. Not because they couldn't, but because even they didn't want to breathe this air too long.

Around them, the city pulsed like a dying animal.

Screaming headlines flickered on cracked holograms:
*LOYALTY REWARDED! 23% INCREASE IN RE-EDUCATION SUCCESS!*
REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY. SILENCE IS COMPLICITY.

A vendor hawked bootleg neural-implants from a cart, his voice rasping. "Fresh stock! No ID trace! Get 'em before the enforcers do!"

Miyu's boots splashed through a puddle of something that wasn't water. "Where the hell are we going?"

Kai didn't answer. His grip on her wrist was iron, his eyes scanning the rooftops. He moved like a ghost—shoulders low, footsteps silent. The way enforcers moved.

Former enforcers didn't quit. Not unless they had a death wish. Or a reason worth dying for.

A distant siren wail cut through the noise. Too close.

Kai yanked her into a narrow alley, where the neon bled into a sickly green. The walls were papered with old propaganda posters, half-peeled away to reveal graffiti beneath:

THE SENTINEL LIES.

Someone had crossed out LIES and written WATCHES.

Miyu's neural drive burned in her pocket. That file. That damned file. "You know what this is about."

Kai finally stopped, shoving open a rusted door with his shoulder. The hinges screamed. "I know you're dead if you stand there asking questions."

Inside was a safehouse—if you could call it that. A single bare bulb flickered over a makeshift server rig, its fans whining like trapped flies. The air smelled of solder and stale coffee.

Miyu's eyes locked onto the bloodstain on the floor.

Old. But not old enough.

Kai followed her gaze. His jaw tightened. "Sit."

She didn't. "Who was Ren Hikaru to you?"

A beat. Then Kai reached into his jacket—

—and tossed a neural chip onto the table.

It was cracked. Outdated. The kind they'd phased out years ago.

Miyu picked it up. The serial number was scratched off. But the logo...

A sunburst. The old symbol of the Firewall Pact.

The mythical resistance.

Kai's voice was low. "He was my partner. Before they erased him."

Outside, the sirens grew louder.