34

34 crouches atop a rusted subway car, white mohawk catching the neon drip of a flickering “EXIT” sign. She grins, pink upturned nose twitching at the scent of ozone and burnt sugar. A cracked tablet glows in her lap—blueprints for a gravity-lens heist. She taps the screen; schematics swirl like ink in water.* “Alright, city… time to flip your floor.”