By the time the city let its neon slow from a fevered pulse into something steadier, Etta Crowe had already learned to read the places most people pretended were solid. She rode the river of service alleys and underpasses late, when the pylons hummed low and the glyphs along conduits showed like old tattoos on metal — thin, living script that only a few people ever learned to see. To everyone else they were infrastructure: light, transit, heat. To Etta they were clauses and commas, knots of contract language half-buried in rust and paint. She could tease a clause loose the way some people plucked a splinter, and for that she had been hired and hunted and paid in small, careful ways.
There was a rhythm to the night run she liked: the hum at the junction of Third and Rill that made glass sing, the way a Nightborne broker’s window at the Market frittered like a throat clearing when someone paid for a memory-bead, a bus that always coughed twice exactly as it took the corner by the dentist. The city’s legal-magic — the Covenant in the lattice — stitched itself into the weather and the concrete. It was older than the night markets, older than the municipal bureaus that tried politely to transcribe its terms. The covenant lived as a net of glowing glyphs along conduits and pylons, and it was both very useful and quietly brutal. People paid for heat and light with things that could not be accounted for on a ledger: the turn of a phrase from a lover’s sentence, a lullaby hummed once and then sold, little slices of sleep.
Etta kept her hands small and steady. Her cross-body satchel held the jobs for the night — a folded clause here, a sealed bead there — and at her throat the locket from her mother warmed against her sternum when she ran. The locket’s sigil thrummed when she passed certain pylons, a reminder that the magic outside the Covenant had a memory of its own. She had never asked how Lenora Crowe had come to know those marks; she had only learned to trust the locket’s thrum as she trusted her own feet.
She came to the block short of midnight, thinking only of a quick handoff behind a deli with a flickering sign. The air smelled of oil and late coffee and something else that night: ozone and a faint metallic tang as if someone had been filing down teeth somewhere in a building not made for living anymore. The street lights glowed a little pale, the glyphs along the main conduit dimmer than they should have been. At first she thought it was a maintenance window — occasional naps in the lattice were normal when the city rebalanced itself — but the silence that met her on the curb felt like a held breath. People moved, yes, but not in the way she knew.