BLOODCAPE

The rain came down like it was embarrassed to exist — thin, wind-dragged needles that didn’t soak so much as smear. It slicked the rooftop with a dull gloss, catching the glow of distant neon signs that blinked across the skyline in broken rhythm. Somewhere far below, District 10 throbbed with market chatter and counterfeit life. But up here, above the old Zodiac post, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Hernan crouched behind a rusted HVAC unit, one hand pressed to the roof’s surface as if feeling for a pulse. A tight grid of micro-sensors was embedded beneath his palm — freshly planted by Iro fifteen minutes ago. His eyes tracked a signal flare pulsing on his visor. The zone was primed.

Iro stood several meters off, adjusting the camo field generator they’d buried beneath a rust-stained antenna bank. The unit hissed to life, warping the rain around it in faint distortions.

"He still hits the northern tower every cycle," Iro said. "Always alone. Always fifteen minutes late. You sure he’s just a courier?"

"His vest tag’s routed to three ghost comms," Hernan replied. "Zodiac doesn’t waste triple redundancy on runners unless they’re carrying something they don’t want tracked."

Iro nodded, then added, "And this isn’t about impressing her?"

Hernan didn’t look up. "This is about leverage."

"Leverage is cheap," Iro said. "This smells more like legacy."

That made Hernan glance over — just briefly. Not enough to start a fight. Just enough to say: Careful.

Iro didn’t push further. He’d said what he needed to.