Miro’s sedan, now a crumpled parody of its former self, scraped against the concrete barrier, a shower of sparks erupting from the passenger side. He didn't panic. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, but his gaze remained fixed on the wet asphalt ahead, tracking the precise moment his tires regained purchase. “A seasoned navigator never loses situational awareness,” Miro murmured, mostly to himself, as the sedan spun a full 180 degrees. The freight hauler overshot its mark, roaring past them on riveted tires. Miro, now facing the opposite direction, calmly stomped on the brake, then shifted into reverse. “And a true professional always checks their blind spots.” Nyssa, still braced for impact, watched in stunned silence as Miro reversed with casual precision, navigating the debris-strewn alley like it was a parking lot. He flicked on his turn signal—a splintered, blinking shard of amber—and expertly merged into the main thoroughfare, a multi-lane artery choked with armored cargo haulers and souped-up racing coupes. The pursuit rig, meanwhile, performed a screeching, ill-advised U-turn behind them, losing precious seconds. “Why are we going *this* way?” Nyssa demanded, her voice hoarse from adrenaline. “That’s towards the Midtown Junction! You’ll get us boxed in!” Miro glanced in his shattered rearview mirror. “The speed limit here is 70 klicks per hour, Ms. Garren. And that’s a solid yellow line. We wouldn’t want to contravene any traffic ordinances, would we? It sets a terrible precedent.” He maintained a perfectly legal speed, indicating a lane change, and smoothly transitioned into the middle lane. The freight truck slammed on its accelerator, intent on closing the gap. It roared past a red light, triggering a chorus of angry horn blasts. “Are you insane?” Nyssa shrieked, watching the speedometer hover precisely at 68 klicks. “They want us dead! Go faster!” “And risk a collision with that municipal waste hauler?” Miro tutted, indicating the slow-moving sanitation flatbed ahead. “Highly irresponsible. Besides, aggressive habits lead to road rage. We want to promote calm and order on our streets.” He signaled left, allowing an armored tourist bus to pass, then smoothly accelerated as the light turned green. The pursuer, in its haste to overtake, attempted a dangerous maneuver, swerving sharply around a delivery drone van. It misjudged the distance, its massive front grille clipping the drone’s side panel. The drone spun out, scattering its payload of synthetic nutrient paste across the street. The flatbed behind them cursed, swerving to avoid the spill, then met a queue of idling transports at the next intersection, all obeying the traffic light Miro had just passed under. “See?” Miro said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Patience is a virtue, Ms. Garren. Also, that’s a clear violation of city ordinance 34-B, Section 7: ‘Failure to yield to an active pedestrian crossing signal.’ The penalties are quite steep.” He watched in his mirror as the flatbed, thwarted by the sudden congestion and Miro’s bafflingly lawful escape, cut violently across three lanes. It smashed into a reinforced traffic light pole, sparks showering as the metal groaned. It wobbled precariously, then toppled over with a deafening *CRASH*, sending a domino effect of minor collisions rippling through the intersection. Miro, meanwhile, had already exited the main road, adhering to the posted speed limit on the off-ramp. “They… they crashed,” Nyssa whispered, disbelief coloring her tone. “Because you used your turn signal.” “And obeyed the yield sign,” Miro added brightly. “It’s about respect for the rules, Ms. Garren. And defensive driving. Always defensive.” He turned into a dark, unassuming alleyway, the entrance to the Garren Syndicate’s fortified chop-shop, under the old Veridian Market. The heavy, automated blast door rumbled open, revealing a cavernous space bathed in the glow of arc lamps. Luxury chassis, stripped to bare alloy or gleaming with fresh lacquer, lined the walls. Weapon racks stood like silent sentinels, filled with gleaming assault rifles and heavy-caliber pistols. The air hummed with the scent of oil, metal, and something vaguely illicit. As soon as the sedan screeched to a halt, Nyssa unbuckled and practically leaped out, pulling her pistol. “Alright, ‘Five-Star Miro,’ get out. Now.” Her voice was sharp, a whip-crack against the workshop’s echo. “You’re coming with me. Until I figure out what the hell you are.” Miro stepped out onto the damp floor, patting the dented hood with a mournful expression. “This poor fellow took quite a beating. I hope the insurance covers high-speed pursuit damage.” He then scanned the vast, sprawling space, his gaze settling on a workbench piled high with loose tools, discarded blueprints, and a half-eaten bag of synth-chips. “Oh, dear. This organization could use a bit of structure.” Before Nyssa could respond, Miro had already walked over to the workbench. He picked up a wrench, noted its size, and placed it neatly into a nearby rack. Then he began sorting screwdrivers by head type, whistling between his teeth. Nyssa stared, her pistol