Her comm implant pinged again, a priority call this time. The sudden noise made her flinch; priority meant something urgent, often dangerous, and usually lucrative. She moved away from the bustle of the main walkway, ducking behind a pillar where the din of haggling voices and street musicians dulled to a muffled hum. "Answer," she whispered.
A woman's low voice, edged with static, came through. Not Maro—this voice was unfamiliar, smooth but with an undercurrent of tension. "Is this Nyx?"
Lyra's brow furrowed at the use of her street handle. Very few outside her circle knew her as Nyx. "Who's asking?"
"No names. I have a rush job, high pay. You come highly recommended, Nyx." The woman spoke quickly, each word clipped. "Pickup and delivery, right now, details to follow upon agreement. Seven thousand credits on completion."
Lyra nearly choked. Seven thousand? That was more than she made in some entire months of steady runs. Her first instinct was wariness—nobody paid that much for a simple delivery unless the risks were proportionally high. Still, seven thousand would solve a lot of her problems.
"What's the catch?" Lyra said, voice low as she kept an eye on passersby. Anyone could be listening in this city; paranoia kept you alive.
"Discretion required. There's... sensitive cargo involved." The woman paused, as if weighing how much to reveal. "And possibly some people trying very hard to make sure it doesn't reach its destination. But from what I hear, you can handle yourself."
Lyra clenched her jaw. It sounded exactly like the kind of trouble that got couriers killed. She should walk away. She'd completed her job and had enough to get by for a while. Was she really about to risk her neck for even a mountain of creds?
Yet something in the woman's voice—maybe a tremble beneath the calm—stirred Lyra's curiosity despite herself. That, and the mention that she came recommended. Recommended by who? She didn't like unknown variables, but the offer was too tempting to ignore outright.
"I want to talk to my dispatcher first," Lyra said, stalling to think it through. "Standard protocol."
"No time," the voice cut in sharply. "This opportunity is closing in minutes. I need your decision, now. Seven thousand, Nyx. Coordinates for pickup will be sent on acceptance. Are you in or out?"
Lyra looked out from behind the pillar at the sea of neon-drenched faces in the Bazaar. Just another night for them. For her, this could be a turning point—for better or for much worse.
Her heart thumped, a decision crystallizing. She thought of her threadbare savings, of the persistent ache in her left leg (still paying off that synthetic muscle surgery from a crash last year), of the tiny framed photo of her and Noel that sat by her bedside—her brother giving the camera a cocky grin, her own face younger and unscarred by cynicism. "Someday we'll get out of this city," she had once promised him. Except Noel was gone now, and she was still here, running in circles. Seven thousand credits could be a ticket out, a chance to start fresh—if she dared.
"Send the coordinates," Lyra said, before she could second-guess herself. "I'm in."
The line went dead without another word. A second later, her HUD blinked as new coordinates loaded onto her map—a location on the outskirts of the industrial sector, near the docks by the looks of it. The destination, however, remained locked behind a security cipher. This was a blind run: she wouldn't know where she was delivering until after pickup. More red flags, but it was a little late to back out now.
Lyra swung onto her grav-bike and revved the engine. The thought crossed her mind to call Maro and loop him in despite the woman's warning. But the coordinates suggested this wasn't exactly above-board—if Maro thought it was too dangerous, he might try to call it off, or worse, send someone else. She couldn't afford that. Not after she'd agreed.
Pulling her helmet over her head, Lyra sped out of the Diamond Bazaar and back into the night. The bike's engine whirred softly as she navigated through the maze of streets towards the city's edge. The rhythmic patter of rain on her visor did little to calm her racing thoughts. She focused on the road ahead, neon afterimages streaking past in her peripheral vision.
Whatever awaited her at the pickup, she would deal with it. Fast jobs, dangerous jobs—they came with the territory. But even as she pushed the bike to higher speeds, a whisper of intuition nagged at her, a feeling that tonight, the city's shadows hid more than usual. Something big was brewing out here in the dark, and she was hurtling straight into it.
She just hoped seven thousand creds would be worth whatever hell she was riding into.