Ironhand didn't turn around when he stopped.
"What were you thinking when you came here?" he said, his voice low and sharp.
"Did you lose your mind?"
Elizabeth slowed her steps, but she didn't back away.
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"This place isn't for someone like you," Ironhand went on. "These streets don't forgive mistakes. One wrong step and you're gone."
Elizabeth let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Someone like me?"
Ironhand finally turned to face her.
"Defenseless."
Her expression hardened instantly.
"You don't know me."
"I don't have to," Ironhand replied. "Your eyes tell me enough. You don't belong here."
Elizabeth stepped closer.
"That's funny," she said quietly.
"Because I'm not convinced you belong anywhere either."
Ironhand frowned.
"You're telling me I'm weak," Elizabeth continued, her voice calm but cutting.
"But you think you're strong. And I'm not even sure you know who you are."
The words hit harder than a threat.
"What are you implying?" Ironhand asked.
Elizabeth didn't look away.
"You wear a mask. Cold. Controlled. The perfect detective."
She shrugged.
"But it's cracking. And you don't even notice."
For a moment, Ironhand said nothing.
"This conversation is over," he said.
"No," Elizabeth replied. "Now it's finally starting."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small data shard—but didn't hand it over.
"I didn't come here out of curiosity," she said.
"And I'm not stupid enough to walk into danger without a reason."
Ironhand's gaze fixed on the shard.
"What do you want?"
Elizabeth took a slow breath.
"I want to destroy Fate Industries."
Silence fell between them.
"Plenty of people want that," Ironhand said. "Most of them are dead."
"I'm not most people," Elizabeth answered.
"I have proof. Real proof. The kind that ruins empires."
"And why tell me?"
"Because I can't do it alone."
She hesitated for half a second.
"And you… you're already too deep to walk away."
Ironhand shook his head.
"I don't work with partners."
Elizabeth gave a thin smile.
"That wasn't a request."
"You either accept it, or you don't. I'll move on either way."
Ironhand studied her for a long moment.
Then he turned away.
"Come on," he said.
"We're not talking about this here."
"Where, then?"
Ironhand reached for the metal key hanging at his neck.
It wasn't decorative. The small, angular device pulsed faintly as his fingers closed around it—an old piece of tech, rare and expensive, humming with stored energy.
"My place," he said.
Ironhand set the kettle down and gestured for Elizabeth to sit.
The apartment felt old—not abandoned, but overlooked. One of those places in Connection City that existed between notice and neglect. The building itself stood among the high residential towers of the Second Layer, home to office workers, clerks, analysts—people who lived orderly lives and rarely questioned the city's rhythm.
Inside, the place looked unmistakably like a bachelor's home.
A single worn armchair faced an old television, positioned just slightly off-center, as if Ironhand had dragged it there once and never bothered to adjust it again. An ashtray sat on the side table, overfilled. Empty beer bottles rested near the wall, placed there without thought.
A bookshelf stood opposite the chair.
It was full.
Old books. Heavy spines. Yellowed pages. Philosophy, engineering schematics, banned histories. Most of them dust-covered. Bought with intent. Left untouched.
Elizabeth noticed everything.
"This is where you live?" she asked. "Second Layer. A good district."
Ironhand poured tea into two cups.
"Surprised?"
She accepted the cup but didn't drink.
"People have been looking for you for years," she said. "Yet you live here. In plain sight. How does no one ever find you?"
Ironhand didn't answer immediately.
Steam rose between them.
"At first," he said, "I wasn't hiding."
Elizabeth looked up.
"I helped people," Ironhand continued. "Solved problems. Fixed things no one else wanted to touch."
He glanced toward the bookshelf.
"But some of those problems belonged to the wrong people."
His voice stayed calm.
"I interfered. Broke deals. Exposed things that were meant to stay buried."
Elizabeth's grip tightened around the cup.
"So they came after you."
"No," Ironhand said. "They couldn't reach me."
He looked back at her.
"So they went after my clients instead. People who had nothing to do with it. Hurt them. Threatened them. Used them as bait."
A pause.
"That's when I changed," he said quietly. "Not because I wanted to disappear—but because my presence started putting others in danger."
Elizabeth studied him more carefully now.
"And this place?" she asked. "That door downstairs. Without the key, it's just a wall. How does no one notice something like that?"
Ironhand exhaled smoke slowly.
"That's what I like about this side of Connection City," he said. "Everyone lives like a gear."
She frowned. "A gear?"
"A gear doesn't look around," he explained. "It turns. It does its job. People here devote their lives to tasks that give them nothing back."
He gestured vaguely toward the city beyond the walls.
"They wake up. Work. Sleep. Repeat. And while they're doing that, they stop seeing what's around them."
Elizabeth shifted in her seat.
"That makes places like this easy to miss," Ironhand finished.
She drew a breath, preparing to speak—
—but Ironhand interrupted.
"You're a gear too, Miss Elizabeth."
Her expression hardened. "I am not."
Ironhand lit a cigarette.
"You are," he said evenly. "You're fighting for a goal someone else placed on you. Turning for a mission you didn't choose—but accepted."
Smoke drifted upward.
"Look at your choices. Going to the Fourth Layer without implants. That's not recklessness. That's devotion."
Elizabeth's jaw tightened.
"You don't know who I am."
"I know enough," Ironhand replied. "Whatever happened to you didn't stop you. It redirected you."
She snapped back.
"I didn't come here to listen to your assessments," Elizabeth said sharply. "If all you're going to do is tell me how wrong I am, end this now and send me home."
Ironhand listened. Didn't interrupt.
He placed the teapot down, eyes still on Elizabeth — not curious, not hostile. Measuring.
"You're asking me to step into something messy," he said. "Not loud. Not heroic. The kind of mess that sticks."
"That's why I'm here," Elizabeth replied.
Ironhand shook his head.
"Faith Industries doesn't play clean," he said. "But that's nothing new."
"This isn't about clean or dirty," Elizabeth said. "They're buying the city from the inside."
He looked at her.
"Buying how?"
"Quietly," she said. "Through other companies. Shell deals. Proxy boards. They don't move directly — they let others do it for them."
Ironhand leaned back slightly.
"And no one notices."
"Because they're not looking at Faith," Elizabeth continued. "They're looking at the names in front of them."
He crossed his arms.
"So what changed?"
"Icarus Inc."
That got his attention.
"You went to the Fourth Floor for Icarus," he said.
"Yes," Elizabeth replied. "Because Icarus isn't the real player. It's a front."
She took a breath.
"Faith uses them to do the things they don't want traced back. Acquisitions. Pressure. Deals that ruin people quietly."
Ironhand frowned.
"You're saying Faith doesn't get its hands dirty."
"Exactly. I couldn't prove it for a long time. Every trail ended before it reached them."
"And now?"
Elizabeth met his eyes.
"Now I have proof."
Silence stretched.
"You're sure?" Ironhand asked.
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
"You think this is enough to bring them down."
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly.
"And you won't show it unless I agree to work with you."
"I won't."
Ironhand shook his head.
"…That's dangerous."
"They already are," Elizabeth said. "I just finally caught them."