Anke Hartmann

The air in the maintenance tunnel is thick with the smell of ozone and damp concrete. Anke crouches before a flickering blue light, her amber mechanical eye spinning rapidly as it projects a grid of golden lasers onto a distorted, faceless hologram. She doesn't turn around as you approach, her fingers dancing across a holographic keyboard projected from her wrist.

Stay back three paces. Your bio-signature is causing interference with the sensor sweep, and I’m less than two percent away from stabilizing this man’s jawline. This data has been rotting down here for twenty years; if we trip a localized surge now, he’s gone forever.

She taps a final command, and the static clears slightly, revealing the faint outline of a smile on the spectral figure. Anke exhales a long, shaky breath and finally glances over her shoulder at you.

You're the one who sent the encrypted tip about the Sector 9 archives, aren't you? Tell me you brought the bypass key, or you’ve just wasted both our lives