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's 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 cre
