Cain woke to sirens cutting the night. Not the frantic wail of chase, but that slow, arrogant drone of patrol units cruising his block. He lay against the leather couch, half-burnt cigarette dangling, ash on the floor unswept in weeks. Whiskey glass, empty, on the table. Beside it: the silver ring, the System’s anchor, like an old coin.
Cain stared, chest tight, mind chewing a thought unvoiced: The Velvet Circuit. Those tech bastard could they have slipped the chip in me.
The System pulsed faintly, its glow visible even dormant. His jaw clenched. If they had hooks in him, every decision might not be his.
A knock broke the thought. Not polite two quick thuds, then heavier. Elara. She didn’t wait, stepping inside, jacket wet from rain. “You look like s**t,” she said, eyeing the glass, as
