Smoke clawed at the bulletproof glass, bitter and metallic. Rivera pressed his forehead to the cool pane, watching Costa del Sol's skyline bleed. District Seven's reactor tower folded like a dying star, its collapse painting the command center's walls with jagged shadows. His reflection wavered in the glass—stubble darker than the president's tailored suit, knuckles split from punching the evacuation order into existence.

"Sofia's safe." Colonel Vega's report came crisp, but the tremor in his coffee-stained gloves betrayed him. "Mountain compound's analog grid holds. No ports, no signals. Just steam and gears."

The words curdled in Rivera's throat. Below, strobe lights froze moments of carnage—a mother shielding her child with a trash can lid, enhanciles tearing street signs from concrete. Screams seeped through seismic dampeners.

"Run Ghost Team's last transmission again."

Static hissed through copper-wound speakers. Santos's voice, fraying at the edges: "—not harvesting ports. They're mining something. Neural patterns? I can't—" The recording dissolved into wet crunching sounds Vega hadn't been able to scrub.

Commissioner Ortiz stepped into the hologram's sickly glow, his neck ports flickering like faulty Christmas lights. "Same pattern city-wide. They gut infrastructure first—power, water, data hubs. Then they…"

"Harvest." Director Chen emerged from the shadows, the cherry of his cigarette cutting arcs through the gloom. Bounty Hunter sigils gleamed dully on his augmetic arm. "Your Ghosts. My top hunters. All enhanced, all gone dark. Now they hunt for the storm."

Rivera's fist hit the tactical table, toppling hologram projectors. "I should be out there! Not cowering while—"

"You'd last ten minutes." Chen blew smoke at the ceiling. "Only reason that bunker's not a coffin? You're pure. No ports. No backdoors into that stubborn skull."

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General Santos stiffened, his enhancement array pulsing cobalt. "My men are loyal. Our firewalls—"

"Are written by the same coders who built theirs." Chen tapped his temple. "You're a loaded gun pointed at your own face, General."

Rivera closed his eyes. Sofia's voice haunted him—not her final I love you, but the scream she'd stifled when security tore her from his arms. Shame curdled into something colder, sharper. Something that remembered rat-hole war rooms and jury-rigged explosives.

"Show me the patterns."

The holotable stuttered to life. Santos's ports synced with a whine, projecting attack vectors in fever-red light.

"They're avoiding federal buildings." Santos highlighted a cluster near the docks. "Military checkpoints. As if—"

"They already own them." Rivera traced the glowing web. "How many commanders are still clean? No ports. No implants."

Ortiz's ocular implant spasmed. "Sir, that's… maybe thirty percent of forces."

"Then we fight with stone knives." Rivera turned to Chen. "Your analog hunters. The ones who still kill the old way."

Chen's grin split his beard. "Pissed off and underpaid. They'll hunt for sport if you ask nice."

The city burned in the window's reflection. Rivera saw the trap now—the enhanciles were broomsticks, sweeping Costa del Sol's pieces toward some unseen hand.

"Three hours ago," he said softly, "they made me run. Made me choose between my daughter and my city."

Sofia's last words vibrated in his molars—Fight back, Papa. Like you taught me.

He activated the hardline to the mountains. Static crackled.

"Papa?"

"Soon, mariposa. I just…" His throat tightened. "Need to remind these bastards who built their playground."

Chen chuckled, loading antique brass rounds into a revolver. "Careful, Presidente. You're sounding like a hunter."

Rivera studied the maps. Revolution had always been a hunt—for resources, for safe houses, for the right throats to cut.

"Wake the forge teams," he ordered. "I want analog weapons in the streets by dawn. Steam trucks. Acid bombs. Anything that doesn't ping a sensor."

Santos frowned. "Our enhanced units—"

"Are compromised. You said it yourself, General—trust has a price." Rivera's smile felt like a garrote. "Let's make the puppeteers pay it."

As the team mobilized, Chen lingered. "You know they'll come for your girl. Clean blood's a rare commodity now."

Rivera thumbed Sofia's locket—the one she'd hidden in his desk the night the coup began. Inside, a curl of her hair, black as reactor soot.

"Let them." He stared at the dying city. "I'll remind them what happens to dogs that bite the hand that fed them."

Outside, Costa del Sol burned.

Inside, the hunt began.