Welcome to the Drift - Issue #1.

The Vellari straightens slightly as Agneya and Berk draw near, the glow of their eye implants flaring faintly in recognition. Their voice comes out low and metallic, carrying the clipped efficiency of someone who doesn’t waste breath on pleasantries.

"No one here yet," they state, scanning the alley behind the pair before looking back. "Regex sent me ahead to sweep the area—clear out the gutter trash before the trade starts."

A faint, almost imperceptible gesture follows—one armored gauntlet angling toward the cracked warehouse doors, as if granting silent permission.

"You’re good to look around," the Vellari continues, their gaze already drifting past Agneya and Berk, tracking movement somewhere deeper in the industrial sprawl. "Got a few minutes before anyone else shows."

The implication is clear: whatever they did to "clear out" the previous occupants was quick, efficient, and not something the Vellari feels the need to elaborate on. The air still smells faintly of scorched metal and burnt synth-fabric, and somewhere in the shadows, a dented dumpster lid swings lazily on its hinge.

Berk and Agneya slip past the Vellari and make their way inside, the heavy warehouse doors groaning as they push them open. The drone flits off in a smooth arc, its optics whirring as it scans the exterior and upper rafters for potential entry points—windows, vents, or loose panels where Vask might try to slip in.

The interior of the warehouse is a graveyard of forgotten industry. Stacks of crates line the floor, their wood swollen with age and iron bands streaked with rust. Many have already collapsed under their own weight, spilling heaps of brittle gears and corroded machine parts across the concrete like broken bones. The air is thick with the tang of oxidized metal and dust that clings to the back of the throat.

In one corner, a pair of robotic loaders sit slumped against the wall like skeletal sentinels, their plating tarnished and joint servos locked in place. They’re old—centuries at least—and it’s hard to tell if they’d power up at all, let alone be of any use.

Exploring further, the pair climb a half-rotted staircase to a small office overlooking the warehouse floor. The glass windows are cracked but mostly intact, offering a clear vantage point of the entire interior. A broken desk, a scatter of papers fused together by moisture, and a rusted terminal sit abandoned inside. From up here, they have the perfect overlook of the space—a good place to set up an ambush or keep watch as the deal goes down.

A few tense minutes tick by inside the crumbling warehouse, the silence broken only by the distant hum of Berk’s drone circling overhead and the occasional drip of water falling through the leaky roof. Then, the sound of footsteps echoes from the main entrance—measured, deliberate.

Regex Xil enters first, his long coat trailing slightly behind him, the faint glow of his cybernetic eye implants catching the dim light. His presence seems to command the empty space, every movement calm but sharp, like a man already calculating a dozen outcomes.

Just behind him pads the Gloam—small, wiry, and jittery, its wide eyes flicking about nervously. Despite its restless movements, it carries something with surprising care: a black metal case clutched tightly to its chest, its glossy surface reflecting the broken beams of light filtering in through the skylights.

The pair make their way toward the center of the warehouse. Regex doesn’t glance around or fidget; he walks as though he already owns the ground beneath his boots. The Gloam keeps closer, half-shielding the case as though the shadows themselves might lunge to snatch it away.

When they reach the middle of the floor, Regex stops dead center, planting his boots firmly on the cracked concrete. The Gloam steps just to his side, clutching the case in both hands. The two of them stand there silently, waiting—the stillness of their posture only heightening the tension in the air, as though the deal has already begun before anyone else has even arrived.