The morning light filtered weakly through ToxCity's perpetual haze as I traversed the rooftops toward Talium district. EcoNet, a modest collective of four specialists, operated from an unmarked building in this neighborhood—one ring farther from the city center than Red Fusion.

  Talium shared much with Red Fusion—both were distant echoes of urbanity on ToxCity's periphery, neighborhoods where people clung to a semblance of civilization. Positioned to the north and proximal to NeoFuture's industrial complexes, Talium housed primarily factory workers. Poverty etched itself into every crumbling facade, yet unlike downtown's chaotic desperation, a tenuous sense of community prevailed here. People recognized their neighbors; children played in streets that were marginally safer than the city center's killing grounds.

  I halted on a rooftop overlooking Cala Street, a narrow byway branching off Talium's main thoroughfare. From this vantage point, I could observe EcoNet's nondescript building without being spotted. Nothing about the structure announced its purpose—no signage, no corporate logos, just a weathered four-story building indistinguishable from its neighbors. Their discretion spoke volumes about operating on the fringes of corporate influence.

  Settling on the edge of the roof, I lit a cigarette and contemplated my approach to Lisa May. Her contempt for her father had been unmistakable in Noah's memory. How would she react to a stranger claiming connection to a man she'd rejected? Worse, how would she respond if I told her that fragments of Noah's consciousness might somehow exist within my neural interface?

  Below, Cala Street offered its own bleak theater. Small shops and street vendors punctuated the narrow thoroughfare. Tenements rose on either side, their windows fortified with makeshift security measures—a universal precaution in this world. In the distance, Talium's heart was barely visible through the morning fog, derelict high-rises scraping a sky they would never reach.

  A commotion erupted near a food cart halfway down the block. Using my digital zoom, I enhanced the scene. Two elderly men clashed violently, their weathered bodies belying surprising strength. A young woman—the cart's proprietor—attempted to intervene, her face contorted with concern. The cart displayed the emblematic logo of Tawi, a ubiquitous culinary presence throughout ToxCity.

  Tawi specialized in processed algae concoctions—primarily dry seaweed rolls infused with artificial flavors. The origin of this peculiar cuisine remained a mystery, yet its prevalence spoke to its resilience in our fractured world. Cheap, salty, and unpretentiously accessible, it served as sustenance for those who couldn't afford Melrose's "premium" offerings.

  The young chef retreated to her cart, emerging with two wrapped parcels. She extended these peace offerings to the quarreling men, clearly hoping to defuse the situation. For a heartbeat, her strategy appeared successful—both men accepted the food, their dispute momentarily forgotten.

  A faint smile touched my lips at this small victory. Beneath ToxCity's grime and constant threat of violence, people still craved simple tranquility. The universal desire to grow old without fear, to attend to loved ones, to appreciate small pleasures—these remained, however obscured by our dystopian reality.

  The momentary peace shattered with a gunshot's crack. One of the elderly men had pulled a firearm, his weather-beaten face transformed by sudden rage. His opponent crumpled, blood blooming across his chest. Before anyone could react, the gunman turned his weapon on the young chef who had attempted reconciliation. He fired without hesitation, the bullet striking her chest. She collapsed beside her cart, her expression frozen in disbelief as life drained from her eyes.

  The shooter stood over his original victim, firing two additional rounds into the motionless body with methodical cruelty. Then, with casual indifference, he collected both food parcels—including the one clutched in his victim's lifeless fingers—before rummaging through the food cart for additional provisions. His bounty secured, he vanished into a side alley as if he'd simply completed a routine transaction.

  Two corpses now lay in the street, their blood mingling into a single crimson pool. Passersby altered their routes to avoid the bodies, their expressions unchanged, as if such scenes were too commonplace to merit reaction.

  "What a fucked up world," I muttered, exhaling smoke that vanished into the polluted air.

  Within minutes, the predatory underbelly of ToxCity emerged. Dream junkies materialized from shadowed doorways and alleyways, their emaciated frames and twitching movements betraying their addiction. These opportunistic scavengers descended on the scene, stripping the bodies of anything valuable—implants, clothing, even teeth. Some ventured further, dismantling the abandoned cart for parts and ingredients with desperate efficiency.

  They worked quickly, constantly glancing over their shoulders, ready to scatter at the first sign of authority. When approaching sirens wailed in the distance, they disappeared with their spoils, scurrying back into the shadows like cockroaches fleeing light. For them, this wasn't opportunity—it was survival, a few precious credits toward their next fix.

  This too was part of the ecosystem—nothing wasted, everything repurposed, a brutal efficiency born of necessity.

  I flicked my cigarette into the abyss and tilted my head skyward. Past the gloomy clouds, the massive silhouettes of space freighters hung immobile, like gods observing ants through a murky lens. I wondered if the Elite ever bothered to look down, if they understood the world they'd abandoned.

  My attention returned to EcoNet just as the front door opened. Two women emerged, engaged in animated conversation. I immediately recognized one of them—Lisa May. Her distinctive blonde hair with its electric blue section matched Noah's memory precisely, though she appeared slightly older now. She wore practical attire—dark synthetic fabric common among InfoSec professionals, with her cybernetic chrome hand catching occasional glints of sunlight.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  I tracked their movement along Cala Street, maintaining a discreet distance as I paralleled their path across the rooftops. Their casual demeanor suggested a routine outing, perhaps lunch or an errand. Either way, this unexpected development saved me from having to approach EcoNet directly.

  As the women turned onto a broader avenue, movement at street level caught my attention. A parked vehicle disgorged two figures who began following Lisa and her companion at a measured distance. The familiar silhouettes—one bulky, one slender—sent a chill through me. Though not identical to the duo from the NeoDuck incident, the pattern was unmistakable: a physically imposing man paired with a smaller individual who moved with the distinctive gait of a NeuroSlicer.

