03:58 AM – The Tower
The rain hadn't stopped.
It hadn't even slowed.
From the top of the comms tower, the city looked like it was drowning in its own neon. Colors bled into puddles far below, smearing across streets slick with rain and oil. The air smelled of wet metal and electricity.
Arata stood apart from the others, staring out at the horizon.
The word still echoed in his head.
Vault.
A place he'd promised himself never to think about again.
Kaede was hunched over the radio, cycling through channels, her eyes darting to the shadows at every creak of the tower. Yuiri sat on the cold floor, hugging her knees, the adrenaline from the rooftop fight finally fading into exhaustion.
"We can't stay here," Kaede said, breaking the silence. "If that sniper's tracking us, the tower's a dead end."
Arata didn't turn. "Where's your next safe spot?"
Kaede hesitated. "Not a safe spot. A contact. He runs a stall in the Undermarket. If anyone can tell us why NOKRA's making moves on the Vault, it's him."
Yuiri frowned. "What's the Undermarket?"
Kaede smirked humorlessly. "Imagine the worst parts of this city. Then go ten floors underground."
Descent
Getting there meant crossing three districts on foot. The streets were nearly empty — too late for regular traffic, too early for the morning rush.
Kaede led, weaving through back alleys and cutting across half-collapsed walkways. The deeper they went into the old quarter, the less the city felt alive. The buildings here leaned like tired giants, their windows boarded, graffiti scrawled like scars across their faces.
Yuiri kept close to Arata. "That man… the one on the radio. You knew him?"
Arata's jaw tightened. "Once."
"What's the Vault?"
He didn't answer. Not yet.
The Gate
The Undermarket entrance was hidden beneath a derelict subway station. Rusted turnstiles led to a stairwell choked with trash and the smell of mold.
At the bottom was a metal door painted with a symbol — a downward-pointing triangle, the paint flaking with age.
Two guards stood beside it. One was missing an eye, the other missing two fingers. Both carried shotguns.
Kaede stepped forward. "We're here for Grell."
The one-eyed guard looked her over, then glanced at Arata and Yuiri. "They don't look like traders."
"They're with me."
A pause. Then the door groaned open.
The Undermarket
The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning metal. Rows of makeshift stalls stretched into the gloom, each lit by dim lamps or the flicker of old monitors.
Vendors sold everything from unregistered firearms to blacklisted datachips, from vats of synthetic blood to cages of strange, half-starved animals. The crowd was a shifting tide of thieves, mercenaries, and desperate people willing to trade anything for survival.
Yuiri stayed close, eyes darting from one dangerous face to another.
Kaede led them to a stall in the far corner where a hunched man was soldering something that looked suspiciously like a pulse grenade. His skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp bones, and one of his eyes was entirely cybernetic.
"Grell," Kaede greeted.
He didn't look up. "You're late."
The Deal
They spoke in low tones, Grell's hands never stopping their work.
"NOKRA's moving," Kaede said. "They've got hunters in Sector Six. And they're after the Vault."
That made him pause. Slowly, he set down the soldering iron and looked at her with his one natural eye. "If they're after the Vault… then you're already too late."
Yuiri swallowed. "Why? What is it?"
Grell studied her for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Arata. "She doesn't know?"
"She doesn't need to," Arata said sharply.
Grell chuckled dryly. "Then I'll keep my mouth shut. But I'll tell you this — if NOKRA's after it, they've already found the first key."
The First Key
Kaede's eyes narrowed. "What key?"
Grell leaned in. "Not a real key. A person. An archivist. They call her the Cipher."
Arata's head snapped toward him. "She's still alive?"
Grell gave a slow nod. "And in NOKRA custody."
Yuiri's voice was small. "If she's the first key… then there's more?"
"Three in total," Grell said. "Without all of them, the Vault stays sealed."
Kaede glanced at Arata. "Looks like your problem just got bigger."
Shadows Move
They didn't notice the man watching them from the crowd until it was too late.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a hooded coat that hid most of his face. His stance was wrong — too balanced, too ready.
When Arata's eyes met his, the man turned and melted into the crowd.
Arata's instincts screamed. "We've been made."
Grell cursed under his breath. "You didn't shake your tail?"
Kaede was already packing up. "Time to move."
The Breakout
They left the stall quickly, cutting through the narrow aisles. But the Undermarket's crowd was shifting strangely now — closing in, funneling them toward the outer walls.
Yuiri gripped Arata's sleeve. "They're surrounding us."
And then they struck.
Not NOKRA soldiers this time — mercenaries, wearing mismatched armor and crude masks. The first lunged with a serrated blade, but Arata sidestepped, slammed an elbow into his jaw, and kept moving.
Kaede pulled her revolver, firing a shot that shattered a hanging lamp, plunging half the market into shadow.
The crowd erupted into chaos. Vendors shouted, weapons were drawn, and somewhere in the darkness, someone screamed.
The Lower Tunnels
They fought their way to a maintenance hatch in the wall. Kaede kicked it open, revealing a ladder descending into pitch blackness.
"Down!" she barked.
Yuiri didn't hesitate. She climbed quickly, Arata right behind her. Kaede followed last, sealing the hatch above them.
The tunnels were damp, the air heavy with mildew. Their footsteps echoed off the narrow walls as they moved deeper.
Somewhere above, the mercenaries were shouting, searching.
The Stranger
They rounded a corner — and stopped.
A man stood in the tunnel ahead, lit by a single flickering lightbulb. He was tall, with dark hair slicked back, and a scar running from his jaw to his collarbone.
He smiled when he saw Arata.
Not a friendly smile.
"Been a long time, little brother."
Yuiri's eyes widened. "Brother?"
Arata didn't answer. His grip on the pistol tightened until his knuckles went white.
End of chapter 8