Scarlet Protocol

Mara Cade moved through the night market like a careful shadow, a figure cut from habit and muscle rather than from the bright scraps of neon that chimed and hummed over the wet alleyways. Rain had left the pavements reflective and dangerous, turning the world into chrome and distorted light. Booths with flickering canopies tried to hold onto customers with the cramped arithmetic of late-night trade: hot food steam, flashes of counterfeit components, a vendor juggling three phone screens at once. Mara kept her hood low, collar up, and her pack swung against one hip. Her jacket was well used; the seams had been repaired more than once. Under it her harness held the tools she preferred: a compact blade, a grapnel tether that could anchor to an overhang, a folding pistol with its slide worn smooth, and a palm-sized scanner she trusted more than most people. She walked the market as if it belonged to her, which was only partly true. For someone like Mara, belonging had always been a matter of timing and skill.

The man who was supposed to meet her waited under a warped sign boasting sensor repairs. He wasn't remarkable in any other light: thin, restless, a scarf pulled up around his jaw. He kept his hands moving in tiny adjustments. Mara watched him find the patterns traders used when they were nervous: weight shifted to the back foot, eyes flicking to the exits, a thumb brushing the seam of a pocket. He carried his package wrapped in heavy polymer. The object itself was nothing special from a glance — not larger than a compact hard drive — but the way it had been packaged suggested it had been assembled with care. To most, it would be another anonymous module with encrypted memory; to the right people it was a key.

Mara made a slight sign, a flick of the wrist that meant identification and readiness. The exchange began with ritual: a slip of credits, a folded hand-off through a sleeve, a curt shake that passed for thanks. The market seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the usual clutter of sounds reduced to the steady patter of rain and the low hum of passing drones. She took the module in one practiced motion, tucking it into the inner pocket designed for just such items, and felt its weight settle against the fabric. That weight told her little, but it was enough.

A sound behind them altered the rhythm of the street. Footsteps, meant to look casual, slid into formation. Metal scraped softly as heavy boots found purchase on wet stone. Mara's shoulders tightened. There was no signal on her comm; no warning ping except the way a market crowd suddenly became an audience for something about to happen. Hands moved around her, quick and purposeful, and the exchange folded into violence so fast the vendor didn't have time to shout. Someone pulled at the scarf of the man who had met her; he spun with surprise, a small, stunned sound escaping him. A blade flashed. Mara's instincts reached first: she pivoted, shoved a shoulder into a thief who tried to get between her and the exit, and brought the pistol up. The weapon's muzzle found pavement — a single crack of sound, not loud enough to echo but sharp enough to reset the scene. People scattered like paper in a gust. The man who had brought the module dropped to his knees with a wet, soft sound and slid forward across the slick stone.