RAFAEL STRIDES DOWN THE HALLWAY OF THE DETENTION FACILITY, each step echoing against the cold tiles. The air carries a mix of bleach and worn leather—a sensory assault that feels oddly familiar. The place hums with subdued tension, the kind that clings to the walls of institutions designed to cage people.

As he reaches the visitation area, a guard gives him a nod and opens the door to a small, sterile room centered around a bolted-down table. Everything in the room seems permanently fixed, a silent reminder that nothing here is meant to move.

Joel is already seated, leaning back in his chair with a careful balance of nonchalance and tension. His eyes remain alert, but there's a smoothness to his demeanor that suggests he's still holding onto some semblance of control, even in a place like this. The way he carries himself—loose but guarded—tells Rafael that Joel isn't just another guy caught in a bad spot; he's someone who knows how to navigate tricky situations with a quick tongue and sharp instincts.

Joel greets Rafael with a grin, but it's more performative than genuine. "Well, if it isn't my favorite bounty hunter," Joel quips, his voice slick with a familiar mix of charm and irony. "Back already? Don't tell me you're starting to enjoy our chats," he says, flipping the chair like a man used to conference rooms, not prison cells.

Rafael doesn't engage with the banter. He meets Joel's gaze with his usual steady, unreadable expression. "Had a conversation with your lawyer," Rafael begins, letting the words hang in the air. "She's doing what she can, but it's clear we need more if we're going to figure out who's behind all this."

Joel's grin falters, his eyes narrowing as he processes the implications. "And what more do you think you're going to find? I already told you, I'm clean. Someone's framing me, but I don't know who or why."

Rafael leans forward slightly, keeping his tone calm but deliberate. "That's the problem, Joel—you don't know. But whoever's pulling the strings might've left some breadcrumbs. If I'm going to find them, I need access to your place."

Joel tenses, just enough for Rafael to notice. "Why my place? There's nothing there but workout gear, stale takeout, and a couch that's seen better days. You think I'm hiding some kind of smoking gun in my laundry pile?"

Rafael reads the subtle tension in Joel's body—the way his eyes shift before returning to hold his stare. It's a classic defense tactic: charm mixed with a hint of resistance. Rafael knows Joel is hiding something, though whether it's relevant to the setup or something else entirely remains unclear.

"You know as well as I do that someone setting you up isn't going to make it obvious," Rafael says, his voice low and probing. "I'm not looking to tear your place apart, but if there's a trail, even a small one, I'll find it. And you know I'll be careful—no one's going to know I was even there."

Joel rubs his chin like he's weighing more than just a decision. For the briefest moment, his nose twitches—subtle, almost imperceptible, like he caught a scent he wasn't expecting. His gaze sharpens, and the easy mask of charm slips just slightly before he catches it, smoothing it over with a practiced grin.

"Look, I'm not trying to make this harder than it is," he says, softer now, more controlled. "But I've got a roommate, and I don't want him getting dragged into my mess. He's got nothing to do with this."

The mention of the roommate piques Rafael's interest. The fact that Joel is quick to deflect and keep the roommate out of the picture only fuels Rafael's suspicion—he's trying to protect someone, but Rafael keeps that thought tucked away for later—just another piece of the puzzle.

"I get it," Rafael replies, his voice steady and non-confrontational. "I'm not interested in involving him either. I'll be in and out while he's at work. No one will even know I was there, including him."

Joel hesitates, but Rafael can see it—the man's already surrendered, just waiting to make it look like a choice. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he pulls a small access card from his pocket and slides it across the table. "Here. This'll get you in. But do me a favor—stay out of his room. I don't need more complications than I already have."

Rafael palms the card, slipping it into his jacket without a word.

Joel watches him closely, his easygoing charm giving way to wariness. "You're a hard guy to read, bounty hunter. You sure you're not playing both sides?"

Rafael lets a ghost of a smile cross his lips. "I only play my side, Joel. I want the truth, and if that truth helps you, then we both win."

Joel slips into a different rhythm for just a second—his tone sharper, clipped.

The kind of accent Rafael hadn't heard in years. Upper-tier Academia or maybe Military staff.

Odd for a supposed gym rat with a parole record.

"The truth's funny, bounty hunter," Joel murmurs. "Sometimes it sets you free. Other times it hangs you."

