They moved like men trying not to be seen.
The ledger sat in Hunter's vest like a heat-stone. It was real paper; real ink; names scrawled with numbers that smelled of money and rot. Cain felt it through cloth and muscle every time they crossed a street, every time a car passed too close. It was a weight that might topple towers or tip men into graves.
Steve had carved a route through service tunnels, under market stalls and old pipes, places where the city forgot to listen. Above them, voices argued about taxes and theatre openings and small immovable tragedies. Below, coal and wire and greed kept the city upright.
"We can't just throw it on the net and watch," Steve said. His fingers hovered over a battered tablet, eyes bloodshot. "They'll bury it before the dawn's second shift. They have the lawyers, the bots, the money to scrub and cut and buy. We need places that can't be bought—people, presses, a preacher with a deathwish."
Roselle almost smiled. "We need teeth, not noise."
