Rin reached Twelve‑Lower before the arguments did.
The district felt hungover.
Shutters were half‑open, as if stall owners could not decide whether today was safe enough to pretend to be normal. People moved in short bursts door to stall, stall to corner, corner to door never lingering long in open space.
The scanner arch was gone.
Only four round scars in the concrete marked where it had stood.
Someone had chalked a crude red circle over one of them.
Rin touched it with the tip of her boot.
A kid's voice drifted from a nearby doorway.
"That is where it screamed," he said.
Rin glanced up.
Three children crouched in the shadow of a stairwell, eyes on her.
The oldest, maybe twelve, tilted his head.
"You were here," he said.
Rin adjusted her hood.
"Lots of people were here," she said.
"You were close," he persisted. "By the arch."
His gaze flicked to the small lens at her collar.
Not many people noticed it.
He did.
Sharp.
"Name," she asked.
