No One Looks Up

It belonged to The Crimson Broker, or to one of the many institutions willing to rent the villain's methods while condemning the villain's name in public. The gear was expensive and deliberately anonymous: matte ceramic armor, pulse cuffs, gene-lock needles, quiet drones with no municipal registration. The operators did not shout. They cataloged. They did not rescue. They acquired. The thought hit Kieran with cold clarity. The world had changed, and within weeks people had already invented a market, a doctrine, or a theology for suffering. He moved before he felt ready. That was becoming the shape of his life. He crossed broken pavement, let the first pulse round strike his shoulder, and used the pain as a lesson.