The passageway they are moving along is old, the brickwork reinforced with modern plating, wires and pipes along the walls. Her guide is walking ahead of her, trying to keep a safe distance, but clearly unnerved, and acutely aware that there’s nowhere to run if things go wrong.

She should have enough dosage to stay stable, but she’ll have to use a new vial soon, and she’s only got two, and then she’s onto Sally’s stuff, and hoping it’s not poison. Although if things get hot, then it’s going to get messy. The Circle? Bunch of creepy fucks, but with a lot of power and influence. Enough influence that that can sometimes be made to listen though, because they need stability to keep what they’ve got. Or at least hand over the damn stone to whoever owns it or kill them. It’ll end one way or the other!

The woman’s hand hovers closer to her gun, and Alice’s senses flare as her muscles tense, ready to fight, adrenaline on the verge of spiking before cooling off, rage burning into emptiness. But if she has to fight, then these narrow tunnels would suit her perfectly – low lights to throw off vision and cutting off their movement options until she can get within striking range herself. This place has probably been used for more than a few executions over the years, the small side chambers conveniently isolated and soundproofed.

Her guide slows somewhat and taps her earpiece, a light flicking on as she receives a message. She nods to herself, then moves faster, Alice keeping up, bag bumping against her body. The tunnel starts to kink and twist, the walls concrete now, foundations of newer buildings that the tunnel must navigate around, hatches leading into basements and small crawlspaces filled with bundles of wires and server rigs. This must be where he gets his information then – devices deployed directly to get the data, and enough contacts to make sense of it as well.

The guide steps around a corner and vanishes from sight for a moment. Above the hum of data, Alice hears the slither-scrape of metal against soft plastic and steps to the side as she turns the corner. The sharp crack of a gun before a bullet smacks into concrete. The woman stands there, her gun in hand – she must have drawn and turned.

She starts to speak but Alice moves faster, as she slaps the gun aside with one hand while grabbing their wrist and twisting, then she chops forward with her other hand. It catches them in the throat, and they cough and splutter. Her finger twitches the trigger and another shot echoes around in the tiny space as Alice twists their arm, grabbing the elbow and pulling, wrenching the woman off balance. The space is too confined to let her pull off a throw, but it’s easy to slam the back of the woman’s hand against the wall until she drops the gun, and then Alice steps in close. The rage is there, but for this, she doesn’t need it – a backhand to the gut makes the woman bend at the waist, and then it’s a single motion to draw a knife from the bag and slice across the throat.

She sinks to the ground, clutching at her throat as blood spills out, trying desperately to breath, reaching out to the fallen gun before collapsing entirely. Alice kicks the gun backwards, then retreats herself, waiting a few moments as the woman dies. She picks up the gun and takes aim, shooting them in the head, just in case they were wired enough to survive the damage.

The echo of the gunshot quickly dies away, fading until the only sound is the omnipresent thrum of electricity. Was it an ambush? No, Hachling wouldn’t be that stupid – Alice kicks the body, then stoops and slashes open their top. There’s a mark, a spike-edged tattoo spilling over their breasts, down onto their navel, bright flecks of red surrounding the black lines. Kill marks, and a lot of them. Hachling must have thought she was bought and paid for, and then someone made a higher offer, or she was a long-time plant. Alice pats her down – the gun, ten more bullets, no more ammunition, and nothing else. Alice rubs the clothing between her fingers – reinforced, so it would stiffen under impact. It wouldn’t protect against bullets, but it might turn a knife.

She tries to slow her breathing, aware of how limited her resources are, quickly checking her supplies; she’s burnt through a third of the vial already, and only has two more of her own, before having to risk Sally’s. But she feels ice settling into her veins, her head clearing, as she kicks down at the body again, feeling ribs creak and crack. For a moment, she considers turning back, letting Hachling know, but that would probably be even more dangerous. But someone knows she’s here, and the tunnel probably has limited exits.

