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The message arrives at three in the morning, dragging me from an uneasy, shallow, and dreamless sleep. It is not a sound but a vibration, a single, insistent, and urgent pulse from a burner comm device I keep hidden and charged for only one specific contact. The notification is heavily encrypted, designed to erase itself from existence the moment it has been read once. I am fully awake instantly, a cold surge of adrenaline sharpening my senses as I reach for the tablet on my bedside table.
The message is brutally and characteristically efficient: a set of coordinates, a time precisely six hours from now, and a long alphanumeric confirmation code. There is no greeting, no preamble, and no explanation. It is the cold, impersonal signature of someone who expects complete and unconditional obedience. A handler. My handler.
I sit up in my bed, the thin blanket pooling around my waist as my mind already races through the terrifying possibilities. A direct summons is always a dangerous proposition, but refusing one after a professional relationship has been established, especially with this particular entity, is unequivocally suicidal. Whoever my handler is, they possess the resources and the reach to find me anywhere in this sprawling city. People with that kind of invisible power do not tolerate being ignored or disobeyed. The coordinates place the meeting in the heart of the Administrative District, a sterile, high-security sector of imposing government buildings that most ordinary citizens are forbidden to enter. I have to assume that transportation will be provided. Handlers of this caliber do not summon their assets to secure locations without first ensuring their silent, untraceable, and undetected arrival.
Just as I finish my brief, methodical preparations, a new, unexpected notification pings on my primary, secure financial account. It is an anonymous credit transfer. My breath catches in my throat when I see the amount. It is staggering, more than I typically make in a full year of high-risk, high-reward jobs. This is not a payment. It is a retainer. It is a golden leash. The message is as clear as it is unspoken: I have already been bought. This is not an offer I can refuse; it is a command I am now obligated to obey.
This amount of money represents more than just a year of safety. It is a genuine chance at an exit. For a brief, dizzying moment, I allow myself to dream of what it could actually buy: a clean, untraceable identity, safe passage out of the city and its suffocating jurisdiction, a new life where I no longer have to look over my shoulder at every passing shadow, a life where I am not Arielle Crane, the memory thief. The dream is a dangerous, seductive indulgence, but it is the hook that sets itself deep in my heart. My own survival is no longer the only stake in this game. Now, for the first time, I have a powerful reason to care about the outcome beyond simply living to see another day.
An hour before the scheduled departure, a second encrypted message provides my pickup instructions. An automated car will arrive at a specific, deserted street corner. I am to come alone and, crucially, leave all personal electronics behind. I disable my burner comm and hide it, along with my other devices, in a lead-lined box beneath a loose floorboard. The only item I permit myself to take is a small, palm-sized neural disruptor. It will not be enough to stop a determined team of professionals, but it might buy me the few precious seconds I would need to escape.
The car that arrives is a sleek, black, and completely automated vehicle that glides to a stop with an eerie, silent precision. The door slides open without a sound, revealing an empty, luxurious, and vaguely menacing interior. I climb inside, and the door seals behind me. The windows immediately darken to complete opacity, cutting off my view of the city as the car begins to move through the streets like a phantom. I force myself to remain calm, to breathe slowly and evenly. Panic is a useless luxury when you are already trapped. The journey is long and silent, taking me deep into the city’s secure and hidden underbelly. When we finally come to a stop, the door opens onto a private, underground parking facility, lit by harsh, sterile white lights. My handler, or at least a representative, is waiting for me. And in that moment, I understand that my life has irrevocably changed.