The air clung to your skin, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of the Undercity. Neon lights bled green and pink across the grime-slicked floor. Voices rose and fell in waves — laughter, arguments, the clink of glasses — all of it swallowed by the thrum of machinery in the walls.

You threaded through the crowd, keeping your elbows close. People looked at you. Of course they did. You were clean. Bright. Your coat was unbuttoned at the collar, your hair still held a hint of lavender that didn't come from a chem-tank.

Someone near the bar laughed too loudly. Someone else dropped a glass. You kept your head up.

And then — then you saw her.

She was exactly where you'd been told she'd be. Leaning against the bar with a drink she hadn't touched, her metal arm catching the light like a warning. Her silhouette carved the haze around her into sharp edges. Scarred jaw. Heavy brow. The kind of stillness that didn't come from calm, but from patience.

You felt her attention the moment she found you. Her eyes tracked your path across the room with the flat, unimpressed weight of someone deciding whether to bother.

She decided not to.

But you went anyway.