“I’m certain we can draw alpha‑1 maintenance fluid used by humanoids straight from the atrium. Its effect—”

“It boosts heart growth, speeds metabolism, drives blood flow. In a human, it’s a lullaby spiked with lightning.”

Manstein nodded. Frost breathed from the portable freezer as he pulled a thin glass tube with clear liquid and passed it to Leon.

“No model. Not in the registry. No nanomech particles. Blacker than any back‑alley shop. Detective, want a sniff? Maybe you’ll know whose den cooked it.”

Leon lifted the nano filter film, took a careful whiff, and shook his head. He started to hand it back. A pale hand flowed in and stole the tube.

The grab shocked him. Both men turned. The taker was the silver‑haired woman in a baseball cap, brim shadowing most of her face like moonlight under a peak.

“Who are you—”

“You’re off. There are nanobots left, but not a full mesh.”

Leon reached to snatch the tube. She just kept talking, easy as wind, bold as brag.

Manstein’s gear wasn’t faith‑based. The portable freezer was top‑shelf field kit: collect, sample, analyze, store—one box. Thanks to nanotech, it was light, always computing, shifting its inner lattice.

And she glanced once and claimed more? Who did she think she was, a Reaper schoolkid?

The old meme rose like stale smoke. Leon felt a weight settle in his chest.

“Give it.”

“Wait, I can still run a check—”

“Give it.”

He cut her no slack. He held out his hand, voice cold as rain tin.

She froze, then raised her head. The brim lifted, and a clean, beautiful face surfaced like a pale moon.

“Why? I’ve found a lead—”

Metal screamed above them. The sound ripped the sky. Leon’s gut clenched; old instinct bit. He shoved Manstein aside, grabbed the rookie, and dove for cover.

“Down!”

The tenement’s safety ladder tore free and crashed with a rusted shriek, biting deep into the ground beside them. If not for his quick push, they’d be more than torn sleeves.

Leon rolled and looked to the rooftop. The culprit didn’t flee; he loomed up there, watching like a crow on a rail.

“Damn it—Manstein, call in drone support! I’m going up!”

The shadow turned to run. Leon took three steps as two. He hit the dropped ladder and climbed hard into the rain, not waiting for an answer.

Manstein sucked air through his teeth, clutching a scraped arm. “That idiot still doesn’t carry a gun… You, come here. I’m opening permissions. Get up there before the drones arrive and back Leon!”

His fingers slid over a virtual screen; police flags unlocked like bright seals. He slapped open a portable tactical case and pulled a long black box with a grip, thin as a small laptop.

Ignore the handle, and no one would call it a weapon.

“Take it—”

“No need. I’m better with my own.”

The rookie smiled and pushed the box away. She sprang onto the black ladder, body light, silver hair fanning into the rain like a river.

Watching her outrun even Leon, Manstein sighed heavy. The commotion drew other officers. He roared through the storm.

“Quit staring! You need me to teach you your jobs? Surround that bastard!”

Leon ran wild over the rooftop. One hand on the air‑con vent, he vaulted in a clean, cloud‑flow motion over the hulking box.

Spectators would have gasped at the liquid grace. Leon didn’t feel grace; he felt drag. The rain hammered on. The slick roof warned with every step. The black shadow sprinted like it feared nothing, body careless of breaks. That kind is the worst to catch.

Keep this up, I’ll lose him.

“Tsk.”

He chose danger. He cut across to the edge, hit the safety rail, and launched for the trash chute pipe on the next building like a swallow cutting through rain.

He caught the pipe and used it like a springboard, swinging for a window. His shoulder slammed into the iron security grate.

A sharp hiss tore from his teeth. Pain lit hot. He thanked the slum under his breath; without these primitive grates, he’d have nothing to push off.

He stepped on the grid and bounded through the tight gap between buildings. The black figure aimed to clear the roof edge—Leon caught him mid‑air.

Thud!

He used the body as a cushion and crashed into a concrete pipe. Bone cracked crisp, a sound that iced the neck.

“Spit… you’re hard to grab.”

Concrete doesn’t forgive. He went for cuffs—

The figure snapped up from the pipe, bending back like a bow. Both soles kicked Leon’s forearms, drove him stumbling.

The shadow moved fast. A hand dove into the coat. That sparked Leon’s nerves. He surged, caught both wrists, but he was one heartbeat late.

Bang, bang!!

The gun roared. Powder burned the rain like bitter smoke. Heat scraped his brow. Training seized his frame.

Shoulder bump. Knee strike. Wrist fold. One smooth chain.

The black pistol dropped into the water. Leon slid behind, clamped the wrist, and set to dump the figure onto the grey.

The figure had read the move. He drove his crown at Leon’s chin. Leon let go to guard.

Krav Maga won’t carry it—switch to jiu‑jitsu.

His hands locked like iron gates. Using the backward lean, he looped the neck. His palm pinned the head.

“Don’t move. One twitch and I snap your neck!”

He barked. The figure reached into the coat again, bold as a boar. That meant a muzzle to the ribs. Even a snapped neck might be too late. His face blanched; maybe this thing wasn’t human.

Pop, pop, pop!

Three soft cracks stitched the rain. Three clean holes bloomed on the hand hidden in the coat. The silver‑haired girl stood on the opposite vent box, assault rifle steady, rain beading on the barrel like cold pearls.

Leon released the right arm and shifted into a proper arrest hold. A hard knee. A hand on the head. He pinned the last arm and ground the figure into wet concrete.

“Huuh… huuh…”

No luck in his chest. He calmed his breath and cinched the cuffs tight. He knew it clear: without the rookie, he’d already be a chalk outline.

“Where’d you get an old‑school assault rifle?”

“What, that’s all you’ll say to your lifesaver?”

The rifle winked out of the air, swallowed by nanotech like mist off a stream. Leon watched, and the meaning tilted.

“Tactical humanoid? Pulled off the front line batch?”

“Correct~”

She stepped up, not angry at being called out, but bright and eager. She snapped a straight salute, crisp as a blade.

“Griffin Security Company, private ops squad, direct‑combat humanoid—Natalie, saluting you.”