Jace Varn trudged through the damp streets of New Cascadia, the memory chips in his pocket feeling heavier than they should. The neon glow of the market was behind him now, replaced by the dim flicker of busted streetlights and the low hum of drones patrolling above. His boots squelched in puddles that smelled like oil and regret. He’d shaken Kael’s crew, but his heart was still thumping from the chase. Close calls were part of the game, but they never got easier. He needed a place to crash, somewhere the city’s eyes couldn’t follow.He headed for the Pit, a crumbling tenement on the edge of the slums where drifters like him holed up. It wasn’t home—Jace didn’t have one of those—but it was close enough. The building was a skeleton of concrete and rusted rebar, windows boarded or smashed, tagged with gang signs and faded holo-ads that hadn’t worked in years. Inside, it smelled like mold and burnt wiring, but it was off the grid, out of the drones’ main scan routes. That made it worth t

Jace Varn’s boots crunched on broken glass as he ducked into a narrow alley off 12th Street, the kind of place New Cascadia forgot to light. The air was heavy with the stink of burnt circuits and spilled booze, and the faint buzz of drones overhead kept him on edge. Last night’s job at the Docks still had his nerves fried—corporate goons chasing him wasn’t part of the plan, and that data stick in his pocket felt like a ticking bomb. He needed answers, and Riko, his fence, wasn’t picking up. Typical. Jace wasn’t about to sit around waiting, though. He had other ways to move his haul.That’s why he was headed to Milo’s, a black-market tech shop buried in the slums. Milo was a twitchy old guy who dealt in everything from cracked datapads to sketchy neural mods. He wasn’t as connected as Riko, but he’d buy the memory chips Jace lifted from Tiko’s stall, maybe even take a look at the data stick. If anyone knew what kind of heat Jace had stumbled into, it’d be Milo. The guy had a nose for t

Jace Varn’s boots hit the pavement hard, weaving through the crowded streets of New Cascadia’s lower district like rat dodging traps. The data stick from the Docks job was still in his pocket, a nagging weight next to the credits he’d scored from Milo. He hadn’t heard from Riko since the botched pickup, and that silence was louder than any curse. Jace knew better than to sit on hot goods, but he wasn’t ready to ditch the stick yet. Not until he knew what it was worth. For now, he needed cash to keep moving, and that meant taking whatever jobs came his way.The morning was gray, smog choking the sky, making the neon signs glow duller than usual. Holo-ads flickered overhead, pushing neural implants and fake promises of a better life. Jace ignored them, his eyes scanning for drones. The city’s surveillance was relentless—cameras on every corner, drones buzzing like flies, all feeding data to the corps or whoever paid the most. He pulled his hood low, slipping past a group of workers shuf

Jace Varn’s breath fogged in the chilly New Cascadia night, the slums’ neon glow casting jagged shadows across the street. His jacket was zipped tight, the data stick from the Docks job and the credits from Taz’s lookout gig weighing heavy in his pockets. Riko was still dodging his calls, and the player talked—first from the squat, then Milo, now Taz’s buyer—was piling up like trash in an alley. Those glitches, those flickers of code in the air, were messing with his head too. He needed to keep moving, keep hustling. Sitting still in this city was asking to get caught.He’d picked up a new job to stay afloat: data runner for a crew called the Wire Rats. They were a scrappy bunch, hacking low-level corp systems and selling the scraps to whoever paid. The gig was straightforward—grab a hacked data packet from a dead drop in the slums and shuttle it to a contact in a nearby district. Decent pay, high risk. Jace didn’t love running for hackers—they attracted too much heat—but the Wire Rat

Jace Varn crouched on a rusted catwalk overlooking a junk-strewn lot in New Cascadia’s slums, the kind of place where deals went down and trouble followed close. The city’s neon glow flickered through the smog, painting the night in shades of electric blue and pink. The data stick from the Docks job was still in his jacket, heavy as a bad decision, and the credits from his recent gigs—courier runs, data dashes—were barely enough to keep him going. Riko’s silence was a screaming red flag, and the player talk kept piling up—squat drifters, Milo, Taz’s buyers, street kids. Those glitches, flashes of code in the air, were eating at him too. He needed to hustle, keep moving, because standing still in this city was how you got buried.Tonight’s job was another lookout gig, this time for a crew called the Scrap Dogs. They were small-time, moving hacked tech to buyers too cheap for legit markets. The deal was set in a dead-end lot off Mason Street, a forgotten corner of the slums where even t