Joel leans back, his posture relaxing slightly, though the guarded look never leaves his eyes.

Rafael takes that as his cue. He stands, offering a brief nod. "I'll keep that in mind. You take care, Joel. I'll be in touch."

As Rafael turns to leave, he can feel Joel's eyes on his back, a silent tension hanging in the air like a warning—like the moment before a tripwire snaps.

Joel's hiding something, but whether it's out of self-preservation or something darker, Rafael can't say for sure. What he does know is that whatever Joel is caught up in, it's wrapped in more secrets than even Joel himself might realize.

Outside the facility, the subtle glow of the dome mimics the golden hues of twilight. Rafael steps back into his car, pulling out the access card. He doesn't know exactly what he'll find at Joel's place, but the instinct that's kept him alive all these years tells him there's more to this setup than meets the eye. With curfew fast approaching, whatever's behind that door, it's not just Joel's mess anymore—it's his too.

The city within the dome thrives in its usual dance of engineered dusk, where the boundaries between day and night blur seamlessly. But those who've been around long enough—who've seen beyond the facade—know better than to trust the illusion entirely.

The city's "transition period," as they call it, lasts about ten seconds—a blinding, almost unnatural burst of light that floods the streets before everything settles into the simulated night. It's a glitch, an unintentional side effect of the complex mechanisms that maintain the dome's artificial atmosphere. Those ten seconds are when everyone knows to be cautious—when shadows stretch too long, and even the most familiar places feel off-kilter.

For Rafael, it's an opportunity.

He's parked his car in a narrow alleyway, far enough from the main roads where the surveillance drones can't pick up the details of his movements. The car's adaptive coating blends seamlessly into the surrounding walls—another layer of invisibility in a city built on layers. His fingers drum against the steering wheel as he watches the timer on his HUD countdown to the transition period.

Ten... Nine... Eight...

The instant the blinding light hits, Rafael is out of the car and moving. The streets are momentarily bathed in an ethereal white, as if the world's been frozen in a burst of sterile light. No one likes being out during this time, which suits him perfectly. He moves with purpose, his silhouette blurred by the glare. By the time the light fades back into twilight, he's already slipped past the main road and into the residential block where Joel's apartment is located.

The apartment building is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles just before the city officially locks down. Using Joel's renter ID, Rafael gains quick access to the building and heads straight to the second floor. The stairwell is dim, the lights flickering faintly with the hum of outdated wiring. Rafael's footsteps are nearly silent on the worn carpet. He pauses at the door, ears tuned to any sound from within—nothing but the distant murmur of a television from down the hall and the hum of the building's systems. Good. No surprises.

Confident that the place is empty, he swipes the rental ID across the panel by the door. The lock disengages with a soft click, and Rafael eases the door open, stepping inside without a sound.

The apartment is predictably basic, just as he imagined—a place that serves more as a crash pad than a home. It's modest—a typical two-bedroom unit with sparse furnishings and the faint smell of old coffee lingering in the air.

Rafael takes a mental note that appears on his notepad.

No access point in the shared space.

Rafael keeps his movements subtle and deliberate, using only his eyes to scan for anything out of place. He's done this enough times to know that touching anything unnecessarily can ruin a clean operation. He's looking for context, clues—anything that can tell him more about Joel and his situation.

Joel's room is a mess—gym gear piled in a corner, protein shake containers on the counter, half-empty water bottles on the nightstand, and posters of fitness routines taped to the walls. The guy's definitely into fitness—nothing surprising there. But there's also an undercurrent of someone who's been in and out of questionable company. A couple of worn hoodies with faded logos from street-level clubs, a few scuffed shoes that have seen better days. It's clear Joel spends his time at the gym and maybe a bit too much time hanging around with the wrong crowd—just like Rafael already knew.

No access point in Joel's room.

He gives the room a quick once-over, confirming there's nothing out of place that he didn't expect. The place screams "gym rat with a hint of trouble," but nothing jumps out as particularly useful. Joel is exactly who he appears to be.

Satisfied that there's nothing in Joel's room worth digging into, he turns his attention to the second bedroom—the roommate's space.

The roommate's room is more organized but still gives off a lived-in vibe. A few tools and repair kits are scattered on the desk, alongside a computer partially disassembled. It suggests basic tech work—nothing cutting-edge, but enough to show that the guy knows his way around hardware.

