The safehouse’s living room had been designed by someone with an aesthetic grudge against comfort. The couch, a threadbare relic with foam peeking through its right armrest, threatened to swallow Hiroto whole every time he shifted his weight. The walls were the color of recycled office paper, and the only art was a fading poster from an earthquake awareness campaign, taped slightly askew near the bathroom door. Sumoto hunched over the tablet, thumbs tracing anxious circuits around the screen’s bezel. On the low table in front of him, coffee ring stains ran concentric to a chipped ceramic mug, now half-full of cold green tea. The air inside the safehouse was heavy with the scent of old fabric and burnt popcorn, leftovers from Dynamo’s nervous fidgeting earlier in the afternoon. The tablet vibrated, a soft shudder, and the holo-comms kicked to life. Sumoto’s face, pixelated and a few microseconds out of sync, appeared in the upper left. She looked tired but composed, her hair pinned tight at the nape.

  "Good. You made it," Sumoto said, skipping the preamble.

  Hiroto nodded, the gesture stiff in his own neck. "Mostly intact. Dynamo’s fine, too."

  A line of static flickered up Sumoto’s cheek, then vanished. She pursed her lips. "Is the package secure?"

  Hiroto set the tablet flat on the table and rummaged in his jacket for the surveillance recorder. It was still warm from his body heat, the adhesive on its back smeared with sweat. He thumbed it on, then reached under the lamp for the tool kit.

  Kaen’s avatar materialized at the table’s edge, hovering above a coaster like a patronizing ghost.

  "Diagnostic scan: clear," Kaen intoned. "Proceed."

  Hiroto found the right blade and worked it under the recorder’s seam, prying up the casing with deliberate pressure. The innards were a miracle of micro-solder and compact flash. He popped the memory chip out with tweezers and set it into the dock at the base of the tablet.

  "Uploading now," Kaen said. "Stand by."

  Sumoto’s gaze tracked the movement, his eyes sharp even through the holo-distortion.

  Hiroto leaned back. "Restaurant’s burned. I took the north alley and looped through Little Osaka. No tails, no drones. If Birney was watching, she wanted me to see her."

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  Sumoto’s mouth twitched, the closest he got to a frown. "Typical. She likes a show."

  Hiroto shrugged, rubbing his forearm where the adrenaline had left a phantom ache. "She also likes her marks dead, but she let us walk."

  "Maybe she’s waiting for a higher bid," Kaen offered.

  Sumoto ignored the bot, focusing on Hiroto. "Tell me what you saw."

  He hesitated. The memory of Yuxi—her sudden illumination, the way the air had bent and split around her—felt brittle, like it might shatter if pressed too hard.

  "It wasn’t… normal," Hiroto said, voice lowering as if afraid the walls might listen. "She glowed. Not a trick of the light—more like she had a charge inside. Then she just… shifted. Like the world lost track of her position."

  Sumoto’s eyes narrowed. "You’re sure?"

  Hiroto nodded, the movement sudden, desperate to believe it himself. "She phased, Sumoto. Like the old stories."

  Kaen piped up, "That matches with the pattern we saw in Maryland last month."

  Sumoto’s face softened.

  "Good work. Keep your recorder close next time."

  The tablet chimed, and Kaen’s avatar expanded into a floating window. Lines of code scrolled past, then resolved into two crisp images. One: a scanned yearbook page, Maryland School of Dentistry, with Bernadette Birney’s honors portrait circled in red. The second: an aerial shot of a Tribeca high-rise, columns of text overlaying the building with bullet-pointed appraisals and lists of shell-corporation owners.

  "That’s her next stop," Sumoto said. "The apartment is under heavy lockdown, but our contact says Bernadette is in and out at odd hours. She won’t answer to Birney—she’s using the O’Keefe alias again."

  Kaen highlighted the entry on the screen. "Bernadette B. Unit 49A. Purchased in 2022 for eight million, no mortgage."

  Sumoto’s gaze flicked to Hiroto, direct and unblinking. "You and Dynamo will make contact. Recon only, unless she approaches."

  Hiroto glanced at the mug, then back at the screen. "What’s the angle?"

  "Bernadette’s working both sides. If Birney’s running Malcolm’s play, Bernadette’s the counterweight," Sumoto said. "Find out if she’s with us, or if she needs to be neutralized."

  “Do you think it’s wise to ally with the person that tried to eliminate you?” Kaen said.

  “I’m not sure about anything anymore, but she has a foot into the Shadow Dealers organization. She could be an ally,” Hiroto said.

  “Or you might be giving her an opportunity to finish you off.”

  "Get some rest. I’ll patch you in when Dynamo’s up,” Sumoto said.

  The holo-screen winked out, leaving only Kaen’s avatar, now idling with a soft halo of unread notifications.

  Hiroto stared at the yearbook photo. Bernadette’s face was precise, symmetrical, her expression caught between pride and exhaustion. He pressed his palm to the table, feeling the tacky residue of decades-old varnish, and let the realization settle in his chest.

  Outside, the city muttered its stories through the warped glass. The safehouse felt colder than before, but the lights—old, cheap, and desperate—still burned.