The Nest smelled like ozone and oil when Riven returned.
He was tweaking TOOLHAND's wrist module when the knock came.
Three slow. Two fast.
He hadn't told anyone about the place.
He slid the gauntlet on, flicked the coilgun attachment into ready mode, and opened the door an inch.
A girl stood there—early twenties, black jacket, eyes sharp.
"You're the guy with the glove."
Riven didn't answer.
"Relax. I'm not a cop. I'm a buyer."
She stepped in like she owned the floor.
Dropped a broken stealth drone on his bench.
"Fix it. I'll pay."
Riven studied it—military-grade, illegal, rare.
"Who are you?""Call me Ash.""Who sent you?""No one. Word travels. You want value, right?"
She tossed a chip on the table.
Ten thousand credits. Untraceable.
"Fix it in two days. Keep the chip. Say no, and this conversation never happened."
She turned and left like a shadow, not even glancing back.
Riven stared after her.
He didn't trust it.
But TOOLHAND buzzed at his side like it was hungry.
That night, while Riven reverse-engineered the drone, he failed to notice the small lens watching him from across the street.
Someone else had found him.
And they didn't want to buy.
They wanted to steal.