Neon Remnant

Sol stepped out of the sewers and into the sprawling black market hub, the neon glow of scattered lights casting long shadows against the grime-covered walls. The air was thick with a mixture of spice, smoke, and the faint metallic scent of rust. The market was alive with movement, voices overlapping as traders and buyers haggled over illicit goods, stolen tech, and exotic contraband. Some vendors shouted their deals, drawing crowds with promises of rare goods, while others operated in eerie silence, their clients exchanging nothing more than nods and encoded transactions. The deeper Sol walked, the more he realized how layered this place was—this was more than just a marketplace; it was a web of secrets, all trading hands under flickering neon lights. It was a chaotic, pulsing heart of commerce, where the rules of the surface world held little power.

As he moved through the narrow streets, Sol kept his hood up, his posture relaxed but alert. The black market was meant to be a neutral zone, but Sol knew better. There were no true safe havens in the underworld—only places where the knives were hidden better. As he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling of unseen eyes tracking his movements. A group of mercenaries leaned near a weapons stall, their gazes sweeping through the crowd. One of them locked eyes with Sol for a second too long. His pulse quickened, but he forced himself to keep moving, heart pounding against his ribs. He wasn't sure if they were just scanning the market or if they recognized him—but either way, he couldn't afford to be careless. The market had an unspoken law—keep your business to yourself, and no one would ask questions. It was the safest place to disappear, but that didn't mean it wasn't dangerous.

Peddlers lined the crowded pathways, each hawking their wares with animated enthusiasm. A grizzled man displayed an array of old-world cybernetic parts, a reptilian merchant showcased glowing vials of unknown chemicals, and a masked figure whispered deals for high-tech weapons. Sol's gaze flickered across them before settling on a small stand selling cosmetic items and hair dye.

He made his way toward the stall, eyeing the selection of instant hair dye devices. The owner, a wiry woman with mechanical goggles perched on her forehead, immediately perked up at the sight of a potential customer.

"Ah, looking for a quick change, stranger?" she asked, her voice smooth but laced with the sharpness of a practiced merchant.

"How much for the black dye?" Sol asked, keeping his voice even.

"For you? Special deal—seventy credits," she said with a sly grin.

Sol scoffed. "Thirty."

She laughed. "Sixty. And that's generous."

"Forty. Final offer."

The woman studied him for a moment before shrugging. "Fine, fine. Forty it is. But don't tell anyone I gave you such a good deal."

He handed over the credits and took the sleek, palm-sized device. Turning into a quiet alley, he pressed the activator. A soft hum filled the air as the dye spread through his hair in an instant, shifting from its golden blonde hue to a deep jet black. The strands gleamed slightly, the tech ensuring a natural shine.

Sol ran his fingers through his newly darkened hair, nodding in approval. He had no clue that, miles away, DreamCorp troops were uncovering something beneath the ruins of the junkyard. It was a small change, but it might help him stay unnoticed a little longer. Tucking the device into his bag, he adjusted his hood and continued on his path, blending into the endless tide of people moving through the market. Nearby, he heard a group of traders discussing something in hushed voices. 'Even the best smugglers are struggling,' one of them muttered. 'They say DreamCorp's put new surveillance up—no one gets out unnoticed anymore.' Sol clenched his jaw. He needed to move quickly.

\---

Meanwhile, at the remnants of the explosion site, a squad of DreamCorp soldiers worked under the glow of searchlights, their boots crunching over shattered metal and debris. One of them, a scout with an augmented visor, waved to his commander.

"Sir, we found something. Looks like an entrance beneath the rubble. The scans show a collapsed space. Someone was here."

The officer approached, scanning the exposed wreckage. The team moved quickly, clearing out debris with precision. As they descended into the ruined bunker, the stale air mixed with the lingering scent of burnt circuits and scorched metal. Inside, the remnants of a workspace were scattered—monitors flickered with static, tools and spare parts lay discarded, and a single overturned chair hinted at a recent occupant. A soldier nudged a half-melted schematic with his boot. The edges were burned, but the intricate cybernetic designs were still visible. 'Looks like someone was working on something big,' he muttered. 'Maybe this was the real target.'

A soldier knelt, picking up a small, cracked data pad. "Whoever was here knew what they were doing," he muttered, turning it over in his gloved hands. "This isn't standard junk tech. Some of this hardware looks custom—high-quality." Another soldier ran a scanner over a nearby console, his face twisting into a frown. "Sir, there's corrupted data in the system, but I think I can recover partial logs. It looks like there was an outbound signal before the explosion. Scrambled, but it's something."

The commander narrowed his eyes, his fingers curling into a tight fist. His communicator buzzed, a curt voice on the other end. 'Report.' He hesitated before responding, knowing the words wouldn't be well received. 'We've found traces, but the subject is gone.' A moment of silence, then, 'You have twenty-four hours before we escalate.' The line cut. The commander swore under his breath. Another dead end. Another failure. He was already dreading the report he'd have to send back to DreamCorp HQ. The higher-ups didn't tolerate mistakes, and he had already burned through their patience. "Run a full scan. Find out if there are any logs or surveillance feeds left," he ordered, his voice tight with frustration. "If this is connected to the stolen tech, we need to know where they went—now."

As the search continued, another soldier approached, his scanner beeping softly. 'Sir,' he said. 'Scanners are picking up heat signatures deeper in the district. If he escaped, he might not have gone far.' The commander exhaled sharply. 'Expand the perimeter. I want every alley and tunnel checked. If he's still in the city, we'll find him.'