Before she left, Dejah paused. The attic was cluttered with the debris of the Kensington family's past. Old chairs, broken lamps. In the corner, sticking out of a box of moth-eaten coats, was a teddy bear.

It was missing an eye. The stuffing was coming out of its stomach.

It was hers. Or it had been, when she was five. Jenna had taken it one day, demanding it because she was "sad." Dejah found it a week later in the trash, cut to pieces with scissors.

She picked it up. She didn't feel sadness. She felt a cold, hard resolve. She put the bear back.

Voices drifted up through the floorboards. The insulation in the attic was non-existent, turning the floor into a diaphragm that amplified the sounds from the master bedroom below.

Dejah lay on the floor, pressing her ear to the wood. Her hearing focused, filtering out the hum of the pipes.

"...can't touch her now," Kathryn was saying, her voice shrill. "Not with Vanderbilt sniffing around. If she disappears into surgery and something goes wrong, he'll ask questions."

"We need the money, Kathryn!" That was Dejah's father-her adoptive father-Robert. "The stocks are tanking. If we don't get the Sterling investment, we lose the house."

"I know!" Kathryn snapped. "That's why tomorrow is crucial. Elder Sterling is coming. He's obsessed with health. We show him a happy, healthy family. We charm him. Once the check clears, we deal with Dejah. Vanderbilt will get bored eventually. Men like him always do."

Sterling.

Dejah's mind accessed the database. Elder Sterling. Net worth: 4 billion. Collector of antiquities. Medical history: Chronic heart condition, multiple bypasses.

A plan formed. It was elegant. It was dangerous.

She stood up. She checked her pockets. She had the wooden carving from Casimir (for radiation stability) and a small tin case. Inside the case were six special alloy needles. She had stolen them from a medical supply shipment years ago. They weren't silver, but a high-tensile titanium blend, perfect for deep tissue penetration.

She climbed out the skylight. The roof tiles were slippery with frost. She moved like a shadow, distributing her weight on the balls of her feet to avoid creaking. She reached the drainage pipe and slid down, wrapping her legs around the metal.

She landed in the flowerbed, avoiding the motion sensors she had mapped out years ago. She didn't vault the wall-her knees wouldn't take the impact. Instead, she used a stack of old pallets to climb over, moving methodically.

She walked for two miles to the subway station. She pulled a stash of cash-fifty dollars in small bills-from the lining of her shoe. It was her emergency fund, saved penny by penny over a decade.

The train to Queens was empty except for a few drunks. One of them, a man with a scarred face, leered at her. She stared back, her face hidden in the shadow of a baseball cap. She let a little bit of the "Killing Intent" leak out. He looked away, muttering.

She got off at a stop near an industrial park. She walked to a laundromat that had a "Closed" sign permanently taped to the window.

She walked to the back, to a large commercial dryer that was out of order. She tapped a rhythm on the metal side: tap-tap-pause-tap-tap-tap.

The dryer swung open. It was a door.

She ducked through.

Stairs led down into the earth. The air grew hot and thick. The sound of heavy bass thumped in her chest.

The Bazaar.

It was a cavernous underground space, an old prohibition-era smuggling tunnel turned into a black market. Stalls lined the walls, selling everything from illegal firearms to endangered species.

She pulled her cap lower. She needed money. Fast.

She walked toward the "Junk" sector.

Up on a metal catwalk overlooking the market, a man in a tailored suit swirled a glass of whiskey. Casimir Vanderbilt looked down at the chaos below.

"You're obsessed," Nate said, nursing his swollen nose.

"I'm curious," Casimir corrected. He pointed down. "Look. That kid. The way he walks."

The Bazaar was a sensory nightmare. Neon lights flickered, casting seizure-inducing strobes over the crowd. The smell was a mix of exotic spices, unwashed bodies, and ozone.

Dejah moved through the crush of people like water. She didn't bump into anyone. She anticipated their movements before they made them.

High above, Casimir leaned over the railing. "He moves like a ghost," he whispered. "Just like her."

"It's a dude," Nate said. "Look at the clothes."

"Clothes lie," Casimir said. "But the gait? The conservation of energy? That's a fingerprint."

Dejah stopped at a stall that looked like a garbage heap. It was piled high with rusted metal, old electronics, and books. The vendor was a man with an eyepatch and a hook for a hand-a cliché, but a dangerous one.

He was currently yelling at a tourist who was trying to buy a plastic amulet.

Dejah's eyes scanned the pile of rust. Her fingers twitched. The magnetic resonance was back. It was faint, buried under layers of oxidation, but it was there. A specific frequency that sang to her nerves.

She reached into a box of old screws and pulled out a coin. It was caked in green and brown crud. It looked like a flattened bottle cap.

