Her voice cuts through the noise like a blade through silk.
I glance back. “Yeah?”
She doesn’t look up from the blade. “You’re twitching.”
I hadn’t noticed. My fingers flex like they want a weapon.
“They’ll retaliate,” I say.
“Let them try.”
There’s heat in her voice now. Not recklessness—resolve. It sits in her chest like a new organ.
I push away from the window. The rig Ceera left us buzzes on standby. I key through the static until I find the node-tracker. Blip. Blip. Red pings, five blocks down.
“Patrol sweep coming up east corridor.”
Kelsea stands, slides the blade into a sheath at her back. No hesitation.
I double-check the angle. Two officers. Uniformed. Casual. No mechs.
I look at her. “You stay here.”
She opens her mouth.
“Not a request.”
She closes it. Nods. That’s trust. Or something close.
I take the back stair, boots soft on the wood, claws flexed. The air out here is tighter, like it knows trouble’s hunting again.
I spot them before they spot me—two Coalition fielders, not local. Blue-plate armor. Too clean. Their gait’s wrong for this neighborhood. They stick out like broken teeth.
I melt into the alley shadow, tracking them from the edge. They pause near the noodle vendor on the corner. One pulls out a compad. The other starts showing pictures—faces. One of them is hers.
My vision sharpens. My hearing narrows to their words.
“Female. Human. Late twenties. Fugitive tag.”
“She’s here?”
“Someone thinks so.”
I step out of the shadow. Just a whisper of movement, but enough.
Both heads snap toward me.
“You lost?” I ask.
The tall one shifts stance. “Sir, we’re conducting an inquiry?—”
I step closer. Not rushing. Not threatening. Just heavy. “You’re two blocks outside your patrol grid.”
The shorter one tenses. Hand near his baton.
I tilt my head. “Looking for someone?”
“We have reason to believe?—”
