The casino, tucked away in an old freight terminal, had no name on the facade. Locals simply called it "The Hum"— a place where you could lose your money, and maybe even your mind. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and cheap perfume, and the ceiling sank into a pulsing dim light.

Spacelunch passed a row of slot machines, where regulars pressed the buttons like condemned souls, and stopped at the roulette table. Fraudlin, a scrawny gambling addict with a blank expression, was sucking the last puff out of a cigarette butt as if no one else existed. Suddenly, a figure in a long coat appeared beside him.

— You only show up when things get tough.
— Fair. Today I need your ears.
— Heard about Cat. Word is, the bracelet has changed hands — more than once. And not just the bracelet. Some data on your whereabouts, too.
— Any idea who's behind it?

Fraudlin flicked the ash, watching the roulette pill slide into a black slot.
— Rumour has it the trail runs through the old customs department. A lot of middlemen down there are working under the Corporation's wing. Too neat to be a coincidence.
— You think Cat set me up?
— Sometimes it's easier to blame the closest one than to admit you got outplayed.

Silence fell, full of second-guesses and afterthoughts. Spacelunch reached into his coat and tossed a credit chip onto the pile of chips.

— Let me know if anything new comes up.
— Don't worry. The Hum hears everything. Keep my channel open.