The skies are calm still, no wind. Master's stride is even, boots quiet on the cobblestones and I match him step for step, arm right through his, tail looped loose around his wrist under the cloak.

  The walk takes us through the lower markets first, stalls largely closed for the night, a few people haggle over scraps of course. Master's eyes scan ahead, calculating, while I listen for boot steps and sniff for unfamiliar scents.

  Warehouse row looms up after minutes, a line of identical buildings. Number twelve's marked clear, blue tarps flapping over the roof vents and a Cartel sigil painted on the double doors. Guards patrol the perimeter, about twenty like Reed said, moving in loose pairs along set routes, two circling the front every five minutes, four along the sides dipping into alleys, the rest stationed at corners or inside the loading bays. They walk routine, bored, boots scuffing gravel, lanterns swinging low, chatting low about pay or tavern bets. Uniforms are standard corporate cut, dark gray tunics with that cartel shard embroidered on the breast, reinforced leather vests for blades, trousers tucked into boots, cloaks thrown back since the night's mild.

  The corporate reality hangs thick here, these aren't street thugs, they're payroll blades, clocking shifts for a cartel backed by old money like Crimson, who sit fat in high quarter offices pulling strings. Routes feed into bigger networks. It's all layers, Sapphire vs. Cartel on the surface, but Crimson lurking underneath, squeezing turf without dirtying their robes.

  And us ? We're separate from it all, no uniform, no badge. I'm molded to his side, tail tightening around his wrist now, ears swiveling for every rustle, purring low and jagged because this is ours, the hunt, the burn, the blood waiting. We're not corporate drones, we're the blade that cuts the strings.

  Master's eyes flick to mine like he can see straight into the bond's hum. He's been tracking my thoughts the whole time, of course he has, that quiet room in his head always leaves space for me to echo in there, my manic buzz feeding back to him. He doesn't say much, he just lowers his hand on my head in a firm pat, fingers dragging once from ears to nape. "There there, kitten," he murmurs.

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  The touch grounds me instant, "Master," I whine soft, eyes slitted up at him, but he just nods once, signal clear, focus. We move then, slipping across the open gravel.

  A few rows over, the buildings thin out. The one we pick is less guarded, only two alderians at the front, different uniforms, chatting low about dice games whilst uniforms are rumpled.

  Inside it smells of dust and old wood, faint chemical whiff drifting from somewhere deeper. Master's already moving, boot steps silent up the stairs to the second floor, and I follow close, thigh brushing his calf with every step, tail flicking once against his boot. The stairs creak under us but hold, no alarms or shouts happen.

  Master settles by a window, crouching low, eyes scanning the routes again. I drop beside him instant, pressing my side to his, tail curling around his ankle to anchor us. My purr starts low, vibrating against his arm, claws digging light into the floorboards because this vantage is perfect, high ground.

  I nuzzle his shoulder once, rubbing my cheek along the fabric, drawing his scent deep to chase the last of the crash fog. "They're lazy," I murmur against his ear, voice husky and edged, tail tightening around his leg. "Front pair's blind to the alley, sides open. We hit from here, drop down, spear the unloaders first, spark the oil trails." My claws flex, imagining the gut twist of the first thrust, blood hot on my hands.

  Master's whisper through the dim loft, "Don't be a silly cat", his eyes locking on mine with that arched brow. Even in the night, my cat vision pierces clear, the faint lines around his mouth tightening in amusement, pulse steady in his neck, heat radiating off his skin. I flatten my ears a fraction, tail flicking once in mock offense, but lean into his hand still lingering on my head, purring low, rubbing my cheek along his fingers.

  Below, the prey stirs, guards looping their routes, boots scraping gravel like clumsy paws on dry earth. My eyes slit narrow, locking on the front pair. Ears swivel forward, catching their mutters, the clink of crates unloading. Tail lashes slow, body coiling tighter against Master's side, claws flexing silent on the floorboards. Prey unaware, ripe for the strike, twenty alderians..

  I nuzzle his jaw quick, teeth grazing in promise. "Not silly," I murmur back, voice velvet soft. "Just hungry.".