A single tree stood encased in a glass globe—untouched, immaculate—a quiet monument to the obscene wealth of District H. No neon advertisements screamed from the walls. No retina-searing illusions of luxury for the desperate to chase. It was almost serene. Almost. Beneath the surface, it was as rotten as the rest.
Rain drummed softly against the dome as D-Mo paused, momentarily transfixed. She'd never seen a tree in her life. Its image shimmered in the reflection of her blank visor.
"You still there, D-Mo? The club should be in sight. What's the delay?"
Three steady pulses buzzed through her comms—code for uncertain.
"That's good enough for me," came the voice, weary and flat. "Time to let the bass rattle those fancy lungs of yours. Thirty meters. Nine o'clock."
It was true. The sound was so foul it could be felt—engineered filth for the kind of people who thrived on tasteless leisure.
D-Mo tore her gaze from the tree and headed toward the club. Her visor flickered to life with the mission feed, scrolling through details of the target: Viktor Ivanov, alias "Viki."
He ran a lucrative organ trade out of District K. Lately, though, his operations had expanded beyond the usual street-scum bloodbaths. People with names were starting to vanish.
"I still don't get why you're after this guy," the voice crackled in her ear. "I've dug deep—no bounty, no contract. This ain't about credits, is it, D-Mo?"
There was a pause, just long enough to mean something.
"Either way, I loaded your belt with some high-end gear. So if you're going off the books, you'd better have that retirement fund stocked up."
D-Mo cut the line. Orion always had a way of talking her into trouble—or out of focus.
Approaching the club, a hiss and click sounded from her left shoulder. A concealed compartment activated, and in an instant, she became little more than a shimmer along the walls.
With feline ease, she scaled the wall toward the rooftop bar. It was packed, but not deafening. She slipped through the crowd like wind through mesh—barely noticed, barely there. She ducked into the elevator just as her cloak began to wind down.
The deeper it descended, the louder the music surged—bass climbing the walls like a tide.
The elevator doors parted with a burst of smoke and fractured light. Inside, the club churned. Silhouettes stuttered like a broken slideshow with each pulse from the stage lights.
D-Mo dropped the spent cloaking cartridge. It hit the floor with a soft clink, lost in the roar of sound and movement. No one noticed. No one ever did.
A compartment in her left thigh slid open with a hiss. Two fresh cartridges extended outward. In one swift motion, she slotted them in—one into the neck, the other into the arm. They clicked into place as she closed in on the VIP section.
Viktor "Viki" Ivanov lounged in his loft, draped in youth and decadence—young women on either side, laughter spilling like cheap perfume—when a bodyguard crashed backward into the room.
His limbs were twisted in a grotesque spasm, muscles locked so tight his bones cracked audibly, even over the music.
Then came the cause.
A cybernetic specter stepped through the haze—inhuman in every way but the silhouette. Smoke curled from her forearm as one of the spent cartridges clinked to the ground. Her face was a black screen, pulsing with a single symbol: .
The women screamed and scattered. Viki went for his gun.
Too late.
The rounds flew—but she was already ahead of them. Each bullet traced a path she'd seen before it left the barrel. She wove through the storm like it was a slow dance.
The gun clicked dry.
Viktor's bravado crumbled. "Must be a hell of a bounty on me if they sent an S.C.U. Name your price—I'll pay double. Triple. Whatever they're offering."
She seized him by the throat and hauled him up to meet her screen. Her metal grip didn't waver.
The screen began to flash.
Article after article—photos of missing children from District K. Headlines. Names. Faces. Too many.
"It wasn't me!" Viktor gasped. "I swear—I'm being framed!"
A soft hiss sounded as the final cartridge ejected from her neck. This one was built for one thing: truth detection.
Her face changed one last time.
A serial number blinked across the screen—clean, cold, clinical. A final mercy. The name of his executioner.
SPELL CONTAINMENT UNIT
D–M0