My breath forms clouds in front of me, blending into the low-hanging mist. Shiro walks beside me, his CrystalLens visor casting a red glow across his face. Data flickers across the angular lines, unreadable to me. His fingers tap the hidden Echo R-30 hand cannon inside his coat. I do the same. The cold weight feels right.

  It’s been two years since that night. Two years since Jace was murdered, his body tossed aside like garbage. I remember the terror, the way my heart pounded in my chest, the feeling of helplessness that still lingers. I can still hear the crack of the gunshot. Always the same, every night—louder than it was. By the time I stumbled back, still shaking, Jace was already gone. Not a trace left.

  We never found out where they took him, or what they did with his remains. No funeral, no rites. Just me and Shiro, sitting in silence, knowing it was only us now. We did what we could. Dug through Jace’s things, found his stash of credits—savings he’d scraped together over time. Not much, but enough to make a difference. We didn’t waste it.

  I glance at Shiro. He’s wearing Jace’s old jacket, its red-and-white fabric covered with synthetic armor along the shoulders and forearms. Always looks good on him, but it’s a bit loud for Isenhold’s middle levels.

  The motel appears, a flickering neon sign barely clinging to life. Rust devours the boarded-up windows, the place half-swallowed by decay. It blends in with the forgotten corners of the city, where no one questions who comes and goes. Shiro doesn’t say a word as I knock three times on the door. A camera above shifts, its lens focusing on us. I hear the faint click of the lock disengaging before the door creaks open. Inside, the air is thick with dust, cramped, and the lights flicker like they’re barely hanging on to life.

  A woman is standing behind the door, and I immediately notice her left arm—a bulky metal prosthetic, rough and old fashioned. No synth-skin to cover the mechanics, just raw metal. Her brown eyes flicker between us, sizing us up with a quick glance.

  “You’re the ones?”

  “Yeah,” Shiro answers, not breaking stride. “Lorn sent us.”

  At the mention of the old fixer, she relaxes, just a fraction, and waves us inside without another word. As she moves toward the table, we follow. The motel’s smaller inside than I expected, dirtier too. We sit down, and Shiro places the briefcase on top of it. With a flick of his wrist, he opens it, revealing the three vials of nightscream—black liquid, swirling faintly in the low light. It’s designed for one thing: torture. I don’t know who she plans on using it on, but I don’t envy them. Nightscream doesn’t just put you to sleep. It forces you into days-long nightmares, lucid and impossible to wake from. Pure hell in a vial.

  She inspects them, running her fingers over one. “It’s all here,” she says, satisfied. She hands me a datachip, marked with a three thousand credit value—exactly what Lorn asked for.

  I nod. “It’s there.”

  She doesn’t offer any more words, and we don’t wait for them. Standing up, we head back toward the door, the motel’s stifling atmosphere clinging to us even after we step outside.

  Shiro finally speaks once we’re back in the street. “That was easy.”

  “Just another gig,” I say. Though, nightscream… That’s the first time we’ve ever delivered something like that.

  He taps the side of his CrystalLens, bringing up a display only he can see. “We’ve got enough now. For the augs.”

  My eyes go wide. “Already? Thought we still had a few more weeks.”

  Shiro shakes his head. “Not with the side gigs we picked up last month. We’re prime.”

  I exhale. A year of scraping by—odd jobs, deliveries, anything to save enough for a shot at something more. More than being miners, more than Jace ever was—a street kid who didn’t make it out. But sometimes I wonder if we’re just fooling ourselves.

  He notices something’s off with me. “What, you nervous?”

  “Don’t act like you’re not.”

  He just laughs. “Yeah, yeah, you caught me. Let’s just get home. I’m starvin’ over here.”

  “Might as well hit the districts up here,” I suggest. “Food’s way better than the stuff they sell down low.”

  “Alright,” he says after thinking it over. “I could kill for something imported right now.”

  ***

  The maglev tram hums beneath our feet, a steady, high-pitched whirr as it cuts through the frozen icelands toward V-3, an underground colony a few hundred kilometers from Isenhold. Transparent panels run along the windows, displaying data feeds and navigation overlays. Outside, the snow-blasted landscape of Kalthor V rushes by in a blur of white and gray. We’re seated in the last car, along with a few other passengers bundled up against the cold.

  I flick my lighter open and closed, the soft click breaking through the low hum of the tram. I lean back, shifting slightly to feel the weight of the Echo tucked against my side.

  “You ever think about moving there?” I ask Shiro, nodding toward the faint glow of the colony in the distance.

