Bramson’s words hung heavy in the air, a possessive brand pressed against Daelis’s skin. The cool metal of the rack bit into her spine, a counterpoint to the heat flaring under her collar. His pupils, wide and dark, seemed to devour the light, leaving only the fierce hunger of his gaze. She tried to push past him, a sarcastic retort already forming, but his arms, still braced on either side of her head, were unyielding walls. “Is that a threat, Klerk?” Her voice, though low, carried a dangerous edge. “Because last I checked, this entire charade is temporary. You need me for your inheritance, and I need you for my payout. Nothing more.” He didn’t flinch. His head dipped, bringing his mouth even closer to her ear, his breath a warm whisper against her skin. “Is it? Or is that just what you tell yourself to keep from admitting there’s something else?” The draft from the vent raised goosebumps across her forearms. She hated how easily he broke through her guard, hated the frantic beat knocking against her ribs. Before she could conjure a biting comeback, his gaze flickered to the console, a red alert pulsing an urgent rhythm. The digital bomb’s countdown glared back: 68:09:12. The intensity in his eyes sharpened, shifting from possessiveness to a laser-focused urgency. He pulled back, the abrupt distance leaving a draft against her throat. “The current counter-virus isn’t enough. Your hack was too clean; the original code anticipates anything we build from the Klerk mainframe.” He walked to the holotable, pulling up schematics. “We need a legacy hardware processor. Something ancient, disconnected from Klerk’s network, capable of generating a truly chaotic signature to disrupt the siphoning algorithm’s integrity check.” Daelis’s mind grasped the implication in half a breath. “You mean, we need something from the undercity.” “Precisely.” He turned, his gaze sweeping over her designer jumpsuit. “And dressed like that, you’ll be a prime mark. Get something practical. Something that blends in.” Forty minutes later, Daelis stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror, a wry smirk twisting her lips. She wore faded, patched cargo pants, a worn thermal shirt, and a hooded, synthetic leather jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, hidden mostly by the hood, and she’d smudged a bit of synthetic grime on her cheekbones. Bramson, impossibly, looked even more out of place. He’d traded his bespoke suit for dark, utilitarian clothing that still managed to cling to his frame with an infuriating elegance. His usually precise haircut was obscured by a low-brimmed cap, and a neural-dampener implant, disguised as a common audio comm, softened his razor-sharp features just enough to make him unrecognizable to automated surveillance. “Ready to slum it, Klerk?” she quipped, adjusting the comm in her ear. “As I’ll ever be, Van Der.” His voice was a low rumble, devoid of his usual corporate cadence. “Stick close. The undercity isn’t Klerk Tower.” The descent was a dizzying plunge through layers of the Maas-Apex. The sleek, chrome-and-glass arteries of the upper spires gave way to grittier, rust-streaked conduits, opening into the sprawl of the lower ward. The air grew thick with the scent of synth-spice and ozone, vibrating with the static of unshielded data relays. Hover-carts, their repulsorlifts sputtering, zipped through narrow alleys, competing with the foot traffic of a thousand different factions and freelancers. They moved like shadows, Daelis leading the way through a maze of glowing graffiti and flickering storefronts. She knew these streets, remembered the days before she’d even dreamed of a Klerk Tower, when she’d scrounged for parts in places exactly like this. The target was a data-broker known as ‘The Glimmer’ – a notoriously paranoid individual who specialized in obsolete tech, operating out of a hidden stall in the ‘Rust-Vein Bazaar’. As they turned down a particularly narrow, rain-slicked alley, the neon glow from a broken sign casting long, fractured shadows, a swift blur darted into Daelis’s view. Three figures, bulky and cloaked, emerged from the gloom, their faces obscured by low hoods. One held a stun-baton, its tip crackling with blue energy. Another brandished a vibro-knife, the air humming faintly around its blade. “Well, well,” a gravelly voice sneered, distorted by a modulator. “Look what the current