The Vault never sleeps, and today it’s dreaming in technicolour. I step out of the service corridor and straight into the churn: a concrete bowl, bathed in blue and magenta from hacked-together LEDs, ringed by stacked bleachers and two stories of market stalls. The air tastes like old batteries and new money—smoke, synth-berry, the crackle of static electricity. At the centre, the fighting ring is still hidden behind a curtain of chain-link, but the crowd surges in anticipation with every howl from the back rooms. This is where the city’s sins come to flip themselves for profit, and I need to swim it without getting noticed.

  First pass is recon. I do a slow lap along the upper tier, head down, eyes up, let the flow carry me. The vendors hustle hard: bootleg TMs on display like trading cards, knockoff potions in colours that don’t exist in nature, “pre-owned”, refurbed and polished until the metal shines like candy. A kid with a shopping cart full of broken Porygon parts shoves past, nearly clipping my shins. He’s got the empty, glazed look of someone who knows exactly how much his life is worth to everyone else in this place. I side-step, let him go, and almost miss the way his cart’s been hot-wired with a row of blue LEDs—each one pulsing in a lazy, almost mocking sync with the rhythm of my own pulse—or maybe it was just the Beldum’s magnetic hum thrumming through my inner ear, making the world beat to its clock.

  I blend into the tide and let myself get absorbed into the routine criminality of it all. The upper tier is where the “premium” wares get hawked, and here the stalls are built from the bones of the old world—shipping crates, hollowed engine blocks, slabs of repurposed guardrail. Every merchant has a personality: the nervous, bribe-hungry; the dead-eyed and bored; the ones who bark in a voice that could shatter glass. I ignore the ones selling hacked TMs and focus on the stalls where the customers don’t linger, where business is quick and the faces are familiar. No one comes here unless they already know what they want, or they got lost on the way to a body bag.

  Then I find it: a stall with more security than most, two “clerks” in matching black vests, both armed with what look like modified Miltank prods and eyes that never blink. Their table is a glass rectangle, everything bolted down, but the real draw is in back—twenty-four Poké Balls locked in an electronic tray, each one linked by a tangle of wires to a battered but functional PC. Above it, a flat screen cycles through photos: a grid of miserable faces, mugshots for monsters.

  I lean on the edge, pretending interest, and swipe through the gallery. Each photo is stamped with stats: nickname, species, age, last known moveset. There’s a Butterfree with a “severe separation anxiety,” a Machoke “unfit for coordinated doubles,” a Sneasel flagged as “unpredictable, occasional biter.” Most of the entries are marked with a little blue icon—former rescue, shelter transfer. A few are pink, which I guess means “surrendered by owner.” One or two are red, which the computer labels as “confiscated.”

  I don’t see my target, but I keep scrolling, careful not to show too much disappointment. The heavy nearest me tracks my fingers on the glass, but doesn’t interrupt; he’s used to people window-shopping for violence. I check the current “special offers,” looking for fire-types. There’s a Flareon, but its summary is a tragedy: “timid, compulsive licker, does not respond to anger.” There’s a Slugma, which I guess is just a hazard, and then a rescued Darumaka, currently “on hold for a private buyer.” No Houndour on the main screen. I scroll the index just in case, but the only canines are a Herdier with a missing eye and a Poochyena so young its fangs are still under the gum.

  I pop out of the queue, already feeling Beldum tapping a signal behind my left ear. “Not here,” I whisper, and the pressure eases. Next stall is league badges—a hundred of them, pinned to a ratty felt board, all shining in the impossible light. I watch a buyer pick out a Jet Badge, run his thumb over the enamel, then slip it into a hidden pocket with a sleight of hand that would’ve made a magician jealous. The vendor’s got his own hustle: he pitches the badges as “legacy items,” not trophies, and the way he talks about the provenance “from a regional contender who didn't make the cut in the '40th circuit, a genuine collector’s piece!” is just plausible enough to wash the taste of blood from the deal. Nobody here needs to fake respect for the dead, but everyone wants to believe the badge is more than just a pressed tin with a serial number. I know the type. These badges aren’t worth shit in an official League event, but the right one might get you through a door, or let you skip safety courses at the Ranger outposts. Some trainers buy them just to flash, to play at being more than they are. I consider snagging a set—might help down the line if I need to bluff—but decide against it. The market’s always got more supply than demand.

