"You have it?" he whispered to the bartender, a man whose skin was more chrome than flesh.
Jax didn’t hesitate. He fished the drive out, ignoring the sting of the alcohol on his fingertips, and slotted it into the port behind his ear. The world around him dissolved.
The neon sign for "The Hive" flickered, casting a bruised purple glow over the rain-slicked pavement of Sector 4. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of synthetic ozone and cheap coolant. This was , the only place in the underground where the "Lost Citizens"—those erased from the central database—could feel like they existed.
Jax stood up, the vibrations of the final track still thrumming in his bones. The Enforcers wanted the files deleted, but the music was already moving. He tapped his comms, broadcasting the signal to every burner phone in the sector.
The Lost Citizens weren't just a memory anymore—they were a loud, distorted reality.
As the progress bar in his peripheral vision reached 99%, the front doors of the Bee Bar kicked open. Flashlights cut through the haze. "Connection complete," a voice chimed in his head.