Boston's rain was a relentless lash, carving Chinatown's backstreets into a fevered blur of neon and rot, where signs—Red Fang Noodles, Ghost Wire Pawn, No Salvation—bled their glow through fog thick as grief. Mia sprinted, her scars pulsing under her patched jacket, her blood a wildfire no storm could quench, the loading dock's chaos a fading bruise behind her. Lila's grip on her arm was a chain, not a lifeline, her words—Run with me—sharp, not rival but shadow, her drive glowing faint, her patch—circle-and-slash—like Mia's pendant, like her scars, a lock too heavy to pick, too raw to trust. The USB drive was safe, Ethan's note—Flee—heavier than the drones' red lenses chasing, their feed—Mia's scars, her pulse—live, streaming to NexGen's servers, the man's voice—Carver, you're mine—cold, wired, not human but code, the Lattice's cage wiring her choices, stealing her mind. Her blood screamed, her thief's heart sure, Lila's pain—Ethan's thief, before you—cutting deeper than the bullet graze on her shoulder, Ethan's lie no ash but a pulse, the Lattice's eye in her veins, watching, rewriting.
They dove into a derelict warehouse, its sagging roof leaking rivers, the air thick with mold, rust, and the ghosts of Boston's forgotten trades—fish crates, machine parts, lives no neon could save. The hum softened, Mia's scars cooling, their glow fading under her sleeves, but the bullet's cold lingered, a venom not of lead but nanotech, fighting her blood, her spark, her will. Lila released her, her drive dim, her patch glowing, her green eyes sharp, not rival but thief, her pain raw, like Ethan's ghost chose Mia, not her. Mia's knife gleamed in the half-light, her thief's hands steady, the pendant burning at her throat, Ethan's Flee a pulse, her blood no beacon but a blade, cutting lies, slicing the Lattice's hold. Memory flashed: Ethan, not a safe but her, a rain-soaked street, his whisper, You're enough. Real, or the Lattice's lie, her blood roared, nanotech wiring her veins, her choices slipping, her mind not hers.
The warehouse was a tomb, its shadows deep, crates stacked like altars to a city that devoured its own. Broken glass crunched under Mia's boots, the hum quieter, but her scars itched, a warning, like they heard the drones, heard Lila, heard the Lattice. She backed against a crate, its wood splintered, smelling of salt and decay, her knife steady, her voice low, rain dripping from her hood. "Why me?" she asked, eyes locked on Lila, her scars pulsing, the hum hers, not warehouse, drones circling outside, their red lenses blind, for now, but the man's voice—Carver—echoed in her blood, wired, not gone. "Ethan's spark—why my blood, not yours?" Lila's drive hummed, its faint glow pulsing, like her patch, like Mia's pendant, like her scars, but her silence was a lock, not trust, her pain a blade Mia's blood felt, sharp as the bullet's cold.
Lila stepped closer, rain slick on her jacket, her patch glowing, like it heard Mia's blood, like it answered the Lattice. "Because he made you," she said, voice breaking, green eyes sharp, Ethan's eyes, not hers, pain raw as a fresh cut. "Anchor's spark—nanotech, in you, not me. He wired you for the Lattice, Carver, his key to break it, or bind it." Her words were steel, not jealousy but truth, her scars hidden under her sleeves, nanotech hers, not Mia's, a thief's grief no vault could bury, no alley could hide. Mia's scars burned, her blood a storm, the pendant heavy, its circle-and-slash alive, like it knew Lila, knew Ethan, knew too much. Memory slashed: Ethan, not a street but a lab, her wrists bound, his voice, You're enough. Not hers, but the Lattice's, her blood screaming, nanotech wiring her mind, stealing her will, Ethan's lie no note but code.
Why you?" Mia countered, knife steady, her thief's heart sure, the hum spiking, her scars glowing brighter, nanotech no myth but truth, her blood its key. "You're his thief, not me—what's your stake?" Lila's drive dimmed, her lips tight, rain dripping from her hood, her patch glowing, like it sang with Mia's blood. "I was his shadow," she said, voice low, stepping closer, her boots silent, a thief's grace, not NexGen's weight. "He trained me, loved me, left me—for you, his spark, his key. I'm here to save him, Carver, or burn him." Her words cut, not lies but fear, her green eyes Ethan's, not hers, a thief's truth no lock could hide, no warehouse could bury.
The warehouse trembled, its walls groaning, drones diving, their red lenses locking through shattered windows, bullets—not darts—shredding tin, NexGen's trucks roaring closer, their lights slashing the rain, their engines a growl no city could swallow. The man's voice—Carver—louder, wired, not human but code, the Lattice's tongue, twisting her blood, her scars blazing, her choices not hers. Mia's blood roared, her thief's hands sure, and she lunged for a trapdoor, rusted but real, its hinges screaming, her boots slipping on wet wood, the pendant heavy, Ethan's Flee a fire, not flight but fight. Lila followed, her drive sparking, her patch blazing, like Mia's pendant, like her scars, her shout—Move!—raw, not rival but shadow, a thief's bond no Lattice could wire, no drone could break.
The trapdoor hissed open, a tunnel below, its dark a throat, dirt walls laced with cables, their hum a pulse, Mia's scars glowing, her blood a storm, nanotech no cage but spark, wiring her choices, stealing her mind. They dropped, the tunnel's cold biting, cables snaking like arteries, the hum louder, like it knew Mia's blood, like it sang Ethan's name. Lila's drive glowed, her patch alive, like Mia's pendant, like her scars, her voice low, her boots steady, not rival but thief, her pain raw, like Ethan's ghost bound them both. "He's in the core," Lila said, her green eyes sharp, Ethan's eyes, not hers. "Boston's veins—servers, minds wired, Ethan's trapped, his mind, not flesh. Your blood's the key, Carver, but it's in me too." Her words cut, not lies but fear, a thief's truth no lock could hide, no tunnel could bury.
A new hum broke through—not red drones, not trucks, but a drone, gold, not red, its lens locking, its feed—Mia's scars, live—a woman's voice, not Lila's, not the man's, but cold, patched, circle-and-slash: "Carver, you're late." The hum was hers, Mia's scars roared, and Lila moved, not for Mia but the tunnel, her drive sparking, her patch glowing, like Mia's pendant, like her scars. Mia's blood burned, her thief's heart sure, the pendant a blade, not key, cutting the Lattice, cutting her, a spark no one's but hers. The tunnel shook, cables sparking, screens hidden in dirt flashing—Mia's pulse, Lila's drive, Ethan's face, live, Choose. The gold drone dove, its lens locking, lasers—not bullets—cutting cables, sparks flying, Mia's scars dimming, but her blood fought, nanotech no leash but fire, her pulse a song no coder could silence. The tunnel was no haven but a lock, her scars a map, Ethan's Flee a fight, not surrender, and Boston's veins were no grave but a blade, her blood the key to nowhere.