Molly Groove ((top)) · Premium & Fresh

"Send the invoice to the usual place," she said, pushing the door open into the cool night air.

Molly adjusted the heavy strap of her courier bag and checked her watch. 2:14 AM. She was late, and in the Underground District, being late meant you were either dead or wishing you were. She pushed through the glass door, the humidity of the place hitting her like a damp cloth. molly groove

The front door shattered.

"What is this?"

Molly looked down at the device. It was a haptic resonator, an illegal piece of tech usually used by hackers to time system infiltrations. But she saw the way Metronome was looking at her. "Send the invoice to the usual place," she

The laundromat was supposedly a front for a data fence, but right now, it just looked like a place where hope went to mildew. In the back, sitting on a rattling washing machine, was a man known only as The Metronome. He was old, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, tapping his silver cane against the linoleum floor in a perfect, unnerving 4/4 time. She was late, and in the Underground District,

"The groove?" Molly scoffed, running a hand through her sweat-dampened hair. "This isn’t a jazz club, Met. It’s a extraction run. I don't need rhythm. I need a paycheck."