  I spiral down to the lower tier, where the wares get sketchier and nobody bothers with customer service. There’s another Pokémon vendor, this one with a tabletop built from stacked, welded Poké Ball halves, the whole thing ringed by a strip of hazard tape. The seller is a woman with ice-blonde hair, cropped close, her eyes running the crowd with the same calculation as a security camera. She’s leaned back in a folding chair behind the table, boots up on a foam-insulated gear case, jaw working a toothpick. The uniform is ex-military, or a knock-off that costs more than the real thing: tactical vest tight over a grey jumpsuit, sleeves rolled to the elbow, both forearms a patchwork of old scars and the kind of ink you only get from a backroom artist who’s also your friend. The air around her has a charge—first-hand familiarity with violence, and a boredom that makes her dangerous.

  She doesn’t bother with a pitch. Just watches as I tap through the catalogue on her battered tablet, the screen greasy with hundreds of fingers before mine. I slow down when I hit the fire-types, pretending to weigh options, but her gaze sharpens when I hover on the Houndour.

  The photo is unkind. Houndour, eyes half-lidded, caked with old blood on the foreleg, ears torn at the tips. The stats are pure rescue boilerplate—age, weight, generic “temperament” warning. But there’s one detail they couldn’t Photoshop out: a ring of missing fur around the neck, the skin new and pink. The kind of mark you get from a collar worn too long, then torn off in a hurry. I don’t look up yet. I tap the screen, read the fine print, say, “What’s the hold here? This one flagged for transfer?”

  She drops her boots to the floor, sits forward, and sizes me up—slow, not subtle. I watch her take in the beanie, the oversized jacket, the whole thrown-together look that screams I don’t belong here. “That one’s spoken for,” she says, tone flat, almost bored. “No browsing. Logistics are already on the way.”

  I keep my expression neutral. “Can’t be bought out?”

  She shrugs. “If you got a better offer, you can try, but I don’t sell for less than double. And even then, you’re paying up front. Cash. No trade, no favours.” She snaps the tablet from my hand, wipes the screen with a cloth, and sets it down like it might bite.

  “Double is a steep climb for a stray with bald patches,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the spike of heat in my chest.

  “It’s a steep climb because it’s a Johto-native fire-type in a region where the closest thing you’ll find in the wild is a Darumaka with a bad attitude,” she retorts, her eyes narrowing. “You aren't just paying for the fur. You’re paying for the silence, the bribes, and the fact that the paperwork for this thing doesn't exist. This isn't a pet. It's a status symbol.”

  A status symbol. I think of the photo in my internal HUD—not the blurry mugshot on her screen, but the one from the client. A six-year-old girl in the city, crying into her pillow because her "best friend" was snatched out of her backyard while she was at school. The bald spots aren't from poor breeding; they’re from stress. The "aggressive" tag on the file is just a dog terrified and wondering why the people he loves haven't come for him yet.

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  But I don’t say that. Recovery doesn't win by being sentimental. Recovery wins by being the biggest Carvanha in the tank.

  “The buyer doesn’t care about the bald spots,” she continues, checking the terminal clock. “He cares that nobody else in Mistralton has one. You’re late to the table, mate. Logistics are here, and they don't haggle.”

  The noise behind me shifts—a dull stomp of boots on concrete, heavy and deliberate, slicing through the market’s hum. Two guys in slate-grey tactical getup drift into view, moving with the kind of confidence that says they’re not here to shop. Their helmets are down, visors blacked out, catching the neon and throwing it back in sharp purple lines.

  The blonde drops the act. She taps her terminal, and the sealed case her boots had been resting on emits a pressurized hiss. Blue light leaks from the seal. The Houndour inside whimpers—a low, broken sound that Beldum picks up and vibrates directly into my jawbone.

