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Jackson Perreira moved through the dimly lit alleyway, his footsteps echoing against the wet pavement. The sound that had drawn him here—an eerie electronic hum with a quality that seemed to vibrate in his chest—had grown louder as he'd descended into this forgotten sub-level district. His hand instinctively rested on the grip of his pistol as he rounded a corner, though he hadn't drawn it yet.

There, illuminated by the pale glow of what appeared to be an unauthorized data-port flickering against a crumbling brick wall, was a figure hunched over an interface. The individual's hands moved with practiced precision, their fingers dancing across a holographic display. Jackson paused, observing from the shadows, his detective instincts screaming that he'd just stumbled upon something important—something that probably wasn't meant for public eyes.

The air here carried the sharp smell of ozone and stale synthetic alcohol, mixed with the faint scent of burnt circuits. Whatever the person was doing, it had all the hallmarks of corporate data-diving, and in this part of the city, that usually meant trouble. Jackson shifted his weight, still undecided about whether to announce himself or wait and see what unfolded.

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Glitch-Witch didn't flinch when the heavy bootsteps echoed from the alleyway above. They were used to the usual rentburners stumbling around the lower levels, drawn by whatever flickering ghostlight caught their eye. The faint smell of ozone and cheap synth-booze meant they were probably just another lost drone looking for a shortcut or some ill-advised thrills. Glitch-Witch’s gloved fingers continued their delicate dance over the interface, the unauthorized data-port spitting raw code onto the crumbling brick. This wasn't Thorne's typical op, but the payout was too good to pass up. The figure didn't look up as the footsteps stopped just out of sight. Let the meatpost have its moment of intrigue; Glitch-Witch was almost through the firewall.

A subtle shift in the light pattern on the wall, a quick series of gestures from Glitch-Witch, and the holographic display winked out. The hum of the data-port died with a soft click, leaving only the drip of unseen water and the distant drone of city traffic. Glitch-Witch finally pushed away from the wall, their back popping softly. They started to pack up the small portable interface and its tangle of cables, then turned when they sensed a presence.

"Lookin' for somethin', meatbag?" Glitch-Witch's voice was a low rasp, roughened by synth-smoke and disuse. They gestured vaguely towards the alley's entrance with their chin, their movements economical as they secured their gear. "This sector’s got a borough curse thicker than usual tonight. Best find your way back topside before you catch somethin' nasty."

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Jackson Perreira ducked into the alleyway, his hand hovering near the taser at his hip as he scanned the shadows for the source of the strange light and code fragments dancing across the crumbling brick wall.

There, a figure in a dark hoodie hunched over an illegal data-port, fingers flying across a glowing interface. Perreira's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene - this had to be his mark, Glitch-Witch. The notorious hacker had been on Thorne’s radar for months now, their trail of corporate sabotage and data theft leaving a path of digital destruction through the neon-drenched undercity.

"Glitch-Witch," Perreira said, stepping into view with a knowing smile. "Thorne sent me to bring you in. We've got a job that requires your unique skillset."

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Glitch-Witch didn’t flinch when the heavy bootsteps echoed from the alleyway above. They were used to the usual rentburners stumbling around the lower levels, drawn by whatever flickering ghostlight caught their eye. The faint smell of ozone and cheap synth-booze meant they were probably just another lost drone looking for a shortcut or some ill-advised thrills. Glitch-Witch’s gloved fingers continued their delicate dance over the interface, the unauthorized data-port spitting raw code onto the crumbling brick. This wasn't Thorne's typical op, but the payout was too good to pass up. The figure didn't look up as the footsteps stopped just out of sight. Let the meatpost have its moment of intrigue; Glitch-Witch was almost through the firewall.

A subtle shift in the light pattern on the wall, a quick series of gestures from Glitch-Witch, and the holographic display winked out. The hum of the data-port died with a soft click, leaving only the drip of unseen water and the distant drone of city traffic. Glitch-Witch finally pushed away from the wall, their back popping softly. They started to pack up the small portable interface and its tangle of cables, then turned when they sensed a presence.

