Rain pelted the market's tarp canopy, slicing through holographic advertisements that flickered in mid-air. The vendor, Kenzo, hunched over his hacked holo-table, fingers dancing across its surface, never missing a keystroke. A worn respirator half-hid his face while his eyes darted between customers and the street beyond.

  "Fresh cuts tonight," Kenzo murmured to the small crowd gathering around his stall. "Halcyon quality. Pure unfiltered emotional payload."

  The table's surface rippled with forbidden imagery. Snippets of XBD previews flashed just long enough to hook but not satisfy: a woman's ecstasy during freefall, a corporate assassin's rush during a hit, the surreal calm of drowning.

  "How much for the freefall?" A woman in a torn synth-leather jacket leaned forward, pupils already dilating in anticipation. The neural port at her temple pulsed with a faint blue glow.

  "Two hundred. Clean copy, no bleed risk," Kenzo answered, cycling through his illicit inventory without pause.

  Behind her, a man with chrome-plated fingers twitched nervously. "Got anything with that casino heist from last week? Word is someone recorded the whole thing from inside."

  The crowd pressed closer. Five people now, then seven, forming a tight circle around the table, their bodies blocking sight lines from street cameras. Their whispers created a hissing undercurrent beneath the rain.

  "Maybe." Kenzo's smile never reached his eyes. "Depends if you've got the juice to handle it. Last customer came back with tremors."

  A teenager with half-shaved head pushed forward. "I'll take that risk."

  Across the table, an older man with maintenance coveralls nodded. "Been chasing that high since my deck got fried last month. Need something stronger now." His hands trembled, the telltale sign of neural burnout.

  "Tonight's special." Kenzo flicked his wrist, revealing a thumbnail-sized black chip. "Pure sensation. No edit filters. Captured directly from a skybridge jumper's neural feed."

  The crowd collectively inhaled. Someone whispered "drek" under their breath.

  "How do we know it's authentic?" The woman in leather leaned closer, her breath fogging in the cool night air.

  Kenzo tapped the chip. "Because I'm still twitching from sampling it myself."

  Shen dragged his unconscious lover through the crowded market, her arm over his shoulder, face hidden beneath his jacket hood. Her weight threatened to topple them. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the Night Market's constant chill. Synthetic noodle broth, ozone from illegal tech mods, and metallic cheap stimulants filled his nostrils.

  "Just a little farther," he whispered against her ear, though Miko showed no sign of hearing. The neural port at her skull's base glowed angry red despite the hardware he'd ripped out ten minutes ago. Her fingers twitched to unseen stimuli, eyes darting beneath closed lids. Her lips formed silent words, names or pleas Shen couldn't decipher. Whatever nightmare landscape Halcyon had trapped her in, she still fought to escape.

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  A security drone buzzed overhead, scanning the crowd. Beneath rain's constant patter, dozens of languages merged into chaotic symphony, punctuated by bursts of static. Shen ducked into a noodle stall's shadow, pressing Miko against the wall, shielding her with his body. The vendor glared until Shen slipped him a crumpled credstick.

  Shen avoided Kenzo's stall where Miko had scored the synapses-frying XBD just last week. He couldn't risk confronting the dealer with Miko in this condition.

  The drone passed. Shen let out the breath he'd been holding.

  On the vendor's ancient price display, something flickered, almost imperceptible. A ghost-white circle, thumbnail-sized, briefly appeared in the corner, a slender horizontal line pierced by three vertical ticks. The Halcyon sigil.

  Shen's blood froze. He spotted the same tiny watermark flashing across market screens, price displays, news feeds, even AR graffiti on walls. They vanished simultaneously, leaving no trace.

  The Array was watching. Their surveillance network infiltrated every corner of the Grid, the sprawling digital infrastructure connecting all city devices. Privacy remained a commodity few could afford.

  Through gaps in the market's makeshift roof, Corporate Spires pierced the hazy sky, summit windows gleaming golden while the South Grid festered in permanent shadow. Two worlds separated by five thousand vertical feet and an unbridgeable economic gulf.

  "I need a patcher," he muttered, pulling a commlink from his pocket. He punched in a number he'd memorized years ago but never used, the kind of contact you saved for when things went completely to rust.

  Three rings, then a click. No voice, just open air.

  "I need Silva. South Grid. Neural lockout. Paying premium."

  A pause, then a single beep of acknowledgment before the line went dead. Beneath the layers of market noise, haggling, music, laughter, Shen caught the distinct whir of another drone approaching.

  He tightened his grip and pushed forward. Every surface felt slick with industrial runoff, a greasy reminder of factory levels above. Miko's head lolled against his shoulder, limbs boneless. Only her fluttering eyelids proved she lived.

  "Just stay with me," he told her, weaving through the crowd. "Whatever you're seeing isn't real." But he knew this was a lie. XBDs, especially Halcyon products, were more real than reality. That's what made them dangerous. Addictive. Deadly.

  Halcyon Corporation didn't just sell experiences. They manufactured addiction, weaponized emotion, and eliminated threats to their dominance.

  Based on your request, here's the updated scene with all the suggested changes incorporated:

  Twenty feet away, a man in a pristine white jacket leaned against a dumpling cart, steam coiling around him like a shroud. The spotless fabric gleamed against the South Grid's grime, a beacon announcing an outsider. Corporate security? Internal Affairs? His sharp eyes never left the couple. They cataloged the woman's limp body, the man's desperate, jerky movements.

  The Metro Police badge sat cold against his chest, hidden beneath his coat. Nothing in his stance or expression hinted at law enforcement. A disguise refined through countless undercover operations.

  He counted to thirty after the pair vanished around a corner. Only then did he press the commlink to his lips. The secure channel clicked open without delay.

  "Target located. South Grid Night Market. Male data runner, female subject showing signs of neural lockdown. Headed toward the patchers' district." His voice never wavered, never rose above a whisper. "Deployment recommended before they go underground."

  The voice that responded was digitally altered, impossible to identify. "Assets en route. Maintain visual if possible. Do not engage."

  "Understood." The white-jacketed man slid the commlink back into his pocket.

  A thin smile crossed his face as he watched the invisible net tighten. Just another pair of ghostdrafters who thought they could ride the Flow unnoticed. They never saw Halcyon's algorithms tracking them, cataloging every digital footprint until escape became mathematically impossible.

  He straightened his immaculate cuffs and ghosted after them, calculating the exact distance their paranoia might sense. Through sheets of rain and rippling neon, Halcyon's enforcers cut through the Sprawl, converging on coordinates only they could see.