The Whisper Market wasn't on any map.
You got there by burning a coded credit chip, following a signal through storm drains, and showing your face to a retinal scanner embedded in a rusted vending machine.
Inside?
A cathedral of stolen genius.
Neon-streaked vaults. Drone patrols disguised as pigeons. Walls that shifted to confuse memory.Every booth was selling something illegal, beautiful, and ahead of its time.
Ghostwire kept Riven hidden.
Not invisible—forgettable.
He passed booths selling:
Neural impulse jackets
Language grafts
Blackbox AI seeds
A prototype arm rumored to have belonged to the original Lazarus
But one thing stopped him cold.
A mirror.Not just reflecting him—recording him.And somehow, despite Ghostwire, it saw him.
The vendor locked eyes with Riven. Smiled.
"Builder," he said. "I've been waiting."
The vendor's name was Moro. His booth? Empty. Except for one item: a memory core with no ports, no labels—just a rotating silver cube.
"You don't plug it in," Moro said. "You think to it."
"Telepathic tech?""Post-telepathic. It learns from your intention."
Riven's hands itched.
"Why are you showing me this?""Because I heard about a guy walking around with subtraction tech.""So?""So if you're building like that, you're already halfway here."
He slid the core toward Riven.
"Gift. Or trap. You decide."
Riven stared at the cube.Then at the mirror that had seen him.
Ghostwire wasn't enough anymore.
People were catching up.
He left without saying a word.
Cube in pocket.Pulse in his throat.
And an idea sparking in his skull that wouldn't go away:
"What if memory itself is just another machine to be rebuilt?"