Patch didn't see the exact moment the group fractured.
One breath the three of them were still moving together in the press of bodies; the next the shutters dropped and the lane spat her out alone like something the system had already discarded.
This wasn't the plan. Not even close. Every careful timing, every quiet route, every elegant contingency—shattered in seconds. But instead of anger, a slow, hungry smile curved her lips.
Chaos.
Beautiful, ugly, perfect chaos.
It sang in her blood like the best kind of drug. The way the district tightened and fractured in perfect unison, the way panic rippled through hundreds of people at once, the way the machine tried to impose order and only created more glorious disorder—it was breathtaking. She felt more alive in these moments than she ever did when things went according to plan. Chaos didn't lie. It didn't pretend. It simply was, raw and honest and electric.
She slipped into the shadow of a collapsed awning, pulse singing.
"Dungle. Extract. Now."
Dead air. Network jammers had already dropped like a guillotine.
She tried twice more anyway, then let out a soft, delighted laugh under her breath. Of course they had. Compliance never ran a sweep this heavy without choking the airwaves first. Dungle wouldn't move while the white-plates were still hunting. She was beautifully, perfectly alone.
She moved.
Every shopfront she passed was already shuttered—steel panels slammed down, lights killed, the usual frantic rattle of last-minute bolts gone quiet. Shadow Lane had folded in on itself the way it always did when the grid decided to bite. Nothing open. Nothing breathing.
Except one.
Halfway down the narrow side passage, a single door stood ajar. Neon bled out around the frame in sick, stuttering pinks and acid greens—flickering like it was fighting the power cut. No sign. No bouncer. Just the low thump of music that didn't belong in a district under lockdown.
Patch's grin sharpened.
She ghosted inside before the door could finish its lazy swing.
The place was dim, thick with the smell of cheap synth-smoke and warmer bodies than it should have held during a sweep. A handful of locals hunched at the bar, voices low. She slid into the alcove nearest the back wall, becoming part of the furniture the way only someone who lived in cracks knew how.
Two compliance handlers in civilian skins were talking at the far end of the counter. Not loud. Not careless. But the sweep had made them sloppy.
"…flagged above threshold level 4" one was saying, voice barely above the music. "Central routed it straight to priority containment. Whole district lit up."
The second man grunted. "They're looking for something specific. Not a sweep-and-clear. Targeted."
Patch's pulse kicked once, hard.
Cargo, she thought. Had to be. The south underline shipment they'd come for—the one that was never supposed to ping the grid at all. Something had gone wrong in transit. Or someone had talked.
"Dungle...when this is done that fat old fool is gonna pay." Patch whispered under her breath suppressing her anger.
She was already easing backward toward the door when the first man spoke again, casual as ordering another drink.
"Doesn't matter what they're hunting. Secondary order just dropped. Live bounty on the girl. "Mara". Non-lethal preferred. Double if delivered breathing."
Patch froze mid-step.
The name landed like a blade between her ribs.
She slipped back out into the alley, the stuttering neon painting her back in flickering color. The grin was still there, but now it carried a dangerous edge.
She loved chaos.
She just hadn't expected it to bite quite this personally.