"Put that down," the vendor growled. "Not for sale."

"Five bucks," Dejah said. Her voice was pitched lower, rougher, utilizing the chest resonance she had practiced.

"Fifty," the vendor spat. "Or get lost."

Dejah reached into her pocket. She pulled out the wad of crumpled bills she had taken from her shoe.

She held out the cash.

"I'll take it," a voice boomed from behind her.

A gloved hand reached out and pointed at the coin. An elderly man in a pristine white suit stood there, leaning on a cane. Elder Sterling.

Beside him was his grandson, Miles, looking bored and arrogant.

"Five hundred," Sterling said.

The vendor's single eye widened. He snatched the coin from Dejah's hand. "Sold! To the gentleman in white!"

Dejah didn't move. She looked at the vendor, then at Sterling.

"I had it first," she said.

Miles stepped forward. He was a head taller than Dejah. "Beat it, street rat. Do you know who this is? This is Mr. Sterling. He buys what he wants."

"I don't care if he's the Pope," Dejah said calmly. "We had a verbal contract."

Up on the balcony, Casimir grinned. "Oh, this is getting good. The kid has claws."

Sterling looked at Dejah with interest. "Why do you want a rusty piece of metal, boy?"

"Because," Dejah said, "it's not rust. It's a ferrous oxide crust protecting a core of 24-karat gold. This is a Roman Aureus. Minted in 44 BC. Specifically, the 'EID MAR' coin celebrating the assassination of Julius Caesar. The weight is exactly 8.1 grams. Gold this pure has a specific density that feels different in the hand."

The silence that followed was absolute. The vendor's hook hand trembled.

"You're lying," Miles scoffed. "It's junk."

"Check the weight," Dejah said. "Scratch the edge."

Sterling looked at the vendor. "Scratch it."

The vendor took a knife and scraped the edge of the coin. A gleam of pure, buttery gold shone through the grime.

Sterling gasped. "My god."

The vendor stared at the gold. Then greed washed over his face. A dark, ugly greed.

"Not for sale," the vendor said, pulling the coin back to his chest. "Mistake. Not for sale."

"We had a deal!" Miles shouted, his face turning red.

The vendor whistled. From the shadows behind the stall, three massive men emerged. They were built like tanks, with scars and tattoos covering their arms.

"This is the Bazaar," the vendor sneered. "There are no laws here. Give me your wallets. Both of you. And the old man's watch."

Sterling clutched his chest, his face paling. "You... you can't..."

The thugs stepped forward. The crowd around them evaporated, forming a wide circle. No one wanted to get hit by stray blood.

Casimir set his drink down on the railing. "Should we?" Nate asked.

"Wait," Casimir said. "Let's see."

Dejah sighed. "This is inefficient."

The vendor lunged for Sterling's lapel.

Dejah moved.

She grabbed a rusted iron pipe from the table. She didn't swing it like a bat-she didn't have the strength for home runs. She used it as an extension of her limb.

She thrust the end of the pipe into the soft spot of the vendor's armpit, hitting the brachial plexus. The vendor screamed, his arm going numb instantly, dropping the coin.

Dejah caught the coin with her left hand before it hit the ground.

The first thug threw a punch. Dejah dropped to her knees, letting his fist sail over her head. She jammed the pipe behind his knee and pulled. Leverage. His own weight brought him down. As he fell, she drove her elbow into his temple. He collapsed, howling.

The second thug tried to kick her. Dejah rolled, coming up behind him. She threw a handful of metallic dust from the table into his eyes. While he was blinded, she kicked the back of his knee, forcing him down.

The third thug hesitated.

Dejah stood up, twirling the pipe. She looked at him. She let the intent flow.

He turned and ran.

It was over in twelve seconds.

Miles was staring at Dejah with his mouth open. Sterling was clutching his cane, trembling.

"Impressive," Casimir murmured from the balcony. "Very impressive."

The vendor was cradling his numb arm, sobbing.

Dejah walked over to Sterling. She held up the coin.

"Six million," she said. "Transfer it to this account." She handed him a slip of paper with a number scrawled on it. "It's an offshore crypto-wallet. Instant clearing. No banks, no waiting."

Sterling looked at the coin, then at Dejah. "Six... yes. Yes! It's worth ten! You saved my life!"

"Just business," Dejah said.

Sterling nodded to Miles. "Do it. Now."

Miles tapped furiously on his phone. A moment later, Dejah's burner phone buzzed. Funds Verified. 6,000,000 USD equivalent.

Dejah turned to leave.

Behind her, there was a gasp. Then a thud.

Dejah turned back. Sterling was on the ground. His hands were clawing at his chest. His face was turning a terrifying shade of purple.

"Grandfather!" Miles screamed. "Help! Someone help!"

Cardiac arrest.