She drags the body to one of the buzzing, thrumming server rooms. The humming boxes are covered with blinking, flickering lights, countless shards of information getting transferred around. She wrenches the covering panel off, glad it’s only thin, cheap metal, easy to break. Inside, there’s racks and racks of circuit boards, all performing arcane operations, probably vital to keep something running. She props the body up, belly towards the flickering electric guts, then takes her knife, reaches around and slashes.

Hot, wet viscera spills out, the heavy tang of iron mingling with the dry scent of electrical components. Something sparks and flares, and then she cuts again, pushing the body forward, trying to wedge it into position. That should give people something else to think about! Then she checks the gun – it’s cheap, disposable, stamped out from a printer somewhere, unlikely to even endure shooting all the bullets in it. But it’s a weapon.

A light on the ceiling blinks on and sheds a thin red light over the scene, as blood pools on the floor, plastic getting scorched as liquid flows over circuit boards. Time to go, and hope that’s enough of a distraction.

The passages branch and kink – these must see some legitimate use, service workers coming down to repair their companies gear, as well as for criminal activity. Multiple exits – some have formal-looking metal plates above, some long code she doesn’t recognise. Others are entirely unmarked or locked. Well, the longer she takes, the more likely she is to get caught. She picks one at random and shoves it open, revealing an underground carpark, dark shadows around clearly expensive vehicles. Three cars are driving in, large and heavy things, tinted windows, and she darts behind some sleek red sportscar, hearing the door click shut. Bloody one-way locks!

There’s an exit at the far end, but a heavy metal grille is sliding down, the distance too great to cover, especially without being seen. The cars all park up, doors opening, disgorging guards. They’re wearing suits, but are clearly muscle, jacked up on enhancers, gleams of chrome beneath clothing, bulges at hips or under armpits. A lot of muscle – is someone making a move, or are they paranoid?

They wait, for just a moment, as the middle car opens. The sounds of struggles, as a woman is dragged out. Her collar barely has time to beep before chill surges through her chest – it’s the woman from yesterday! Still in her synth-silks, although looking even grimier now, her heels gone, feet covered in dirt. She’s hauled out, as Alice flexes her hands, resisting the urge towards violence, wanting nothing more than to charge in and break them. But she has enough awareness to realise that there’s too much ground to cover, and too many targets to be even remotely safe.

She watches as the woman is dragged out, putting up a token protest, but at least sensible not to resist strongly enough to earn punishment. Although she’s injured now – one of her legs seems injured from how she stumbles out of the car, with a bruise on one of her cheeks as well, several rips and tears to her clothing. There’s no sign of the man – if he fought back, then he might be dead, or they might have been separated for questioning.

The woman’s lips move but no sound emerges, as she attempts a protest. She gets pulled by the arm, her hands cuffed behind her back, as the group moves together, forming up around the woman. The look on her face is fear, mixed with determination, as she’s hauled away towards a set of lifts. Alice sneaks closer – the thugs are all focusing on the woman, making it easy to approach, without being observed.

‘Take her up. We need to find out where she hid it.’

The lift isn’t large enough for everyone to fit in at once, half the group all cramming in around the woman, the rest taking the other lift. She watches the numbers on the panel count up from -1 – they stop on the tenth floor, two-thirds of the way up. She has no idea what building she’s in, or even precisely where she is – the walk wasn’t that far, but there’s a cluster of towers, an outpost of the Heights, or for those not quite wealthy enough to make it to the true centre of power, up-and-comers or has-beens, or those that prefer the shadows.

If she can eliminate the woman, then that’s a link gone. Or if she can find out what’s going on, then she might be able to do something about it! She approaches the lift and slaps the button – there’s the temptation to stop on the ground floor, see where she is, but someone might see her. This will have to be fast - the last damn thing she needs is even more heat getting dragged onto her!

