Angela and Surya picked their way through the Outer Rim's crooked avenues, the sky overhead darkening with ash-streaked clouds. A single row of half-broken lanterns offered meager light, painting the surroundings in gloomy, rusted hues. Footsteps echoing off uneven cobblestones, they skirted crumbling shacks and puddles of foul water. It was an area where life felt suspended, where every cough and shuffle carried the weight of suspicion.
"You don't suppose he's still in these warrens, do you?" Angela asked quietly. She cast a look at a row of makeshift tents, each exuding a pungent stew of sweat and uncollected waste. "I'd rather hope Hayazaki—Filis, as they call him—left by now."
Surya gave a short nod, his eyes flicking around for signs of trouble. "I places like this. Nasty, claustrophobic, full of cunning predators. But that's exactly where his so-called leads keep pulling him."
