Dent-head patrolled a rough part of Brooklyn—the kind of place where the promises of AI, automation, and a better tomorrow had been returned to sender. Here, in the gutters of the glittering city, progress stalled at the edge of the neon.

  The roads were slick with rain, reflecting the streetlamps like puddled constellations—red, green, and blue bleeding into each other on the broken asphalt. A few drunks and hollow-eyed souls wandered aimlessly. Most were mentally fractured, left behind when the world accelerated past them. If Dent-head had been human, he might’ve felt lonely, maybe even afraid. But he was metal and code. His emotions were ring-fenced by programming, blinkers on a racehorse—his vision narrowed to duty and nothing more.

  Once, the corners here had been prowled by sex workers, but humanoid escort-bots ended that trade. Like so many jobs, from the marble boardrooms to the alleys, they were consumed by progress. Efficient. Disposable.

  Now, the only real entrepreneurs left were the corner chemists—low-rent dealers with high-tech pharmaceutical 3D printers bought on the dark web. These days, a drug lord didn’t need a lab—just a strong Wi-Fi signal and the right torrent.

  Dent-head’s sensors pulsed. He rerouted his path toward Amigo’s—the rundown bar where Tucker and Kyle were set to meet. His presence would go unnoticed. That was the idea.

  Across the street, Dent-head stood motionless in the shadow of a broken billboard, watching the sweat-slick neon of Amigo’s pulse against the rain-soaked sidewalk. The place tried for a faux-Mexican ranch vibe, but the bare wood fa?ade and flickering sign made it look more like a frontier graveyard than a cantina .

  Through the condensation streaking the restaurant windows, Dent-head saw them. Tucker—half-sunken into a booth—was devouring a burger so large it bordered on medical malpractice for someone with his alleged condition. If the man really had a range of ailments , it was either suicide by beef or the lie was catching up to him.

  Kyle sat opposite, immaculate as ever, not a hair or seam out of place.

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  “You ever think about dressing down?” Tucker muttered between bites.

  Kyle shrugged. “I like to look sharp.”

  He almost added, “You should try it”, but let it die in his throat.

  “Get your phone out,” Tucker said, halfway through a mouthful of burger. “Take a picture of us—post it. Just two buddies having beers and burgers. Nothing more.”

  Kyle sighed, already reaching for his phone. “Hiding in plain sight.”

  “Exactly.” Tucker wiped his hands on a napkin. “If Internal Affairs is poking around, I don’t want them thinking this is some covert rendezvous. We’re just old pals catching up. Nothing shady. Hell, we’re putting it on socials—what could be more innocent?”

  Kyle leaned in for the selfie. They grinned wide, like lifelong friends sharing a moment—eyes crinkled, teeth bared, all fake warmth and perfect angles.

  Across the street, Dent-head’s facial recognition systems locked onto the forced smiles. His subroutines flagged the interaction: 99.6% performative.

  The phone slipped back into Kyle’s jacket. The smiles dropped just as quickly.

  Time to talk business.

  “I’ve compiled a full report on Ethan Stipe,” Kyle said, his tone now clipped and professional. “It covers why we believe he’s our prime suspect, along with profiles on the others. I also mentioned that two of his men—Seb and Del, if I remember correctly—are stealing from him.”

  He extended his hand, palm up. A small encrypted USB drive rested there.

  “You’ll need to give him the password.”

  Tucker took a long gulp of his rice lager, slammed the glass on the table, and squinted at Kyle’s outstretched hand. His eyes caught the glint of a wedding ring on Kyle’s index finger—one that hadn’t been there last week.

  “You got married?” Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Kyle smiled. “Yeah. Family only.”

  A lie. The wedding had been massive—lavish, indulgent, well over budget. Like everything Kyle touched. That’s why he was moonlighting in crime. He hadn’t invited Tucker because he’d show up in the same battered jacket, get blackout drunk, and make enemies of everyone.

  “Pity,” Tucker said with a smirk. “I love a good party.”

  He nodded at the drive.

  “So what’s this about needing me to give the password? You can tell him yourself.”

  Kyle hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “I’d rather go back to the old arrangement. You handle him. Take your forty percent.”

  Tucker looked down at the USB again. He didn’t reach for it.

  “No. He won’t go for that,” Tucker said flatly. “Viktor doesn’t go backwards.”

  He met Kyle’s eyes, tone low.

  “You’re in the devil’s address book now, Kyle.”

  Then Tucker smiled and finished the last of his beer.