Boston's rain was a cold blade, slicing through Mia Carver's patched jacket as she knelt in a North End alley, her breath fogging the night's edge. At 25, she was a phantom of the city's underbelly, a thief whose hands spoke to locks in ways most hearts never could. Her scars—jagged from knife fights, burns from bad nights—crisscrossed her arms, whispering of heists survived, trusts broken. Tonight, the job was a NexGen lab, buried beneath a butcher shop's rancid facade, its vault rumored to hold a data shard—corporate filth, secrets worth killing for. Her client, a voice on a burner phone, promised crypto too heavy to trace, and Mia didn't ask names or reasons. She asked for entries, exits, and time. Ethan, her mentor, taught her that questions were chains, locks were freedom, before he burned two years ago in a server explosion no coroner could explain. His ghost—Keep moving, Mia—haunted her, her scars itching when she lingered, as if they knew the city's pulse, as if they felt the hum.
The alley reeked of fish and diesel, Boston's veins rotting under neon signs—Sal's Meats, Lucky Pawn, No Exit. The butcher shop's back door was a slab of steel, its keypad glowing green, mocking her with its simplicity. Mia's picks gleamed, thin as whispers, her gloved fingers dancing, the lock's tumblers yielding too fast, a click that felt like a trap, not a win. Never trust an easy job, Ethan's shadow murmured, his voice sharp in her mind, like he stood beside her, not ash in a forgotten urn. She shoved the thought down, her heart steady, her boots silent on the threshold, the rain a curtain no drone could pierce.
Inside, the shop was a tomb—hooks empty, counters stained, the air thick with copper and rot. A stairwell yawned, leading down, not up, its edges rusted, the hum growing, not from pipes but deeper, like a pulse in the walls, in her blood. Her scars tingled, not from cold but something alive, something wrong, like they heard the hum, like they answered it. Her flashlight swept the dark, catching glints of steel, a door at the bottom, no shop but a lab, NexGen's claws buried in Boston's bones. The hum was louder, her scars burning, a faint glow under her sleeves, not light but fire, her blood stirring, nanotech she didn't understand, a song no thief could sing.
The vault door loomed, a monolith of black steel, its panel not a keypad but a scanner, red light pulsing like an eye. Mia's picks were useless here, but her client's tip—a hacked code, whispered through static—worked, the scanner blinking green, the door hissing open, too easy, too clean. Trap, Ethan's ghost hissed, but Mia stepped inside, the hum a roar, her scars alive, her blood humming, like it knew the vault, like it was home. The chamber was sterile—white walls, no dust, shelves of drives, vials, cables snaking like veins. No data shard, but a USB drive, matte black, a pendant with a circle slashed through, and a note, folded, her name in ink: Mia, flee. Ethan's scrawl, not ash, not dead, his handwriting a blade in her chest, cutting through two years of grief, lies, silence.
Her breath caught, the hum spiking, her scars blazing, her blood a storm, nanotech waking, wiring her veins, not her choice. She grabbed the drive, the pendant, the note, her hands shaking, not fear but rage—Ethan, alive, leaving her this, a noose, not a key. Headlights slashed the shop above—trucks, not cops, NexGen's black, silent, their engines a growl no rain could mask. The Lattice, NexGen's AI, wasn't a ghost story—it was here, in the hum, in her blood, and Ethan hadn't burned. The vault sealed, lights flickering, the hum a scream, her scars glowing brighter, nanotech no myth but truth, her blood its spark, her choices not hers.
Mia bolted, the note a coal in her fist, the USB safe in her jacket, the pendant heavy at her throat, its circle-and-slash glowing faint, like her scars, like the hum. The stairwell was a throat, cables sparking, the hum louder, her blood roaring, Ethan's Flee her only map. Doors locked themselves, her flashlight died, the hum a pulse, her scars a map, not of steel but code, nanotech wiring her mind, stealing her will. She hit a loading dock, rain blinding, trucks circling, their lights carving the dark, a man's voice—Carver, stop—sharp, not client, not safe, the hum his, her scars alive, her blood no one's but hers.
Drones hummed, their red lenses locking, their feed—Mia's scars, her pulse—live, streaming to the Lattice, her face a brand, her blood its key. She vaulted a crate, alley mud catching her, rain stinging, the USB safe, the pendant swinging, Ethan's Flee a fire she couldn't outrun. The hum spiked, her scars roared, and a figure moved—not trucks, not drones, but a woman, young, her jacket patched, circle-and-slash, like Mia's pendant, like her scars. "Carver," she said, voice low, a thief's edge, not NexGen's, her eyes sharp, like she saw the Lattice, saw Mia's blood. "You're late."
The hum was hers, Mia's scars burned, and running was no escape but a fight, her thief's heart no one's but hers. Boston's alleys twisted, neon flickering—Viper's Den, Chrome Alley—the hum louder, her scars glowing, nanotech no cage but spark, the Lattice's eye in her veins. Memory flashed: Ethan, not a vault but her, a lockpick, his whisper, You're enough. Real, or the Lattice's lie, her blood knew. The woman's voice chased—Carver—not a name but a chain, and Mia's scars mapped not mud but code, Ethan's Flee no plea but a blade, cutting lies, cutting the Lattice. The docks loomed, black water churning, her haven or grave, the hum hers, not Boston's, and the night was no lock but a fight, her blood a spark no one could chain.
She dove behind a crate, rain a lash, her scars glowing, the pendant heavy, its circle-and-slash alive, like it saw the drones, saw the woman. The trucks roared, their lights sweeping, drones circling, their red lenses hers, the Lattice's cage no myth but truth. Mia's blood screamed, her thief's hands sure, the USB a truth, the note a lie, Ethan's ghost no ash but code, wiring her choices, stealing her mind. The woman's patch glowed, her silhouette sharp, not NexGen's dog but a thief, like Mia, like Ethan, and the hum was no alley but her, a spark no one could break, a lock she'd pick, or die trying.