The lift slides smoothly upwards. There’s a glass panel in the door – as she slides past, it looks like expensively restrained passageways and halls, blandly decorative art on the walls that’s probably worth a fortune. Each floor looks the same – a passageway stretching in either direction, soft carpeting underfoot, very sturdy doors. But whatever security there is, must all be on the front. Of course, the rich wouldn’t want to suffer the indignity of guards patrolling, or have cameras that might monitor their own movements, so she should be safe from detection, at least until she does something.

As the lift slides upwards, she changes her mind and slaps the “9” and gets out. The carpet is thick enough to silence her footfalls, and the air has the flat scent of something that’s been processed, without any of the chemical fug from outside. She tugs her mask aside, glad of being able to breath freely, rather than through the over-used filter. Here, even the ornamental plants are real! And it’s built up to code – there’s a floorplan by the lift, showing the general layout of the floor. Ten flats or apartments or something, around a central courtyard. And service stairs, so that the wealthy don’t have to worry about bumping into their servants walking about.

She follows the passageway around, finding the plain-looking door, giving it an experimental pull – she can feel the lock holding it shut, a flimsy bar of metal. A deep breath, then a savage yank and the cheap material splinters around the lock. Another yank and it’s open, the lock-light still comfortably red.

Out of sight, it should be safe here. It’s not really built to be refilled while worn, the harness whining in protest as she overrides the restrictions, feeling it drag slightly on her body as she twists her neck and taps the override. She’s left it too long anyway, letting the supplies run low, but it’s been calm recently, with few stupid enough to attack her after the last examples she had made.

She takes out one of her own vials, secured from a back-alley dealer looking at it more closely – it looks like the proper stuff, right down to the scannable stamp, but there’s no telling what might be in there. It’s a paler colour than the ones from Sally, probably watered down, but hopefully not cut with anything dangerous. He’s always been a good supplier before, but it only takes one to mess her up! She gives it a shake, checking there’s no grit in there, before hitting a release lever, the old and empty one dropping out. She catches the vial and stashes it away, before sliding the new one in.

The harness beeps and whines at her, wanting to be removed from her body before being refilled, and to be fully cleaned, rather than having mixed doses flowing through it. Her hands tense into rigid claws as the vial is drawn into the harness, the compartment sealing itself shut. Come on, come on! A slightly manic grin settles onto her face as the previous dose fades to nothing, fire surging in her veins for a moment, the stress and tension wanting to be released, all at once, a desire to break, to destroy and tear.

And then the collar goes silent, and a tiny trickle of ice teases into her, some semblance of through returning. She relaxes, feeling the tension leave her body, as her heart continues to beat, no vicious poison coursing into her. Or if it is, at least it’s a slow one.

Back here, everything is cheap and dirty, the stairs tight and steep, lit by as few lights as possible, lots of comfortable shadows. There’s a whole network of passages, barely wide enough to let a person through, all so that staff can tend to their “masters” as though they were spirits, travelling invisibly through the walls.

She carefully opens up one of the doors and peeks through – it’s a bedroom, everything crisp and clean, a walk-in wardrobe open, showing dozens of expensive dresses and suits, some mid-ranking exec’s office-wear. A child’s voice sounds from close by, and she darts away, closing the door behind herself.

The passageway is so thin that her harness is scraping against the walls, leaving scratches in the cheap construction, her bag slung over her back. She listens at the door – there’s the rough sound of flesh-on- flesh, a grunt of pain.

‘Where did you take it?’

If there’s a response, it’s too quiet for Alice to hear.

‘Don’t be too rough, she can’t tell us if she’s dead.’

‘We need to get it back, or the boss will be pissed! And you saw what happened to Gurpreet. I’ll blow my own brains out before going through that! He was screaming for hours.’

Sound of another impact, another grunt of pain, a soft whimper, the faintest suggestion of a whisper. Alice tensed, wishing she could see. Just two people? Deal with them, then the woman, then move on. But there might be an audience, or more than she could fight.

Another whisper – is the damn woman talking? But if these guys don’t know about her, then who sent the assassin? And who the hell was the woman?