The smuggler

Sol kept his hood low, eyes sweeping through the crowd as he moved with practiced ease. Every instinct told him to stay cautious—just because he had shaken Serik's informants didn't mean he was in the clear. The Black Market was a dangerous place, and he knew better than to trust its temporary anonymity.

His ACE System pulsed softly, feeding him subtle environmental cues. The foot traffic was dense, a shifting mass of bodies draped in synthetic cloaks and repurposed armor. Neon lights flickered against oil-slicked pavement, casting ghostly reflections across damp surfaces. The scent of burnt circuitry and metallic grime filled the air, mingling with the aroma of questionable street food. Merchants shouted from behind cluttered stalls, pushing everything from illegal cybernetic implants to unregistered weaponry. But Sol wasn't here for trinkets.

His gaze settled on a compact, heavily fortified repair shop wedged between two larger vendor stations. Unlike the vibrant stalls around it, this one radiated secrecy—no neon signage, no eager merchants calling out for business. The entrance was a thick, reinforced steel door with a dim biometric scanner, its surface marred by years of scratches and grime. The exterior was cluttered with rusted scrap, discarded cables, and faded warning signs that hinted at the kind of business conducted within—one that thrived on discretion.

Sol exhaled slowly. "Voska's contact should be inside."But after what happened in the slums, he couldn't afford to walk in blindly.

He reached into his jacket, brushing his fingers over the familiar cold metal of his last surviving spider drone. A quick thought sent a silent command through his neural interface.

The tiny machine detached from its hidden compartment in his belt and skittered down his sleeve, moving like a living thing as it dropped to the ground. **Pairing successful**, his ACE System whispered in his mind. Sol felt it immediately—the faint, electrified pulse of connection threading through his nervous system. He closed his eyes for half a second, and the world around him shifted.

Through the spider's optics, his vision adjusted to a lower perspective, the towering figures around him now appearing as shadows against the neon haze. He guided the drone forward, weaving it between scuffed boots and the occasional discarded ration packet. The tiny device was built for stealth, its synthetic legs absorbing the vibrations of the ground as it moved unnoticed through the foot traffic.

Sol kept his breathing steady as he maneuvered it toward the shop. The door was tightly sealed, but there were ventilation grates along the upper edges. His spider climbed up the outer wall with mechanical precision, slipping between the narrow slats of the vent.

Inside, the shop was dimly lit, cluttered with old monitors, deconstructed mechanical arms, and boxes of scrap piled against the walls. The air was thick with the scent of solder and burnt wiring, the faint hum of flickering screens the only constant noise. A dented overhead lamp cast jagged shadows across the space, making it feel even smaller than it was. A lone figure sat at the counter, their back turned to the entrance.

Sol zoomed in. The figure was an older dwarven woman, her stout frame wrapped in a worn leather coat patched with various metallic plates. Her fingers, rough and scarred from years of mechanical work, tapped rhythmically against the counter as she scrolled through the holo-tablet. A mechanical brace supported her left wrist, the servos occasionally clicking as she moved. Deep wrinkles lined her face, and her short, graying hair was pulled back in a practical style. A cybernetic right eye flickered faintly as she flipped through a holo-tablet, muttering under her breath. "Voska said the smuggler's name was Darik. This must be her."

Sol adjusted the spider's position, scanning for any other signs of movement. The shop wasn't large, but there was an adjoining room in the back, partially obscured by stacked crates. His drone crawled along the ceiling, inching toward the open doorway.

A second voice. Low, sharp. "Not alone."

Sol tensed, adjusting the spider's audio filters.

"…Don't like it," the second person muttered. "City's too hot. DreamCorp's cracking down, and now there's word the Vultures are sweeping the lower districts."

A pause. Then Darik's voice, calm but firm. "Relax. I've dealt with heat before. No one's touching my work."

"And what if that kid shows up?" the second voice asked. "The one Voska vouched for?"

Sol's pulse quickened. They knew he was coming.

Darik scoffed. "Then I'll hear him out first. I don't owe Voska anything, but the old man never sent fools my way."

She suddenly stopped scrolling through her holo-tablet and tilted her head slightly, her cybernetic eye flashing for a brief moment. Then, she chuckled again—lower this time, almost amused. "Quite a cautious one, aren't you, child?"The second voice hesitated. "What are you talking about?"

Darik smirked and turned slightly in her chair, locking eyes with the ceiling vent where Sol's spider clung motionless. "Stop hiding, boy," she called out. "I don't bite."

Sol froze, his breath catching in his throat. A cold sensation crawled up his spine, his pulse hammering in his ears. His spider was nearly invisible, designed to blend seamlessly into its environment. He had spent countless hours refining its camouflaging properties, making sure it would be undetectable even under scrutiny. And yet—she had noticed.

His mind raced through possibilities. Was it her cybernetic eye? Enhanced hearing? Some other unknown factor? The ACE System fed him no immediate answers, only heightening his awareness of the sudden spike in his own heart rate. Panic surged for half a second before he forced it down. His instincts screamed at him to bolt, but he knew better. He was already caught—any sudden movement would only make things worse.

He exhaled slowly, trying to push through the tension gripping his chest. Darik's words rang in his ears. "Stop hiding, boy. I don't bite."

Was this a trap? A test? A gamble? He didn't know. But what he did know was that if she had truly wanted to turn him in, she wouldn't have called him out like this. That meant she was either amused or interested. Neither was necessarily good, but at least he wasn't being shot at. Yet.