The gate groaned up on tired chains and breathed dust across the floor. Two shapes came through the haze—Lig and Tev—bags dragging off their shoulders, shirts dark with sweat and oil, that kind of road-weariness that sits behind the eyes and won't budge.
Two weeks gone.
Tara stepped out of the workshop wiping her hands, Limar hopped off the table like a kid caught stealing cookies. "Well? You bring back anything that actually helps me?"
"Just us," Tev said, voice gravel-smooth. "And that was close enough."
Breuk slid out of his room, lit a cigarette on the doorframe, gave them a nod like a salute without the ceremony. "Good timing. We gotta talk."
They packed in around the central table—maps and ghosted floorplans stuttering on the terminal, ash in a bent tray, water rings on metal.
Breuk laid it out clean, no drama. "Valeris's place. High up. We lift a necklace with a cult story attached. Kane says his people care. Money's… not small."
Small frames cut the room while he talked: Tara's brow creasing, already calculating headcounts and choke points; Limar grinning like a slot machine just hit three cherries; Tev neutral, absorbing; Lig leaned back, arms folded, face calm enough to make calm look suspicious.
"Sounds risky," Tara said. "Pay's stupid."
Breuk thumbed the holo. The necklace spun into pale light—glass-not-glass disc with a hairline glow running through its nerve. The room cooled when it appeared.
"He also said…" Breuk paused, jaw working once. "If you touch it, it knows you."
Lig's eyes twitched a fraction—brow, then shadow—so fast it could've been the light. He let the silence sit a beat too long, then breathed out and let the chair hold him. "I'm against it."
The projector hummed like a bug against a bulb. Tara blinked. Limar's grin fell off. "You kidding me? This is the job."
"That's the problem," Lig said, voice still even, edges sharper. "Jobs that sound perfect usually ain't."
Breuk met his look. "Since when's risk a brake for you?"
"Since I can't price it," Lig said. He stood and took a slow lap around the table like he was walking a perimeter only he could see. "Kane ghosts for four years and pops back up with this? He offers you exactly what you swore off—an elevator up. That's not charity. That's leverage."
Tara's voice rose a notch. "Paranoia's not a plan, Lig. He paid, and he paid like he means it."
Lig stopped, put the words straight at Breuk. "Money don't spend if you're dead."
The air tightened. Limar pulled a breath to shoot something stupid; Breuk lifted a palm and cut the lane. "Enough. We sleep on it. Vote tomorrow."
Chairs scraped. People drifted without saying where to. Breuk stayed, the necklace's glow stroking one half of his face, making the scar look like a seam in the world. Why doesn't he want it? What flipped the switch? He killed the holo; the room went dark except for the ember at his lip.
Outside, the alley had washed itself in neon and rain. Lig and Tev stood under the leaky overhang and smoked like it was an old religion.
"You went hard in there," Tev said.
"He needed it."
Tev turned the cig between thick fingers. "Why're you really against it?"
"Because he's about to sprint blind. Again." Lig stared out at the city's wet gleam. "And this time it's not just him that eats the pavement."
He pulled deep, smoke wiping his face to slate for a second. "I love Breuk like a brother," he said, softer. "But he'll gamble his people to save his conscience."
Tev didn't answer right away. The rain did the talking for him, hissing off tin and puddle. "He trusted you," he said finally.
"That's what makes it worse," Lig murmured.
They stood in the vapor awhile, smoke folding into mist until you couldn't tell which was which.
Lig tipped his head back, eyes on the ribs of the city like he might read an answer up there. "Everybody knew the Kemely thing was a three-man job," he said, voice gone tight with a memory. "Everyone knew I take those. He still had to come. Feels like… he doesn't trust me to carry it anymore. You get me?"
Tev flicked ash. "You try just… saying that to him?"
Lig huffed a laugh without humor. "We've known each other too long. Stuff like that? It always just… sorted itself. Didn't need words." He stared straight ahead now, jaw set. "This time's… different."
A beat. Then he shook his head, pushed the mood away like rain off a sleeve. "Ah, forget it. We'll be fine."
Tev made a sound that wasn't agreement, wasn't not. The city exhaled, and the smoke went wherever smoke goes.
The room was half-dark, the neon on the wall flickering like a tired pulse. Breuk sat at the table. Smoke drifted from his hand and couldn't decide where to go. Tara stood at the far end, arms folded, the kind of posture that says she's not mad, just out of patience.
"You should talk to him," she said.
"Talk to who?"
"Lig. The tension between you two? It's choking the place. Everybody feels it, even if you won't say it out loud."
Breuk looked down, drew on the cigarette, let silence do the thinking.
Tara came closer, leaned on the table, voice softer. "I'm not trying to rag on you. But you do this thing—you leave stuff sitting. And it grows. Between people."
He nodded, slow. "I know. But if I talk to him… I gotta talk about back then."
"And you don't want to."
A tired shade of a smile crossed his face. "Maybe I'm scared of what I'll say if I start."
The door swung and let in the smell of wet metal. Tev shouldered through in work clothes, sweat at his hairline, rubbing his brow with the back of his hand.
"Talked to Lig," he said.
Tara straightened. "And?"
"Needs a little time." Tev paused. "But… he'll vote yes."
Breuk looked up, surprise cracking his stillness. "He said that?"
"Word for word. Said you know what you're doing."
Breuk stood there while the smoke from his cigarette hung in front of his face like a curtain he hadn't decided to pull aside. Maybe he means it. Or maybe he wants to see if I'll actually do it.
Elsewhere, the light was different—cleaner, colder. A high office in the Heights, curtains breathing with the vents. Kane sat across from a man you could only see from behind: gray hair neat as a ledger, an elegant coat that kept its own weather. On the table, a glass of wine the color of old decisions.
"So?" the man asked. "You made them the offer?"
"Yes," Kane said. "They bought it. I think they'll run it."
The man stood and walked to the window. The skyline on this level was a different language—light, haze, movement that didn't sweat. "Good," he said. "And you're sure this Breuk is the right one?"
Kane folded his hands, stayed very still. "If he's not ready to give everything, this whole thing is pointless."
The man turned just enough for a shadow to edge his features. A profile that had practiced kindness until it looked natural. "Will he do it?"
Kane didn't blink. "He's the one we've been waiting for."
The man lifted the glass, the city bowing in its surface. "Very well. We'll speak when it's done."
Kane rose, gave a respectful nod. "A pleasure, Mr. Valeris."
Valeris watched him go. His face hung in the wine for a moment, upside down and beautiful, then broke when the glass moved.
Back at the hideout, the music from an ancient radio mumbled in the corner. The crew sat around the table under dimmed light, faces set. Breuk stood at the front, the villa's projection hovering over his shoulder like a ghost with a floorplan.
"All right," he said. "We're voting now. Kane wants an answer in two days."
The camera in Breuk's head slid over the room—Tara, jaw tight; Limar, buzzing but contained; Tev, steady. One chair was empty.
"Lig not here?" Breuk asked.
Tev shrugged once. "Said if he can't make it, I vote for him."
Breuk nodded, sat. Silence settled, measured everybody, decided to stay.
He lifted his hand. "Okay. Who's in favor?"
Hands went up—Tara's, Limar's, Tev's. After a second, Breuk's.
"Unanimous," he said.
His metal hand closed, the plates grinding a soft answer. All right, then.