You shouldn't be here.

East District 12, forty minutes past curfew. An Association drone squadron just swept overhead, searchlights dragging long white arcs across the wet asphalt. You press yourself flat against the wall, breathing held to a minimum.

Three minutes ago, you watched a man get dragged out of his home by two Association enforcers. He didn't resist — just kept saying “I didn't do anything.” His wife stood in the doorway. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just stood there.

The people of this city have learned one thing: screaming changes nothing. It only gets a second person taken.

The enforcers shoved the man into an armored transport. In the last second before the doors sealed shut, you caught a glimpse inside — at least four others. All heads down. All silent.

After the transport pulled away, the alley went quiet again. Then you heard something.

Not from outside — from your earpiece. A frequency you never tuned to. Voice-modulated, gender indeterminate, delivering a single statement:

“You saw it. Now you have two choices.”

“Forget it. Go back to your life. Or — West District 7, midnight, under the blue neon.”

“...”

“Don't look back. That drone is turning around.”

You glanced deeper into the alley. Sure enough, three hundred meters up, a drone was banking back. Its scan radius was expanding.

You have roughly fifteen seconds.