Chapter 12 · The Low-Life Deal

"You look like shit, kid. Even for a Rust Belt rat."

Jax didn’t look up from her terminal. She sat in a nest of flickering monitors and tangled cables, the kind of hole-in-the-wall fix shop where the air tasted like ozone and old grease. She leaned back, her cybernetic eye whirling with a soft, mechanical click as it zoomed in on my shaking hands.

"I don't need a critique," I snapped. "I need the stabilizer. Now."

Elara stepped forward, her boots clicking sharply on the metal floor. She didn't like this place. I could tell by the way she held her shoulders—tense, disgusted, like she was afraid the grime would rub off on her high-end corp gear. She moved closer to me, her voice dropping to a low, warning hum.

"He's not a project, Jax. He's a patient. Give him the serum or we walk."

Jax finally looked at us, a slow, predatory grin spreading across her face. She didn't reach for the vial. Instead, she tapped a command on her screen, and a holographic contract shimmered into the air between us.