Celesque idly slaves her machine over to the loic for some nightly mischief and touches off the lights, then locks up her little shell company’s office. Analog affectations. She’s fenced quantum keys that would crack a national treasury, but wouldn’t get through this door.

They’re waiting in the lobby, smoothing their tailored suits.

“We have a car,” begins the tall one, but she’s already ditched for the fire exit, clawing at the hacked emergency beacon in her blazer pocket. They are so fast. She broadsides the red bar handle, and they have her hammerlocked before she realizes the alarm’s been cut.