Night was bleeding out into the first rays of dawn when she reached the town.

  The abandoned warehouse still smelled of like rust and old dampness.

  Nébula entered without removing her helmet. The contact was already there. Too early. Too still. A thin man, twitchy hands, a black earpiece poorly hidden beneath his hood.

  The briefcase passed from one hand to the other without ceremony.

  The contact set it down on a metal table and activated a portable scanner. A short beep. He nodded.

  —It’s intact.

  The payment arrived seconds later. Crypto transfer. Clean. Untraceable

  Nébula turned and walked out.

  Contract closed.

  The implant began to burn halfway through the trip.

  It wasn’t a sharp pain. It was something deeper. A constant heat, as if an internal component were misaligned and scraping living flesh with every movement.

  Her vision narrowed at times. The world became a tunnel. Her pulse spiked for no reason.

  She went back to the clinic.

  It was open.

  Strange for that hour.

  She entered without announcing herself.

  The doctor was alone, bent over a floating screen. Bluish light washed over his face. He wasn’t wearing gloves. He hadn’t been expecting anyone.

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  Nébula advanced in silence.

  On the screen: lines of data, graphs, genetic sequences slowly rotating.

  The doctor turned.

  He went pale.

  The data pad slipped from his hands and struck the floor with a dry crack. He took a step back, as if he had seen a ghost.

  —You… —he swallowed— How…?

  He recovered quickly. Too quickly.

  He forced a professional smile, shaky.

  —The implant— he said. —Is it hurting?

  Nébula didn’t answer. She crouched, picked up the data pad, and walked slowly to the examination table. She sat down. Rested her elbows on her knees.

  —What is this?— she asked, pointing at the screen.

  Between lines, she managed to read:

  Degraded genetic material.

  Estimated genetic match: None

  Species: Unknown

  The doctor hesitated a second too long.

  —Residual data from a previous patient— he said at last. —Old genetic material. A… statistical coincidence.

  He reached out, managing to take the device back.

  Silence.

  The implant burned again.

  —I need to recalibrate it— the doctor added quickly. —It’s misaligned. Nothing serious. But to do it properly… I’ll need a fresh sample of your blood.

  Nébula stared at him.

  —Just minimal tuning— he assured her. —Nothing invasive.

  —I want to see the results— she said. —All of them.

  The doctor nodded. Too fast.

  He prepared the equipment with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.

  The needle went in.

  Blood flowed through the transparent tube.

  Dark violet. Thick. The wound closed too fast.

  The doctor held his breath.

  —That’s just…— he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  He finished quickly. Sealed the sample. Stored the container with almost reverent care.

  He adjusted the implant.

  The burning stopped.

  —Better —he said. —For now.

  Nébula stood.

  —If anything else fails— she warned—I’ll be back.

  The doctor nodded.

  He didn’t try to stop her.

  For the first time, Nébula knew the desert wasn’t the only thing tracking her.

  The game had changed.

  Even if no one had said it out loud yet.