"Lookin' for somethin', meatbag?" Glitch-Witch's voice was a low rasp, roughened by synth-smoke and disuse. They gestured vaguely towards the alley's entrance with their chin, their movements economical as they secured their gear. "This sector’s got a borough curse thicker than usual tonight. Best find your way back topside before you catch somethin' nasty."

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Jackson pulled his hand away from his taser, his expression shifting from confident to wary as Glitch-Witch turned to face him and dismissed him with a wave of their hand.

"Thorne mentioned the payout was substantial," Jackson said, keeping his tone level. "Guess they didn't mention anything about discretion."

So, Thorne didn't send me to bring her in, or at least, Glitch-Witch doesn't know it. This changes things. Need to figure out if Thorne lied to me, or if Glitch-Witch is just that good at playing dumb. The 'sector curse' line felt like a brush-off, but the way they packed up so quickly after I announced myself... suspicious.

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Glitch-Witch’s gloved fingers continued their brisk work, securing the interface. The sudden appearance of a meatpost wasn't ideal, but Thorne hadn't specified Thorne's intent, only the payoff. Jackson’s assumption about Thorne's instructions wasn't Glitch-Witch's problem. "Discretion is part of the bill, meatbag," Glitch-Witch stated, finally meeting his gaze. A brief scan of Jackson's stance, the almost-visible taser, confirmed this wasn't a casual passerby. This one was looking for trouble, or Thorne had sent him with a hidden directive.

"And Thorne always pays," they added, a little too casually. Glitch-Witch shrugged, the movement tight and efficient. "This data doesn't sell itself. Find your own thrill elsewhere. This alley's closed for business."

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Jackson took a slow step back, his eyes never leaving Glitch-Witch. He adjusted his grip on the taser slightly, the movement barely perceptible.

"A bill, huh? Thorne always pays. Got it." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Funny, Thorne made it sound like this was more of an… acquisition. Not exactly closing time."

Jackson's mind raced behind his stoic exterior. So Thorne lied. Or Glitch-Witch is playing me. 'Meatbag,' really? Charming. The way they dismiss this so easily, like I'm just another stray dog sniffing around. They're good. Too good.

But that slip about Thorne paying... it means Thorne's involved, and Glitch-Witch knows it. The question is, what exactly did Thorne want? And why lie about it to me?

He studied Glitch-Witch's face for any hint of deception, but the mask gave nothing away. "You know," Jackson said slowly, "Thorne didn't mention anything about a bill. Just said he needed someone... discreet." He let that hang in the air between them, an unspoken challenge.

The alley seemed to close in around them, the shadows lengthening as night crept closer. In this moment, it was just the two of them - the jaded detective and the inscrutable hacker, dancing a wary tango in the neon glow.

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Glitch-Witch didn't bother with another glance at the supposed taser. Thorne's buyers were always jumpy.

"Acquisition," they echoed, the word tasting sour. "Right. If Thorne paid me in compliments, I'd be drowning in them. But Thorne pays in creds, so this is a transaction. Pure and simple. And right now, this transaction is concluded from my end."

They gave the data-port a final, dismissive pat. "You want a discreet acquisition? Find your own discreet supplier. This one's offline. Go bother the ad-rot on the street."

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Jackson studies Glitch-Witch for a moment longer, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before giving a curt nod. He turns and walks away, melting back into the shadows of the sub-level.

Thorne. Always Thorne. Trying to play everyone like a damn terminal. 'Acquisition' or 'bill,' it's all the same to him, as long as it serves his twisted agenda. Glitch-Witch might be smart, but they're just a pawn. Thorne's the real game. And Jackson has a feeling this isn't over.

Jackson's footsteps echo in the empty corridor, each one carrying the weight of unanswered questions and the sinking realization that he may have just been played for a fool. But then again, in this city, everyone's a fool to someone. The trick is figuring out who's pulling your strings before they cut you loose.

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Glitch-Witch watched Jackson Perreira retreat, the echo of his footsteps fading into the general hum of the sub-levels. Thorne. Always Thorne. Another pawn convinced they were the king. They gave the damp concrete floor a final, disgusted look. The whole alley stank of desperation and damp synthetics. Time to cut losses and find a cleaner transaction. Maybe one that didn't involve Thorne's usual brand of backstabbing.