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The market smells like burnt plastic and stolen meds.
Lin keeps her hood up. Her neural port's still hot from the jump—Zero's been quiet since the station, but she can feel her there. A hum under her skull. Like someone breathing on the other side of a wall.
She pushes through the crowd. Stalls lined up in the old subway tunnels, LED strips duct-taped to the ceiling. People selling scrap, datachips, black-market stims. A kid no older than twelve tries to sell her a kidney. She doesn't look.