She leaned in just enough that her words were swallowed by the noise of the street. She jerked her chin toward the thoroughfare.
“APA monitors sweep through here every night,” she said quietly. “They don’t miss much.”
My grip tightened around the cup.
“Just… watch yourself, kid.”
She gestured subtly to the side.
I spotted them immediately.
Five soldiers moved through the market in a loose line, white armour gleaming under the lights. Each one carried a handheld APA scanner, raising it as they passed people — slow, methodical sweeps over bodies, pausing when the device chimed or flickered.
Market-goers were tested as they walked. Some barely broke stride. Others went rigid, breath held tight until the soldier waved them on.
No one spoke.
The scanners hummed softly — an ugly, insect-like sound that crawled under my skin.
My fingers went numb around the paper napkin. I lowered my head, easing backward into the crowd.
A hand landed on my shoulder.
I spun. A soldier in white stood in front of me, an APA scanner raised loosely in his grip.
“You,” he said. “State your APA rating.”
I froze, my heart hammering.
My gaze flicked around the market — people already turning away. Children pulled tight against their parents’ sides.
Heads dipped when they passed. No one wanted to see this.
My body coiled, ready to move.
“32L,” I rasped.
He tilted his head, unconvinced. “I’m just gonna confirm that. Hold still for the test.”
The scanner looked harmless. They always did.
Just another piece of tech.
But I knew better. I stared at it like it could burn me.
He stepped closer. I stepped back.
His head tilted again. “Failure to comply will result in arrest.”
“Wait!”
His grip closed around my arm — iron, unyielding. He lifted the scanner to my forehead.
It beeped.
Blank.
He stiffened.
