The living room of UMBRA's penthouse was the kind of place that belonged on a cover: pale glass walls half-fogged by rain, floors of real wood that cost more than most apartments, sunlight filtering through a programmable grid of holo-screens set to display the city skyline, or hide it when you'd had enough. Even the clutter looked expensive—designer jackets flung over low-slung Italian couches, a silent espresso machine gleaming like a monolith, and a bonsai under a spectral grow lamp pulsing with faint, artificial mana.
Hazel Fujiwara sat cross-legged on a rug that probably had a name and a numbered certificate, hunched over a sleek comms terminal patched with custom carbon-fiber overlays and glowing blue diagnostics. Her glasses slipped down her nose, her fingers tapping nervously at the encrypted interface as she parsed the signal.
Jane Navarro—UMBRA's queen if you believed the rumors—stood behind her, arms folded, golden-orange hair falling in a deliberate, artful mess. She wore nothing but a black t-shirt and tailored pants, but her yellow, predatory eyes—bright as cut amber—missed nothing.
"Encrypted?" Jane asked, her voice slicing through the low hum of the penthouse.
Hazel nodded, not looking up. "Routed through three city nodes, bounced off a relay in Sombra. Double-seeded at least. Whoever sent this wanted it to hit only us."
Jane smiled, the barest hint of a challenge. "Not a trap—or it's one that's worth setting. If it's who I think it is, we'd better look sharp."
At that, Owen and Ellen entered from the balcony, shoes silent on composite tile. Owen adjusted the cuffs of a suit jacket that cost as much as a month's rent in Lockwood, eyes scanning the city below. Ellen, blade cleaned and hands still damp from the sink, glanced at the holo-feed flickering across the room.
Ellen stepped closer. "Hazel, can you crack it?"
Hazel's hands never stopped moving. "There's a secondary tag. It… has a fox pin."
Jane's smile deepened. "Aika."
Owen's pulse jumped—barely a tick, but the subdermal implant caught it. Aika never called unless the job was serious: good pay, high risk. She was part of the team's circle in ways outsiders never saw, both handler and confidant, the kind of person who remembered birthdays and also who to bribe to erase a surveillance drone's feed.
"Patch it through," Jane ordered.
Hazel keyed the final sequence. The comms terminal buzzed, the lights in the room tinting blue for a heartbeat. Then a voice came—Aika's, calm and melodic, as unmistakable as a signature on a blank check.
The message was short, and as it ended, the screen faded to black—then sizzled, every circuit hard-killed. Hazel blinked in surprise. "That was a burn. They killed the chip for real."
"Means the job's important," Jane said, reaching over to squeeze Hazel's shoulder—a brief, grounding touch, at odds with the violence that lived in her knuckles.
Jane turned to the others. "We've got ten minutes. No heavy kit—keep it sleek, Crystal doesn't like a scene. If Aika's calling, it's payday, but expect a fight."
Owen was already grabbing a charcoal overcoat with armored seams, the lining stitched with faint, shimmering runes. Ellen shrugged on a tailored jacket, scarf coiled loose around her throat, moving with the confidence of someone who belonged anywhere.
Hazel stood, pulling on her own battered hoodie, the only worn thing in sight—her silent anchor to a world before all this glass and privilege.
Jane slipped on her long coat, snapped on gloves, checked for her lucky lighter. "Obsidian's neutral ground," she reminded them, voice low and full of unspoken stories. "You start something, you answer for it."
Hazel's voice was a whisper. "And if they start?"
Jane's grin was all bite. "Then you finish it."
The Crystal District at night was a different country. Streets lined with rain-polished glass towers, penthouse lights bleeding into the mist, and every storefront promising luxury no one needed but everyone wanted. UMBRA emerged from the private elevator of their building—no signage, just a pattern of light recognized by those who mattered—and stepped into a world designed for the wealthy and the dangerous.
Jane led the way across the marble forecourt, her steps sure, boots clicking quietly against stone. Owen locked the door behind them with a wave of his wrist, the penthouse's smartglass fading to black. Hazel, bundled in a designer coat that still felt foreign on her shoulders, kept close to Ellen, who moved with a calm alertness, scanning the street as if it were a chessboard.
Their ride—a silver Mercedes, armored but indistinguishable from the rest of the high-end traffic—waited at the curb. Its doors opened with a soft whisper. Inside, the air smelled faintly of ozone and leather, the hum of the city muted by tinted glass. Jane slid in first, followed by Hazel and Ellen, while Owen took the passenger seat, eyes watching the flow of the street.
They drove through the Friday night flood, surrounded by a cavalcade of excess: supercars revving in front of velvet-roped clubs, influencers streaming from rooftop bars, private security teams hovering around the edges of fashion. Billboards pulsed with mana-lit ads for the latest cyberware and magitech cocktails. Lines stretched down the block for nightclubs where a table cost more than a year's salary in Lockwood or Sombra. The city's pulse here was sharp, hungry, and bright.
A kilometer later, the Mercedes took a discreet left off the main avenue, down a service road guarded by a velvet curtain of holographic mist. A bouncer glanced at the license plate, then pressed a button—one reserved for the truly important. The car slid into a private, underground lot where the walls were obsidian-black and the lights too subtle for cameras.
UMBRA exited as a unit, boots echoing in the narrow corridor. A hidden panel opened at their approach, and they passed through—no lines, no waiting, just the silent acknowledgment of status.
Aika stood waiting at the entrance, immaculate as ever. Her red hair was tied back in a severe knot, her suit an architectural feat of tailoring, crisp and modern. She greeted Jane first, a slight bow of respect—a gesture the rest of the team returned in their own ways: Ellen's measured nod, Hazel's awkward half-smile, Owen's polite dip of the head.
"Good evening," Aika said, her tone as precise as her posture. "Thank you for coming so promptly. I believe you'll find tonight's contract... quite unlike any other."
Her words sent a ripple of curiosity through the team; Jane's eyes narrowed, Hazel exchanged a quick glance with Ellen, and Owen's jaw tightened, ever cautious. In UMBRA, surprises rarely meant anything good.
Aika gestured for them to follow. Together they moved past layers of security—a quick scan here, a biometric check there—through corridors humming with low music and muted conversation. The main floor of the Obsidian shimmered with glamour and secrets: VIPs in designer suits, dancers tracing glyphs in the air, the smell of expensive perfume and mana cocktails mixing in the charged atmosphere.
Their route bypassed the chaos. Down a private hallway, a silent guard opened a door of living obsidian, and the noise of the club fell away. Inside, every surface absorbed light and sound. A single long table, a row of seats. At the far end, waiting with an air of tension held barely in check, stood Shiori Taira.
Jane led the team to the table, motioning them to sit. The door closed behind them, and for a moment, it felt like the city outside had vanished—a world shrunk down to the promise and danger of a single contract.
This was the job. And nothing would be the same after tonight.