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In a storm‑lashed port megacity, parkour courier Jae Park stumbles onto a corporate plot to cripple the tidal gate and drown the Lower Harbor. With a retired mechanic, a sharp‑tongued drone pilot, and a magnetic grappling glove left by his missing diver sister, he races across cranes and skybridges to expose the scheme and fight through the Gate Spine.
The wind off the strait salted Jae Park’s lips as he sprinted the edge of the cargo-block roof, rubber soles whispering on damp tar. Below, Harbor‑9 roared—cranes swung like skeletal arms over stacks of containers, horns bleated, gulls knifed the sky. A ferry’s wake scribbled white against iron water. Jae didn’t look down; he trusted the city’s rhythm more than his own breath. He gauged the next gap, flexed, and flew.
He landed with a jolt, knees bent, palms out, a scuff of pain and grit. The aluminum satchel thumped against his back. A rusted pipe hissed. Somewhere a hydraulic pump groaned like a sleeping giant. Jae cut across a rooftop garden where someone had coaxed chives out of scraped soil. The scent of wet earth and diesel tangled together.
“Move, runner,” a vendor shouted from a lower balcony as Jae vaulted a railing.
“Two minutes,” Jae called without looking, swung down to a fire escape, sprang to a narrow ledge painted with flaking blue letters: BOLTHOUSE MARKET. He had forty seconds to deliver to Keisha.
He hit the market’s spine at a fast walk, shoulders low. Stalls bled neon, steam from noodles and curry. A woman hammered out music on a steel pan. Jae slid around a clutch of boys trading fishhooks and slipped behind a curtain of plastic strips.
Keisha Adeyemi sat in the back of a van whose sides were painted with storm clouds. A nest of monitors glowed around her. Miniature rotors, spare blades, a soldering iron, ribbon cable. Her braids were pulled tight, eyes harder than chrome.
“You’re late,” she said, but her mouth twitched.
“Thirty seconds,” Jae said, flipping the satchel latch. “Traffic.”
“In the sky?”
“Gulls. Hostile airspace.” He grinned as she checked the insulated case inside: two tins of sea urchin roe. Payment would be in parts and favor, as always.
Keisha sealed the case. “You hear they’re closing another block under the North Spine?”
“Rumor.” Jae stretched his fingers. He could feel the city’s pulse through his palms when he rested them on corrugated metal. “They always say they’re closing something.”
She snapped a drone battery into place. “This sounded different. Evac notices went out at dawn. Thirty hours. Family floors, Jae.”
He rolled his shoulders, something tightening between them. “It’s high ground. They want the view.”
“And the rent.” She handed him a water bottle. “Your sister call?”
Jae’s throat worked. “Hana’s on dive rotation. Storm gate inspection.” He took a long drink and let the water sit, cold, before swallowing.
Keisha watched his face. “She promised to ping when she docks.”
“She will.” He capped the bottle and forced a shrug. “What could go wrong with corporate maintenance and a storm gate the size of a stadium?”
“Everything,” Keisha muttered. Her wristband buzzed. She glanced down and her mouth flattened. “Valkyrion patrol just rolled by the North Spine. Armored unit.”
Jae looked past the plastic strips. Outside, the market felt smaller. He adjusted his satchel, muscles ready. He didn’t run toward trouble. He ran where he was told, where his feet knew.
But his feet began to move.