The Job

Lila Carter pressed her back against the cold metal wall, fingers steady on the holo-pad strapped to her wrist. The screen pulsed with shifting code, a real-time security bypass flickering in glowing green against her skin. She had ninety seconds before the next scan cycle.

The nightclub hummed with bass-heavy music, deep and mechanical, vibrating through the steel-plated floors. Neon lights flickered over sweating bodies packed tight on the dance floor. The smell of synthetic alcohol and ozone from neural uplinks filled the air—a scent she had long associated with jobs like this.

She spotted her target at the VIP lounge, slouched in a curved leather booth. Damon Holt, a mid-tier enforcer for one of the city’s crime syndicates. He was supposed to be dangerous, but right now, he was too busy flirting with a neon-clad girl whose laugh was sharp and artificial—probably paid for. Lila tapped the side of her temple, activating her retinal HUD.

[TARGET LOCKED: DAMON HOLT. MEMORY WIPE IN PROGRESS.]

She took a deep breath. In. Out. Stay in control.

This was supposed to be a simple job. Wipe a few incriminating memories. Get paid. No loose ends.

She moved through the crowd, each step calculated, her slim black jacket blending into the neon haze. When she reached the bar, she slid onto a stool just as the bartender’s eyes flicked toward her.

"Vodka, straight," she ordered, keeping her voice low.

A drink appeared, but she barely touched it. She wasn't here to get comfortable. With a small flick of her wrist, she activated a signal jammer hidden in her bracelet. The club's surveillance feeds would now loop on a 30-second delay—just enough time.

Showtime.

The Wrong Memory

Lila approached the booth, her fingers brushing over the sleek metal syringe hidden in her sleeve. The girl next to Damon was too absorbed in his drunken flirtations to notice her. Perfect.

She slid in beside them with a smirk.

"Mind if I steal him for a second?"

The girl rolled her eyes and stood, swaying off to find her next mark. Damon barely noticed. His glass clinked against the table as he grinned at Lila, teeth too white to be real.

"And who the hell are you?" he slurred.

"You won’t remember," she murmured.

Before he could react, she pressed the injector against the base of his skull and triggered the override.

The effect was instant. Damon's eyes rolled back, his body slumping as the neural link forced his memories to the surface. Lila’s wrist pad flashed with incoming data, numbers scrolling too fast for the human eye to follow.

She began the extraction, wiping the last four months—his dealings, his secrets, his crimes.

Then something went wrong.

A second data stream shot into her system, an encrypted file she hadn’t accessed. Her wrist pad vibrated violently, heat spiking through the circuits.

ERROR. ERROR. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED.

A dull hum screamed inside her skull, her vision flickering between the nightclub and something else—images, distorted voices, a name flashing in red:

NYX.

Her pulse thundered. This wasn’t part of the job.

Then Damon convulsed. His body jerked, his mouth open in a soundless scream. His neural implant fried in an instant, smoke curling from the port behind his ear.

Lila’s breath hitched.

She had just killed him.