One by one, he laid the price on the crate between them: wire lengths, matchbox, copied notes for duplication, then the promise of first claim spoken aloud because that, apparently, was how this market made things real. Kellen took each item with quick care and passed Mara a folded strip of treated cloth marked with branching lines, symbols, and timing dots.

"You hit coolant rib six, cut through dead wash, wait for the route tone dip, then take the ladder with the red splice halfway down," Kellen said. "If you hear three clicks together, stop. If you smell hot plastic, back out. If you see intake white, don't run straight. They herd for straight."

Mara checked the cloth map, memorizing more than reading. "Anyone else know we're taking this?"

Kellen's pause was small. Small enough to matter.

"People know I do business," he said.

Mara said, "That's not what I asked."

He looked at her, then at Elias. "No names. Maybe ears. Same as always."

Which meant yes, in the only way that counted.

Mara tucked the map inside her jacket. "Then we leave now."

Elias pushed himself to his feet and had to use the crate to do it. The room tilted and righted, a hard pulse of pain cinching his ribs tight enough that he waited one extra breath before trusting his legs. He hated that both of them noticed. He hated more that Mara moved to the door without waiting to see whether he would follow, as if the choice had already been made and belonged to action now, not speech.

At the threshold she glanced back.