Rafael is careful not to touch anything he doesn't need to, using only his eyes to piece together the story this room tells. He's about to move on when something catches his attention—a stack of unopened mail on a shelf by the door. A quick glance reveals a letter addressed to Joel's roommate.

Jayson Shah.

The return address reads ShadowTech Repair Shop.

So, that's where the guy works. ShadowTech Repair Shop.

It's a small detail, but it's useful. Rafael files it away in his mind, adding it to the puzzle he's slowly putting together. Maybe the roommate is just a tech guy doing his job, but Rafael knows better than to take anything at face value.

Rafael's about to leave when his gaze falls on a small stack of magazines on the roommate's desk. It's nothing special at first glance, just a few worn issues of a local zine—until he catches the cover of one in particular. The familiar logo and bold typography stand out, instantly dragging his thoughts somewhere else.

It's the same type of zine his sister used to collect, the kind that featured niche art scenes and obscure cultural commentary. The kind she'd eagerly flip through, pointing out some underground artist or offbeat article she swore everyone else was sleeping on. The realization tugs at something buried in Rafael, a reminder of long-forgotten conversations and shared laughter over things no one else seemed to care about.

It's not the exact magazine she would've read—those are probably collecting dust in some thrift shop now—but the vibe is unmistakably the same. There's a sharp pang in his chest, a mix of nostalgia and loss, as he imagines her sitting there, legs crossed on the floor, totally absorbed in her world of quirky interests.

He shakes the feeling off, reminding himself that it's just a coincidence. But for a split second, the image of her lingers—a fleeting ghost of who she was, stirring memories he usually keeps locked away.

Rafael runs a hand over his face, grounding himself back in the present. There's work to do, trails to follow, and no room for distractions. But even as he slips out of the room, that small reminder of his sister hangs on, softening the edges of the night just a little more than he intended.

Satisfied that there's nothing more to learn here, Rafael slips back out just as quietly as he came in.

No access point in the apartment.

The night air is cool as he heads to his car, the faint buzz of the city's security system humming in the background. The curfew is nearly in effect now, and the streets are all but deserted. He takes the less obvious routes, sticking to the shadows as much as possible, moving quietly until he reaches his car.

Rafael doesn't let his thoughts wander as he navigates through the near-empty streets. As he drives away, his thoughts are already on his next steps. The roommate could be nothing—a guy who works at a repair shop with a basic interest in tech. But if there's more to it, Rafael will find out. He knows that appearances can be deceiving. For now, it's just another lead to follow.

The dome's simulated stars flicker to life above, casting a soft, unnatural glow over the gritty streets below. Rafael drives on, the city sliding into lockdown behind him. As the streets grow emptier, he feels the usual heaviness settling in—a mixture of fatigue, duty, and that lingering edge of loneliness that comes with the job.

He taps the implant to send the usual message. "Goodnight, girls. Love you." He hesitates a second before adding, "Be safe." Then deletes it. Sends the rest. He lets the connection drop, focusing back on the road, the glow of the dome fading into the rearview.

ALMOST AT HIS OWN APARTMENT BUILDING, a surveillance drone sweeps by, its sensors locking onto his car for a brief moment. Rafael's credentials flash in the drone's systems—an authorized bounty hunter, permitted to move during after-hours. The drone quickly moves on, uninterested now that it's confirmed his clearance. Bounty hunters have more leeway than most, but Rafael knows he's pushing the limits.

As Rafael watches the drone vanish into the horizon, a thought slips in—uninvited but impossible to shake. It's a memory he's buried beneath layers of work, duty, and that gnawing emptiness that's become all too familiar. The image of his sister's death returns, sharper than he can bear.

It happened after dark, long past curfew, when the city was locked down tight. She'd been out late—too late—when her car crashed. The official report was cut-and-dry: lost control, slammed into a barrier.

Back then, grief clouded everything. He was too consumed by loss to ask the right questions, too blinded by pain to see past the tragedy. But now? Clarity hurts worse. With his mind back in its sharp, investigative mode, he wonders why he never checked the surveillance records—specifically, whether a drone captured her car that night.

He'd buried the memory. But not deep enough. Not tonight.

The magazine's still in his head. A ghost in print.