Three rings. A click. A voice like gravel and old whiskey.
"Everyone's chipped, Detective. Social credit, medical history, transit passes. But this isn't a municipal chip." Thorne produced a small handheld scanner, its screen flickering with angry red error messages. "It's running a proprietary encryption I can't break. And it's not in his skull. It's wrapped around his brainstem like a parasitic vine. This man wasn't just chipped. He was wired ." doa 061
She dialed.