Jace Varn slipped through the neon-soaked streets of New Cascadia’s slums, the buzz of drones and flicker of holo-ads a constant hum in the background. The data stick from the Docks job was still in his jacket, heavy as a bad bet, and the credits from his recent gigs—lookout, courier, data runner—were already thinning out. The player's talk was piling up like trash in an alley, from drifters to Milo to street gossip, and those glitches—flashes of code in the air—were messing with his head. He’d seen another one this morning, sharp numbers flickering like a glitch in reality itself. Jace needed a break, a drink, and maybe some answers, so he was headed to the Rusty Nail, the dive bar where Lena slung drinks and sharper words.
The slums were alive with their usual chaos—vendors barking abou