dragged in. A pair of Klerk-scum, far from their gilded cage.” Daelis cursed under her breath. “Vosk’s fixers,” she muttered to Bramson. “Should’ve known he’d have eyes everywhere.” Bramson didn’t speak. He simply moved, a blur of controlled motion. The fixers, confident in their numbers, lunged. The first, aiming the stun-baton at Daelis, found his arm twisted back with bone-jarring force. Bramson’s elbow struck his jaw, a sickening crunch echoing in the alley as the fixer crumpled. The second, swinging his vibro-knife in a wide arc, met Bramson’s open palm. The CEO’s grip was like steel, catching the wrist before it could connect. A swift, brutal kick to the knee, and the fixer cried out, dropping the knife as he buckled. Daelis watched, a strange cocktail of terror and exhilaration churning in her gut. This wasn’t the composed, cold CEO she knew. This was something primal, a predator unleashed. His movements were economic, precise, each strike delivered with a shocking efficiency that spoke of years of honed combat. He moved with the quiet grace of a phantom, evading attacks, countering with a chilling, almost detached brutality. The third fixer, momentarily stunned by the speed of his comrades’ downfall, hesitated. It was a fatal mistake. Bramson was on him in an instant, a flurry of strikes that ended with the fixer unconscious against a corroding synth-wall. He stood over them, chest rising and falling evenly, not a single strand of hair out of place beneath his cap. The air crackled with residual energy from the stun-baton, and the faint metallic tang of blood. He barely seemed to register Daelis staring at him. “They won’t be a problem,” he stated, his voice flat. Before Daelis could process the raw, visceral display, a familiar, sputtering hum grew louder. A battered, rust-streaked hover-car, clearly a civilian model but souped-up, skidded into the alley, its repulsorlifts kicking up a cloud of debris. The side door hissed open, revealing Sanne Vossen behind the wheel, her face a mask of frantic relief. “Get in, you two!” Sanne yelled, her voice strained. “I tracked Vosk’s comms chatter. They knew you were heading down here.” Daelis scrambled into the back, Bramson following with a seamless grace, pulling the door shut. Sanne slammed on the accelerator, the vehicle bucking forward, scraping against the masonry as they accelerated. “I found The Glimmer. He’s got what you need. Took a bit of… convincing.” Sanne cast a quick, guilty glance at Bramson in her rearview mirror. “He was reluctant to sell, especially to Klerk personnel.” “How did you convince him?” Daelis asked, a suspicious glint in her eye. Sanne offered a shaky grin. “Let’s just say he now owes Klerk’s board a very large, very untraceable favor. And I might have ‘borrowed’ this vehicle from a particularly unpleasant mid-level Klerk enforcer who won’t notice it’s gone until next cycle.” Daelis allowed a small smile to touch her lips. Sanne, ever the pragmatist. Her loyalty, once fractured, now seemed fiercely renewed. They reached The Glimmer’s stall, a shadowy alcove behind a cascading holographic waterfall. The transaction was swift, the old processor surprisingly heavy in Daelis’s hands. It was a relic, exactly what they needed. As Sanne navigated the winding tunnels back toward the upper sector, the sub-levels dropping away below, white floodlights detonated across the Maas-Apex. Every holographic billboard, every towering glass façade, every comms screen in the vehicle flared with a city-wide broadcast. The firm’s twin-helix logo was overlaid with a stark, crimson alert. An austere, robotic voice echoed across the city, amplified a thousandfold. “**Emergency Board Decree. Effective on broadcast, by majority vote of the Board of Directors, Chairman Bramson Klerk has been relieved of all operational duties and executive privileges. All Klerk Dynamics assets, systems, and accounts are hereby locked. This measure is taken to safeguard enterprise stability amidst allegations of gross negligence and internal sabotage. A full investigation is underway. The Klerk-Inheritance Protocol has been accelerated and is now in its final activation phase.**” The message repeated, a chilling pronouncement of their defeat. Daelis stared at the glowing billboards, breath locking in her throat. The digital bomb. It wasn’t 68 hours anymore. It was happening now.

The Undercity Run