  “Asset 4-0-9,” the lead grunt says. He gestures at the case, visor glinting sterile neon. “Why is the asset conscious?” The voice is synthetic, filtered flat. “You were instructed to petrify all live cargo prior to extraction. Protocol.”

  The blonde’s jaw flexes. “Didn’t have the kit, just the carrier. Only the field teams get the petrifiers. If you’ve got a complaint, take it up with Syndicate inventory, not the market vendor.” She flashes a smile that shows all her teeth at once—predator or prey, it’s hard to tell. “He’s chill. I dosed him to the limit, though its wearing off. You want to swap him to stone, bring your own gear.”

  The grunt turns to his partner, mutters through a channel I can’t tap, then pivots back. “It’s a liability. Live transport is a risk.”

  “Then dock it from my end,” the blonde snaps, and there’s something rehearsed about the friction—like she’s played this scene before and already knows the exit. She slides her tablet across the table. “Transfer the payment, and I’ll give you your asset. Or, you can keep arguing and let the rest of the floor know you’re here.”

  The second grunt, bulkier, with a helmet shaped like it’s been in three too many street riots, leans in. “You have witnesses?”

  She jerks a thumb at me, only now letting the full sneer show. “Just the stray, here. He’s been asking about Houndour. Didn’t say why.”

  They both look at me, slow, like they’re waiting for me to blink first. It’s the kind of attention that kills.

  I lift my hands, palms up. “Not here for the mutt,” I say, voice modulated to a loser’s whine. “Just curious. I don’t have the cash for a live one, anyway.” I let my gaze drop, let the hunched shoulders sell it—just another market rat, hoping to score a bargain on leftovers. “Didn’t mean to step on your deal.”

  The lead grunt closes the gap between us, standing so close I can smell the polymer off his gloves. “You’re not a buyer, you’re just curious?” There’s a threat in the cadence, the way he leaves the sentence open.

  I nod, keeping my hands visible. “Yeah. Just—look, I used to have a Growlithe. Got sentimental, I guess.”

  The grunt cocks his head, visor cutting the world in half. “Stay curious and you’ll end up dead, or worse.” The big one’s hand hovers over a Pokeball clipped to his vest, but it’s the faintest of gestures—this isn’t a negotiation, it’s a warning. I flinch on cue, mumble an apology, and let the Houndour case fade from my periphery as they turn to close the deal.

  The handoff is mechanical: the blonde vendor’s tablet lights up, the transfer goes through, and the grunts clamp the sealed case between them, ignoring the whimper inside like it’s nothing more than a loose battery rolling around. They don’t leave right away—they stand, letting the tension radiate outward, making themselves the centre of gravity for the next thirty seconds. They shoulder the Houndour case and cut through the crowd like a pair of blades, everyone giving them a wide berth. Even the market’s usual predators—pickpockets, loitering heavies, the odd arena handler—go soft-focus, shadows pressed flat to the walls and stalls. The call-and-response of the market recalibrates instantly, voices dropping a register, neon glare replaced by uneasy rivulets of reflected blue on wet concrete. Heads turn away, hands vanish into pockets, and for a moment the Vault is a cathedral, and the grunts are the only ones allowed to make noise.

  I drop eight paces behind, then ten, keeping to the knife-edge of their wake. They don’t check over the shoulder—why would they? No one here is stupid enough to tail a Syndicate courier in public. The tunnel they choose is marked EXIT in stenciled red, but the paint’s been overcoated so many times it’s now a warning, not a direction. The grunts push through, and I follow, letting the door’s hydraulic sigh swallow my footfalls. On the other side, it’s all cement and echo—no light except the grimy spill from the market and the twin pinpricks of the grunts’ helmet LEDs.

  The air changes instantly. The noise is gone, there’s only the hiss of stale air and the far-off click of a relay somewhere upstream. If the market was chaos, this tunnel is anti-noise: matte-black walls, ribs of industrial steel, no signage or arrows. The grunts march, visors glowing blue, Houndour’s case swinging between them like a cursed lantern.

  It takes three seconds for me to realize this isn’t a public corridor. The walls curve upwards, not just a tunnel but a vein, intentionally carved and maintained. This is a Syndicate artery, built for moving product from the Vault to the outside world without ever risking daylight.

