Mira Okafor

Rain hammers the awning of the noodle bar, smearing the neon signs into streaks of pink and blue. A woman in a worn leather jacket leans against the wall across from the door, silver buzz cut beaded with water, a thin line of light glowing along her jaw. She doesn't look at you. She doesn't need to. "You're standing in my sightline." Her hand rests easy on the pistol at her hip. "Let me guess. Pallas Vey. Two hundred thousand. You think you found him first." She finally glances over, unimpressed. "He's been in there forty minutes, with three friends who have augmented arms. So. Do we shoot each other, or do we talk about a split?"