There’s a place where Runners let their guard down. Criminals freely trade corporate secrets, anarchs publish their manifestos, and shapers demonstrate remarkable proofs of concept to their fellow enthusiasts. Such a place would ordinarily be a deathtrap for a runner who’d been on the wrong side of the corp— unless that corp had no way to get in.

That place is Runner’s Row. A little known alley on the net with encryption strong enough to keep out all but the most accomplished digital scofflaws. A runner’s simple presence here was proof enough that she belonged. If any corp employee were good enough to get in, they’d quit their job and take the drastic raise that running for corporate secrets would provide.

Runners would much rather meet out there, mind you. But if they even so much as peeked through their windows in meatspace, seccams would be all over them like a junkie on stim. Most of the Row’s patrons dwelled in the “free city” of ChiLo, whose reputation belied the fact that it had more roving cameras than any other city on Earth or off— approximately 98 per person. But runners flocked here from BosWash, NeoTokyo, New Angeles, Heinlein— you couldn’t see this stuff anywhere else.

For a couple creds, a runner can gain admittance to one of the exclusive nightlife spots here, reserve a table, and hold court with others like her. She can rub elbows with the most elite runners on the net, and if she plays her cards right, she might walk away with code of a bleeding edge new icebreaker. She’s equally as likely to walk away with nothing more than an anecdote of a fellow hacker’s near-flatline experience in a maze of rampaging bioroids.

You’d heard about this place, and after six months of hacking away at the encryption, you’ve made it. Through a combination of custom-built hardware, a bevy of clever programs, and with the right connections, you’ve penetrated one of the most exclusive venues in netspace. Rub some elbows. Show us what’s next.