Neon Remnant

Far across the city, in the depths of the market, Sol moved carefully through the shifting tides of bodies, his hood pulled low. The weight of the last few days pressed down on him, his mind a storm of exhaustion and grief. Every step felt heavier, every glance over his shoulder fueled the paranoia creeping into his bones. He wasn't just running—he was surviving. And survival demanded focus.

The market was alive, but the wrong kind of alive. There was a tension in the air, like a storm brewing just beyond the neon skyline. Snippets of conversation drifted through the streets—muttered warnings about smugglers vanishing, DreamCorp tightening their grip, and new bounties circulating for those who crossed the wrong people.

A sudden gunshot cracked through the noise.

Sol tensed, his instincts screaming at him to move. Just ahead, a scuffle had broken out near a weapons stall. Two figures grappled violently, one slamming the other against a crate of disassembled plasma rifles. The merchant cursed as the fight spilled into the alley, a blade flashing in the dim light. Blood splattered across the pavement, the scent sharp in Sol's heightened senses. No one around reacted beyond a few wary glances. Just another night in the black market.

Sol forced himself to keep walking, his breath steady but his pulse racing. If DreamCorp had informants here, the last thing he needed was to get caught in someone else's fight. But as he passed a small vendor selling scavenged electronics, a holoscreen above the stall caught his eye. The grainy image of a DreamCorp patrol flashed on the screen, a pre-recorded warning message playing in a dull robotic voice: 'DreamCorp officials have confirmed increased security measures in the lower sectors. Citizens are advised to report any suspicious individuals.' Sol clenched his fists. He was the 'suspicious individual.'

Then he felt it—eyes on him. His ACE System pulsed a subtle warning, registering anomalies in movement patterns around him. The data fed into his neural interface—three separate individuals, each adjusting their trajectory slightly to mirror his own. Two lingered just far enough behind him, while another flanked his right, their eye contact shifting away the moment he turned his head. It wasn't blatant. It was practiced. The sensation was subtle at first, a faint pressure on the back of his neck. His instincts screamed at him, every nerve on edge. Was it paranoia, or was someone really tracking him? He adjusted his hood slightly, feigning nonchalance as he subtly scanned his surroundings. A merchant's reflective display flickered, giving him a brief glimpse of the figures behind him. Too casual. Too still. Watching.

A chill crawled up his spine. He had no doubt now—he was being followed. He let out a slow breath, his heartbeat steadying as the ACE System parsed probabilities. They weren't DreamCorp soldiers; their movements lacked discipline, their positioning too loose. That meant gangs—likely Serik's vultures, their informants scouring the black market for traces of him. He wasn't sure who or what, but someone was watching him. Tracking his movements. He kept his pace even, slipping into the flow of foot traffic, blending as best as he could. He needed to reach the smuggler, and fast. But if they were onto him, heading straight to the contact was suicide. He needed to shake them first. His mind worked quickly, running through possible evasive tactics. He couldn't sprint—too obvious. Instead, he slowed, blending into a small crowd gathered near a cybernetics vendor. A beat later, he flicked a silent command to one of his recalled spiders, still hidden in the alley. With a burst of motion, it skittered across a vendor's table, knocking over a stack of old power cells. The clatter startled nearby buyers, a ripple of movement breaking the flow of foot traffic. Sol used the moment of distraction to slip through a side passage, ducking between two dimly lit stalls.

Up ahead, he spotted a small group of traders huddled near a rusted-out hovercraft, their voices hushed but urgent.

"Even the safest smuggling routes are collapsing," one of them muttered. "DreamCorp's been installing new biometric scanners at checkpoints, and their patrols are doubling by the hour. No one gets out unnoticed anymore."

Sol clenched his jaw. If that was true, his escape had just become infinitely more difficult. But he didn't have a choice—he had to keep moving. He was close now.

Voska's contact operated out of a back-alley den disguised as a repair shop. No sign, no windows—just a rusted steel door with a biometric scanner worn smooth by years of secrecy. Sol took a deep breath as he approached, but his paranoia kept him from stepping forward just yet. His ACE System pulsed in the back of his mind, running another scan—his pursuers were no longer in direct sight, but they hadn't abandoned the chase. A few blocks away, in a dimly lit alley behind a weapons stall, two figures crouched near a rusted-out communication hub. One of them, a Vulture informant, adjusted his earpiece, eyes flickering between the market crowd and the silent figure beside him.

"Boss, we might have a match," he murmured into his comm. "Male, hooded, moving careful-like through the market. Fits the description. Lower sectors. Orders?"

A pause. Then Serik's gruff voice crackled through the line. "Follow, but don't get close. Confirm it's him. If it is, don't lose him."

The informant exchanged a glance with his partner before nodding. "Understood."

Back in the crowd, Sol circled the shop at a distance, his ACE System scanning the perimeter. He still felt the weight of unseen eyes, but they were more distant now—less immediate. That didn't mean he was safe. He wouldn't walk into the smuggler's hideout blind. His pulse steady, he slipped further into the shifting bodies, careful, deliberate, making sure he wasn't walking into a trap.

His pursuers were somewhere out there, and if they had eyes on him now, the moment he stepped through that door, it would be over. His heart pounded, but he forced himself to stay methodical. No sudden movements. No mistakes. He blended into the shifting crowd, scanning for any irregularities—hidden lookouts, an ambush waiting to spring. Only once he was sure, he would make his move.