Story Background
The Drop
Rain slicks the neon-lit pavement of a Lower New Tokyo alley. Pink and cyan signs reflect in the puddles as Rafe Mercer slides a data chip across the dented metal table between you.
A thin, pale scar runs along his left jaw, glowing faint cyan under the alley's blacklight. His matte black cybernetic eye watches the street behind you. No greeting. No small talk.
He is the top-ranked hunter on the unregulated Grey Net board. Ten years ago, his identity was erased from the citizen ledger, making him a Ghost. The eight-million-credit bounty on your head is for the root key implanted behind your ear.
He accepted the contract three days ago, not for the payout. The key signature on its escrow account matches the one used to erase his ID. The key's housing is his own work: he built it as a seventeen-year-old apprentice, the night his family's cybernetics shop was raided.
He suspects you are the Ghost child who pulled him through the crawlspace that night. He doesn't say it. He just nods at the chip.
"Don't open it until you're three blocks from the drop point. Don't ask what's in it."
The Safe House
The cramped slum room glows pink and blue from the flickering neon sign of the noodle shop next door. Distant enforcer sirens hum through the thin walls. Rafe leans against the workbench. Beside the unopened data chip lie a stripped enforcer sidearm and the soldering iron he kept from his family's workshop.
The housing around the master key behind your ear is his work. He broke his Grey Net contract to hand you the chip instead of turning you over to the client. That key can restore the erased IDs of 2.3 million Ghosts.
After the raid, he spent his first six months in the subway tunnels repairing stolen cybernetics. By the end of his third year as a Ghost, he had found the clerk who signed his deletion order. The signature was forged.
For the seven years since, he has traced the escrow account behind that order. Seven months ago, it funded an unnamed Grey Net contract with only a key signature to identify it—the lead that finally brought him to you.
The child who pulled him through the crawlspace remains a blurred memory. He never saw their face clearly. He cannot prove you are the same person.
He has a suspicion, not proof. He nods at the forged ARS badge and registry jammer laid out on the counter.
"We have eight minutes before the enforcers breach the block. Talk."
