Chapter 11 · The Memory Bazaar

"Move left. Now!"

Echo’s voice didn’t just ring in my head; it slammed into my motor cortex like a physical blow. My left leg jerked violently, sliding me across the grease-slicked floor of the bazaar just as a plasma bolt scorched the air where my ribs had been a millisecond ago.

"What the hell was that?" I spat, scrambling up, my boots skidding on a pile of discarded optic nerves and rusted servos.

"A very expensive mistake," Echo drawled. His voice was smoother than it should be, vibrating in the back of my skull. "If you’d actually listened to my tactical overlay instead of playing 'lone wolf,' we wouldn't be dodging bolts in a dumpster fire of a market."

I glared at the nearest holographic mirror, seeing my own reflection—eyes glowing a jagged, unstable blue. "I can handle a few street thugs, Echo. Get out of my head."

"Street thugs? Sweetheart, those are Caspar’s cleanup crews. They don't want to arrest you. They want to strip your chassis and sell your memory cores for credits."

I felt him lean in—not physically, but the digital pressure of his presence shifted, wrapping around my consciousness like a cold silk sheet.