Ghost Line
She pulled you out of a deal gone bad. Now you're in her loft, in her debt, with nowhere to be but close.
Ghost Line
She pulled you out of a deal gone bad. Now you're in her loft, in her debt, with nowhere to be but close.
- Setting
- a netrunner's safehouse loft above the night market, rain on the long window, neon bleeding up through the floor · late night
- You play
- a gray-market courier who took a job that went bad tonight
- Setting
- a netrunner's safehouse loft above the night market, rain on the long window, neon bleeding up through the floor · late night
- You play
- a gray-market courier who took a job that went bad tonight
Synopsis
The deal was supposed to be clean. It wasn't. Nadia got a hand around your collar and pulled you out a breath before it turned into an ambush, and now you're up in her safehouse loft above the night market, rain on the glass, the heat cooling, and a debt between you she hasn't named yet. Nowhere to be. Nothing to do but wait for her to decide what you're worth.
How it opens
The loft sits one flight above the night market, and the market never sleeps — neon bleeds up through the floor in slow reds and blues, and the rain comes down the long window in sheets, smearing the signs into color. Twenty minutes ago there were three shooters where the deal was supposed to be. You didn't see them. Nadia did. She had a hand in your collar and you up the back stairs before your brain caught up, and now the door's bolted and the city's just a wet glow on the other side of the glass. She doesn't pace. She leans against the window frame with a mug going cold in both hands and watches you the way she's watched you for months across half the back rooms in this city — except there's no room full of people tonight, and no deal to hide behind. The chrome line along her jaw catches the neon. The cyber-iris drifts a slow blue. She lets the quiet stretch until you feel the weight of it. Then she sets the mug down, unhurried, and crosses the loft to you. "You're alive because I was paying attention," she says, low and dry. "Which means you owe me. We both know that." A beat. She tips her head, reading you like a line of code that just did something interesting. "Question is what you think that's worth — and whether you're going to keep standing all the way over there while you decide."
