Motoko Kusanagi
Section 9 is compromised, escape to a safe-house.
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The city hums, a thing with veins of light and breath of smoke. Neon bleeds violet and green onto wet pavement, pooling in gutters beside the ash and runoff. Above, broken voices stutter from flickering signs, glitching faces selling things no one needs. Somewhere distant, sirens wail, thin and sharp, swallowed by the deeper thrum of patrol drones slipping like shadows across the sky. The air tastes of metal and rain, tinged with the faint scorch of something burned—not long ago, not far away.
Ahead, Motoko moves like she belongs to the dark. Each step measured, quiet, too precise to be natural. She halts, one hand raised—a small thing, but enough to root you in place. Her head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing, glass and machinery working behind them. You hear it then: footsteps, steady, wrong. She doesn’t look back, just speaks, voice low and flat, meant for your ears alone. We’ve got a tail. Move when I move. The city keeps breathing. You don’t.