  He snorts, adjusting his seat to get more comfortable. “V-3? Nah. Too flashy, too many heads. Feels like you’d get lost in all that chaos.”

  I chuckle. “Fair enough.”

  “I like our little corner of the world,” Shiro adds. “Not saying I wouldn’t mind upgrading a few things, but living there? Nah, too noisy for me. Besides, you know me—I’m not a ‘big city’ type.”

  I smirk. “Yeah, right. Says the guy who can’t go five minutes without chatting someone up.”

  He shrugs. “Hey, conversation keeps the blood flowing.”

  The maglev begins to slow as it approaches the surface station, a low hum reverberating through the cabin. When the doors slide open, Shiro and I step onto the platform, a cold blast of air hitting us immediately. The station is slick and metallic, with flashing ads for ChromaTech optics and RedLine Biotech implants projected on every wall. People stream past us, moving with purpose, their augmented limbs and features standing out. There are fewer miners here than we’re used to—more people with high-end augments.

  We weave through the crowd, heading toward the levels below, where things aren’t quite so shiny. The middle tiers of V-3 are packed with stalls, shops, and showrooms, all selling the latest cyberware. The displays are almost blinding—Mirage optics, CipherCore hacking chips, enhanced muscle fibers. My eyes linger on one of the displays—VividArray optics from ChromaTech, sleek and deadly-looking—currently still in its prototype phase, but they’re advertising it anyway. It’s all way out of our league.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Let’s go to the lower levels,” I decide, flicking my lighter absently.

  Shiro nods. “Yeah, too much gloss up here.”

  We head down, taking one of the old lifts to the lower streets. As soon as we step out, the air feels different. It’s darker, more crowded, the buildings leaning in over the narrow walkways. Neon lights buzz overhead, but they’re dimmer, flickering. Down here, it’s all about survival—people hustling, making deals, looking over their shoulders. It feels like home.

  As we walk, I can’t help but think about what Jace was doing here two years ago. I know he wasn’t getting augments, since he never had the credits for it. He was probably just working a gig.

  “This is more our speed,” Shiro says with a nod, hands stuffed into his jacket’s red-lined pockets.

  We push through the narrow streets, heading toward the shop Lorn mentioned the last time we saw him—a rundown clinic buried deep in the lower levels, far from the polished clinics up top. Lorn owed us a favor, and as it turned out, the surgeon we’re about to meet owed him one too. So here we are, cashing in.

  We reach the door, and I exchange a quick glance with Shiro before pushing it open and stepping inside. The shop is small but tidy, with neatly organized shelves displaying various cyberware parts and tools. The gear looks well-maintained, though not flashy—functional pieces for the everyday customer. Behind the counter, a man leans back in his chair, watching us with a pair of optics. He’s older, with a grizzled face and cybernetic techlines visible along his arms.

  “So, you’re the kids the old fixer sent, huh?” His voice is gravelly, steady. He stands up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag before tossing it aside. “Gotta admit, wasn’t expecting much from the way he talked you up.”

  “We like to exceed expectations,” Shiro says with a shrug.

  The doctor raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “So, what do you need, then? The old man wasn’t exactly clear on the details. Just said I’d be doing work on some kids.”

  I step forward, feeling the weight of the moment. “Neural interface installation for me—wide config,” I say, my voice steady despite the nerves creeping in. “And Shiro here needs a set of Spectra optics.”

  He studies me for a second, eyes narrowing. “A wide interface, huh?” He taps the counter, a slight smirk forming. “You seem a bit young for that kind of work. You sure you know what you’re getting into?”

  “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  “Fair enough,” the doctor concedes. “Well, the labor’s covered by that favor, but the augs aren’t. You’re still gonna need to cough up for the hardware.”

  “We know,” Shiro says.

  After we transfer the credits, the doctor grunts, standing up straight and gesturing toward the back. “Alright. Let’s get to it. You first,” he says, waving me over.

  I glance at Shiro, and can’t help but still feel a bit anxious. He gives me an encouraging nod.

  The room in the back is small and sterile, with harsh lighting overhead that makes everything feel a little more intense. A reclining chair sits in the center, surrounded by equipment—old but functional. The walls are lined with racks of surgical tools, monitors displaying biometrics, and cabinets filled with various cyberware components.

  The doctor—Rhyne, according to the faded name tag I’m just now noticing on his white coat—preps the station, pulling out a tray of instruments and a sleek RedLine neural interface—larger than standard, and very illegal for civilians.