  Unlike MainFrame's standard operatives with their distinctive black and silver uniforms, these men wore nondescript clothing with no corporate insignia. Their studied anonymity mirrored the previous attackers with unsettling precision. Coincidence seemed increasingly improbable.

  I maintained visual contact with all four figures, mind racing with implications. Was Lisa their target, or did they somehow know I would be here? The fact that another nearly identical duo had appeared raised troubling questions about who was orchestrating these encounters.

  Lisa and her friend paused briefly at the site of the Tawi vendor's murder, now just a stain on the pavement. The pursing duo halted as well, maintaining their distance. A subtle nod passed between them, and the slender one—the NeuroSlicer—assumed the familiar stance of someone initiating a neural attack.

  Seconds later, Lisa's companion suddenly bolted down a side street. Lisa pursued immediately, concern evident in her expression. The bulky man followed, while the NeuroSlicer remained motionless, clearly focused on maintaining whatever control he'd established over Lisa's friend.

  I accelerated my pace, leaping across a substantial gap between buildings to intercept their trajectory. Landing with practiced silence, I peered down into the alley where the chase had entered. Lisa had reached her friend, who now lay motionless on the ground. The bulky man approached from the alley entrance, drawing a weapon identical to the one his counterpart had used at NeoDuck.

  Before I could intervene, something unexpected happened. The bulky man suddenly convulsed, dropping his weapon and clutching his head in apparent agony. The scene triggered immediate déjà vu—this was exactly what had happened in the NeoDuck alley before both attackers died.

  My pulse quickened. Was the mysterious third force back? Had it followed me here? I scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of another party who might be intervening.

  The NeuroSlicer entered the alley, halting abruptly at the sight of his partner's distress. His head swiveled until he locked eyes with Lisa. My enhanced vision caught the realization dawning on his face as he pointed accusingly at her.

  Then I understood—Lisa herself was the source of the man's pain. Noah's memory flashed through my mind: the DNA Manipulator she'd used during their cafe meeting; her chrome hand that resembled modifications favored by hardcore NeuroSlicers. She wasn't just a security programmer—she was actively counter-hacking.

  But her advantage proved momentary. The NeuroSlicer at the alley entrance focused his attention on her, his fingers moving in precise gestures as he initiated a counter-attack. I could see Lisa's face contort with effort as she struggled to maintain control against his clearly superior skill. Her defensive capabilities were impressive, but she was outmatched by the professional's experience and specialized equipment.

  The bulky man, now free from her neural grip, recovered his weapon and staggered toward her. With a vicious backhand, he struck her with the gun, sending Lisa sprawling to the ground. Blood trickled from her split lip as she attempted to regain her footing.

  Time for direct intervention. I launched myself from the roof, angling my descent to land silently behind the NeuroSlicer at the alley entrance. My enhanced legs absorbed the twelve-meter drop without a sound, cybernetic dampeners preventing even the faintest echo.

  The NeuroSlicer remained focused on Lisa, his neural attack requiring complete concentration. The bulky man, however, caught the movement in his peripheral vision and began to turn.

  Without hesitation, I executed my attack. First, I jabbed the rigid edge of my hand between the NeuroSlicer's ribs, causing his body to reflexively twist sideways. As he gasped, I grabbed the neural device beneath his ear with my free hand and tore it away with practiced precision. Using the momentum from the pull, I seized his head with my other hand and violently redirected his forward momentum toward the alley wall. His face connected with the concrete with a sickening crack, leaving a spiderweb fracture in both the wall and his facial bones.

  As the NeuroSlicer slumped unconscious to the ground, my eyes locked with the bulky man who had now fully turned to face me. His expression shifted from confusion to recognition, followed by a cold smile.

  "You?" he jeered, his laughter echoing off the close walls. "I guess I won't need to track you. Thanks for the assist."

  His weapon shifted to target me. "Give me the memory stick," he demanded.

  I felt a jolt of realization. Unlike at NeoDuck Cafe where they had referred to "whatever you found," this man knew exactly what I'd retrieved. The vague "whatever" had become the specific "memory stick"—they were connected, and their knowledge was growing more precise.

  "Who do you work for? What do you want with me?" I asked, buying seconds to analyze his stance.

  "You stepped into some shit, my friend," he taunted, "Some deep shit you don't even understand. It's too late for you."

  The gunshot cracked through the alley, but my cybernetic legs had already launched me skyward. Boz's enhanced firmware proved its worth as I soared eight meters vertically, the bullet passing harmlessly beneath me. The man's expression registered shock—my evasion clearly exceeded normal augmentation capabilities.

  With professional quickness that betrayed years of combat experience, he readjusted his aim as gravity reclaimed me, tracking my descent with practiced precision. He fired again. I twisted mid-descent, deflecting the bullet with my forearm. The impact sent me spinning backward, but I converted the momentum into a controlled backflip, landing in a crouch with mechanical precision.

  "Don't complicate this," he sneered, adjusting his aim for a third shot.

  Before he could fire, his face contorted in sudden pain. He seized his head with his free hand, the weapon wavering as he fought against some invisible assault. He dropped to one knee, then collapsed entirely, his gun clattering to the ground.

  Lisa stood a few meters away, blood trickling from her split lip, her chrome hand extended toward the fallen attacker in the unmistakable gesture of active neural hacking. Her green eyes burned with an intensity that was almost frightening, a mixture of rage, triumph, and raw determination. Rain began to fall around us, each drop catching the dim light as they spattered against the unconscious attacker.

  As the bulky man stopped twitching and lay completely still, Lisa's gaze shifted to me, suspicion instantly replacing her momentary victory.

  "And who the fuck are you?"