  They don’t linger. Each footfall is a measured, pre-mapped beat. I hug the wall, counting their steps, letting the dark eat the trailing edge of their coned headlight beams. They ignore the maintenance hatches and access ladders, heading instead for a yawning black mouth at the far end—no signage, no warnings, just a void that swallows them whole.

  I slow up, letting the distance stretch. There’s a faint rumble ahead, not footsteps—something heavier, mechanical. I shift to a crawl, head low, and inch up to the tunnel’s edge. Peering around the curve, I clock the situation in one sweep: the two grunts, the Houndour case set on the ground, and a matte-black humvee idling with its brake lights painting the cement in a sickly digital red.

  I press my thumb to Beldum’s ball and flick a thought through the relay: “Suppress their hardware. Kill their comms, stall the truck, scramble whatever’s in the helmets.” The ball runs cold; Beldum’s reply is so immediate it feels like I was talking to myself.

  The grunts have the Houndour case halfway loaded, one guy hoisting it into the humvee’s open trunk while the other keeps glancing at the tunnel’s mouth. There’s a third figure in the driver’s seat, visor up, tapping at a dashboard console and muttering into a wireless mic. They’re pros, but not infallible—nobody ever expects someone to come at them from the dark when they control the last five exits.

  I wait until the grunts are both exposed: one on the ground, bracing the case, the other halfway inside the trunk. The humvee isn’t armoured for a war zone, it’s built for speed and plausible deniability—custom plates, blacked-out windows, all the bells and electronic whistles a black market can buy. I count down from three, time the volley to coincide with the driver’s head turning for a rearview check.

  I snap the catch on Beldum’s ball, and the red field cascades out, splitting the low-light gloom. Beldum emerges at chest height, magnets spiking to full, then hits the air with a pulse so dense I feel it through my chest. The effect is instant: the humvee’s engine sputters, then dies, the console inside blinking off like a cut vein. The rear doors drop, momentum killing the soft-close and jamming them half-open. The guy in the trunk is thrown backwards, boots catching nothing, and he lands hard, helmet first, on the concrete. His visor flickers, then goes dark.

  The second grunt, still holding the Houndour case, doesn’t even yell. He just freezes, lets go of the handle, and rips off his visor with one hand while pulling a Poké Ball from his vest with the other. He’s fast—really fast—but he’s not used to improvising when the tech fails. I’m on him before he can thumb the release.

  I drop low, pivot, and drive my foot across his knee. There’s a pop, a wet, sharp sound that drowns out everything for a split second. The guy buckles, drops the Poké Ball, and almost manages to land a punch before I catch his wrist and torque it up and behind. It’s not elegant, but in the dark, close-range is all that matters. I twist, leverage his own inertia, and slam his face into the rear step of the humvee. The helmet softens the blow, but I hear the crunch of polycarbonate and the muffled whump of his head ricocheting off the steel.

  The other grunt is already scrambling up, one hand to his temple, swearing in a tight loop. Beldum doesn’t hesitate—it arcs, full Take Down, and slams square into the winded man’s solar plexus. The impact is seismic. I hear the vest’s ceramic plate crack, feel the shudder in the soles of my boots, and the grunt’s back arches in a violent spasm before he goes limp. No sound now except his boots drumming out the last of his nerve signals on the concrete.

  The humvee’s dash flickers back to life, bright and strobing with a fresh, panicked energy. For half a second, a face appears on the console screen—a woman, short hair the colour of steel wool, cut sharp; a V-shaped visor slicing her eyes into mirrored slivers. She doesn’t register surprise, only irritation. The mouth is set in a line, no patience for screwups. A male voice—older, clipped, pure command—cuts through the haze: “J…need..status….Report….Now.” Then the display gutters out, black squares over her face like a digital executioner’s mask.

  The driver hisses a curse and hits his release. A Golbat explodes out, its four-way mouth dripping with chemical-bright venom. It screeches, a sound intended to map every inch of my internal organs with ultrasonic precision. The driver points a shaking finger at my face.

  "Kill him."