  “Lie back,” he says, calm but all business, slipping on a pair of gloves. “This’ll take a while, and it ain’t gonna feel nice. But keep still, we’ll get through it no problem.”

  I do as he says, my heart beating faster as I settle into the chair. The cold leather presses against my back as Rhyne pulls up a small diagnostic screen, scanning my vitals.

  “First things first, we’ll numb the area,” he says, reaching for a small injector gun filled with anesthetic. He positions it at the back of my neck, just below the base of my skull. A soft hiss escapes the device as it delivers the numbing agent. Instantly, a cool sensation spreads through my muscles and nerves, dulling all feeling.

  “You’ll feel some pressure,” the doctor warns. “But that’s normal. Just keep breathing.”

  I nod, focusing on the ceiling as he moves behind me. There’s a slight pause before I feel the cold of the scalpel, making a precise cut at the back of my neck. No pain—just that strange tugging sensation as he peels away the skin completely, exposing muscle. It’s unsettling, like it’s happening to someone else, the nerves tingling faintly in the distance.

  The doctor works quickly, peeling back the skin and setting it aside, leaving the vertebrae and tether exposed. “Wide interface is tricky,” he mutters. “It needs more space, and standard installs aren’t designed for that. Lucky for you, this isn’t my first time doing this.”

  I hear the whir of machinery as he prepares the neural interface—a synthetic skin piece with chip slots and a port. “Here’s the hard part,” Rhyne says, his tone more serious. “I’m gonna link this straight into your tether. It’s already in place, but I have to wire it into the new interface to sync up. Then, any future chips and jacks you use will feed through to your tether, straight into your nervous system.”

  He leans in, exposing the tether at the base of my skull, and begins the careful work of wiring the interface directly into it. My muscles tense involuntarily as the connection is made, a strange jolt running through me, and there’s a sudden presence at the back of my mind.

  “That’s the data feed,” Rhyne explains, focusing on the work. “You’re feeling it in your neural matrix—a whole new sensation, huh? Since this is your first time with cyberware. Your nervous system’s just adjusting to the interface. Don’t worry, that part’ll pass. But that data feed feeling? That stays.”

  I swallow hard, steadying myself as the strange sensation courses through my body.

  “Easy,” the doctor murmurs. “You’re doing good. Almost there.”

  Once the wiring is secure, he carefully positions the synthetic skin over the exposed area. His fingers move quickly, threading the fine wires into place and checking each connection to ensure it’s solid. With the installation done, he seals the incisions with a dermal regenerator, the skin knitting together seamlessly.

  Rhyne adjusts some settings on his terminal, running diagnostics to ensure the install took. “Everything looks good. Nervous system’s accepting the interface without rejection.”

  I sit up slowly, my neck still numb.

  Shiro, who watched the whole thing, gives me a thumbs-up before taking his turn. Compared to my install, his procedure is simpler, but more invasive—a set of Spectra optics.

  Rhyne preps a small, precise tool, lining it up with Shiro’s eyes. “First time getting optics, huh?” he mutters. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to them.”

  Shiro nods, trying to stay calm. “Never needed ‘em before, but… time for an upgrade, I guess.”

  Rhyne injects a local anesthetic just beneath each of his eyes. “You won’t feel much besides some pressure, and a bit of temporary blindness from the injection. Better you’re blind through the whole thing, trust me. Less stressful that way.”

  Shiro nods, accepting the information. With a soft hiss, the area numbs quickly, and his vision seems to fade—it’s like he’s focusing past the ceiling now instead of on it.

  “Alright, let’s get started.” Dr. Rhyne uses his tool to make a small incision along the edge of the eye and opens up a space to fit the implant. Shiro’s breath slows, the discomfort evident, but he seems to manage it. Rhyne removes the old organic lens and carefully positions the new one. It’s crafted from synthetic materials, designed to mimic the texture of a real iris, though it still has an unmistakable artificial sheen.

  He connects it to Shiro’s synaptic network, wiring the optic directly to the visual cortex. Shiro tenses as the implant syncs with his mind. I can almost feel the change, the way his brain adapts to the new input.

  “That’s the link,” Rhyne says, concentrating. “Optics are fully integrated now. You’ll see clearer, faster, and with a bit of calibration, it’ll be like you’ve had them your whole life.”

  Shiro blinks a few times, eyes adjusting. I see the shift—the sharpness in his gaze, the subtle awe.

  “How’s it feel?” I ask, leaning in a bit.

  Shiro grins. “Weird. But good. Real good.”

  I smile, knowing what’s next: the chip.