POV: Sasha
The office was cold. Quiet. The only sound was the hum of the servers and the faint tapping of Sasha's fingers against the worn keys of the keyboard.
She had found what she came for. Biotechnica's files on CHOOH2 financials and prototype 0.091, exactly what the client wanted. The moment the data finished pulling, she flicked it over to Maine. Clean job, quick payout.
Then she saw it.
A folder buried deep in the directory, almost an afterthought. Securicine.
The name sent a jolt through her, an old wound splitting open. Her fingers hesitated over the keys. She shouldn't look. She knew that.
But she did.
Lines of text scrolled across her HUD. Reports. Medical studies. Internal memos. She skimmed faster, pulse hammering in her ears.
The truth hit like a freight train.
Neurodegeneration. Memory decay. Cognitive collapse. The side effects of the painkillers her mother had relied on were hidden away in corporate reports. Biotechnica had known. Had watched people waste away, let them suffer, let them die, because pulling the drug from the market wasn't profitable.
Her mother hadn't just been sick. She had been poisoned.
Sasha's hands clenched, her breath coming sharp and uneven.
For a moment, she sat there, staring at the data. She could still walk away. Take her cut, ghost out, and pretend she never saw this.
Instead, she pressed a key.
A new window opened. The file began uploading. Destination: Network 54 News Tipline.
There was no going back now.
The progress bar crawled forward, agonizingly slow. The jammer Maine had set up was already straining. She could see security systems flickering back online.
Then the alarms blared.
Red lights strobed across the office. A mechanical voice echoed through the halls.
"Intrusion detected. Deploying security response."
Sasha cursed under her breath, fingers flying as she locked down the office doors and wedged a desk in front of them. The first distant thuds of metal footsteps sent a cold spike of adrenaline through her.
A sharp burst of static hit her comms before Maine's voice came through. "Sasha? What the hell's goin' on?"
She didn't answer. Not yet. She still had time, just a little more time.
Her hands moved with mechanical precision as she reached into her bag, pulling out the small pack of explosives she always carried. She planted them near the door, securing the triggers.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
A heavy impact shook the walls as something slammed against the door.
Maine's voice again, louder this time. "Sasha, talk to me!"
She exhaled, forcing a smirk even though he couldn't see it. "Ain't gonna make it outta this one, Maine."
"The fuck are you talking about? I'm comin' to-"
She cut the line.
The next impact bent the metal inward. Sparks burst from the edges. The lock wouldn't hold much longer.
87%.
She checked her pistol. Only a few rounds left. Not that it would make a difference.
94%.
A third impact. The doorframe buckled.
Sasha swallowed down the panic clawing at her throat.
98%.
A split-second of silence. Then the doors burst open.
Gunfire tore through the room, shredding furniture, splintering glass. Sasha hit the floor, rolling behind a desk as sparks exploded. The first bot stepped through the smoke, weapons locked onto her.
She fired. A lucky shot. One bot staggered.
100%.
Upload complete. The truth was out.
A sharp pain ripped through her gut. Then another in her shoulder. The force sent her stumbling backward. Blood spattered against the wall.
Then darkness.
1 week later
Pain.
It settled deep, coiled around Sasha's ribs, spreading through her limbs like static. Every nerve in her body burned, her cyberware lagging like it couldn't decide if she was still alive or not.
A slow, rhythmic beep-beep-beep filled the room.
The air was sterile. Cold. Corporate.
She tried to move. Restraints.
Adrenaline kicked in, snapping her fully awake. Her optics flickered online, adjusting to the too-bright artificial glow overhead. White walls. Stainless steel. Medical equipment.
Biotechnica's logo.
Her pulse spiked. Shit.
Her last memory. The job, the breach, the fall. She should be dead.
But she wasn't.
And someone was watching her.
A man in his early thirties sat across the room, hands loosely interlaced. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just observed.
Sasha's mind sharpened. He wasn't security. No armored vest, no standard-issue sidearm. His suit was Biotechnica green, neatly pressed but slightly rumpled, like he hadn't changed in over a day. His tie was gone, sleeves subtly pushed up. Not sloppiness, just efficiency.
But what stood out most wasn't his clothes.
It was the exhaustion.
Deep, settled, woven into the way he carried himself.
Not like a corpo gonk pulling overtime. Like someone who was tired of playing the game but had no choice but to keep going.
Her throat felt dry as hell, but she forced out, "Where-" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. "Where the fuck am I?"
The man exhaled softly, rubbing the side of his temple.
"Somewhere safe," he said. Then, after a pause, "For now."
Her jaw tightened. For now.
That meant temporary. That meant she was still in trouble.
Her mind worked fast. No armed guards. No interrogation. No immediate threats. But she was still restrained, still under watch.
Something wasn't adding up.
She tugged at the restraints again, testing them. "So what now? You gonna interrogate me? Sell me off to some R&D freakshow?"
The man didn't answer right away. Just studied her with that same unreadable gaze.
Then, finally, he shook his head. "No."
No elaboration. No reassurance. Just no.
Sasha's stomach twisted.