still pointed at his back, utterly bewildered. He moved with a focused intensity, his movements precise and efficient. “Is there… is there a coffee machine here?” Miro asked, not turning around. “A proper one, not one of those instant rehydrators. I’m quite particular about my morning brew. A good robusta, perhaps, with just a hint of citrus undertone.” Nyssa lowered her weapon slightly, a vein throbbing in her temple. “There’s a mess hall. To your left. Don’t even *think* about wandering off.” Miro nodded, already halfway through organizing a drawer of laser sights. “Excellent. I’ll just… finish up here, then. Someone really ought to label these bins.” A moment later, footsteps scraped the concrete as a broad silhouette stepped from a side corridor. Tassio Fenn stepped forward, his arms and neck wrapped in stylized circuit board tattoos that glowed faintly under the lamps. His brow furrowed sharply as he took in the crumpled bumper and Miro’s tidy sorting. “Nyssa, who is this?” Tassio’s voice was a low growl, his hand drifting towards the combat knife sheathed at his hip. “And why is he touching your tools?” Nyssa ran a hand through her hair. “He’s… complicated. Apparently, he’s my new chauffeur. And my hostage. He just got us out of a multi-car pile-up by obeying the law.” Tassio’s eyes narrowed, fixing on Miro. “Get away from those, civilian. You don’t know what you’re messing with.” His posture was menacing, a silent threat radiating from him. He took a step forward, his shadow falling over Miro. Miro finally turned, a bright smile on his face. “Oh, forgive me! I was just tidying up. And may I say, Mr. Fenn, your neck tattoos are absolutely exquisite. The way the luminescent ink catches the light, depicting the data stream of a city’s central network, it’s truly a masterpiece of body art. Did you get that done at the Chroma Coil Parlor on the lower levels of Sector Gamma? Their work with bio-lumina ink is unparalleled.” Tassio froze, his hand still hovering over his knife. His menacing posture deflated, replaced by an expression of utter bewilderment, then a flicker of something akin to flattered confusion. His gaze darted from Miro to Nyssa, as if seeking an explanation for this bizarre interaction. “My… my tattoos?” “Indeed!” Miro beamed. “The subtle gradient from crimson to cobalt, it’s remarkably well executed. A bold statement of identity, wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Garren?” Nyssa rubbed her temples. “Tassio, just… keep an eye on him. Miro, for the love of the circuits, go make your artisan coffee. In the canteen. And stay there.” Miro gave an eager nod. “Understood! I’ll bring you both a cup. Do you prefer a single-origin pour-over or a cold brew?” He ambled off towards the door, humming lightly. Nyssa watched him go, then turned to Tassio, her face a storm of frustration. “What in the name of the Sanaro Spires was that? You were supposed to intimidate him!” Tassio just shook his head, still looking toward the canteen door. “I… I don’t know. He just… complimented my neck art. Nobody’s ever commented on the lumina gradient before.” “Just stay vigilant,” Nyssa snapped, already striding towards a tactical display map on the wall, her mind racing with retaliation plans. “I need to figure out our next move against the syndicate haulers. Make sure he doesn’t attempt any mischief.” Tassio nodded, but as Nyssa’s back was turned, her focus consumed by the flickering holographic map, his hand subtly dipped into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, pre-paid comm-unit, its screen dark. With practiced ease, he quickly typed a series of coordinates, his gaze darting to the closed corridor hatch, then to Nyssa’s oblivious back. A single, silent message was sent. He slipped the comm-unit back into his pocket just as the access door clicked shut, locking Miro inside. Inside the staff lounge, Miro had already located a surprisingly high-end bean grinder. He hummed, carefully measuring out beans, when his own personal comm-unit, still in his pocket, vibrated insistently. He pulled it out. The caller ID glowed with a single, unadorned name: *Corrado Veltis*. Miro sighed, his relaxed shoulders hitching up an inch. He answered, holding the comm to his ear. “Grandfather? Is everything alright?” The voice on the other end was a low, gravelly rumble, like stones shifting in an ancient riverbed. “Miro. My boy. I received the latest intelligence report. Your infiltration is proceeding even better than I anticipated. The Garren Syndicate is now compromised. Excellent work. The hit-squads are mobilizing. Expect them to arrive within the next 48 hours to finalize the asset acquisition.” Miro’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Grandfather, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m just hoping to fix my profile rating and… secure a genuine connection. I haven’t infiltrated anything. And hit-squads? For what?” There was a pause on the other end, heavy and chilling. “Do not play coy, Miro. You know exactly what. Eliminate the competition. Secure our dominance. You have your mandate. Do not disappoint me.” The line went dead.

Five-Star Service