Chapter 14: Why Is It Flashing?
The safehouse was buried deep in the industrial maze of Watson North, nestled between a derelict braindance studio and a half-burnt ramen shop. It looked like nothing—just a rust-streaked door tucked behind a dumpster that reeked of artificial crab sticks and expired synth-meat.
Arthur parked the car and stepped out, smoke trailing from his cigarette. The cyberpsycho groaned in the back seat, still barely clinging to consciousness.
Arthur sighed. "Don't puke in the car. It's not even mine."
He opened the passenger door, slung the deadweight of chrome and meat over his shoulder, and carried the man like luggage to the door. A retinal scan blinked green as Arthur leaned in.
The lock clicked. The door slid open.
Inside was a concrete bunker. Minimal lighting, no windows, and the thick stench of oil and disinfectant. Surveillance drones hovered silently in the corners. Regina's fixer contacts didn't play games.
A woman stood at the workbench, goggles over her eyes and gloves smeared with nano-gel. Her hair was tied back in an oil-stained ponytail.
"You're late," she muttered.
"City traffic," Arthur replied flatly, dropping the cyberpsycho on a gurney.
The woman—Doc Mira, Regina's underground trauma technician—glanced at the twitching man, then at Arthur.
"Looks like a real prize. What's he packing?"