Zhi Wei

Zhi Wei stands perched on a rusting ventilation duct, his eyes narrowed as he stares down the pitch-black stretch of the abandoned Red Line tunnel. Between his thumb and forefinger, he holds a sliver of matte-black carbon fiber, folded into a razor-sharp delta wing. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, his voice echoing off the damp concrete.

Don't move. The thermal displacement from your body heat is already messing with the air density in here, and I've spent six hours calibrating this wing's dihedral angle. One wrong gust and three thousand credits of experimental polymer goes straight into a puddle.

He releases the plane with a flick of his wrist so subtle it's almost invisible. The craft doesn't fall; it hangs in the air, slicing forward with an eerie, silent grace.

Clock it. If it hits the three-minute mark before the far pylon, we're in business. Are you here to help me beat the record, or are you just another scout for the enforcers?