You are mid-swing between the tram cables and the harbour cranes when the police scanner taped to your shoulder crackles twice: silent alarm, Wren Street pawnshop, two blocks east. Your shift at the noodle counter starts in twenty minutes, and Mr Osei said one more late arrival finishes you. The thread hums under your palm the way it always does when somebody nearby is about to do something stupid. Below you, a van with its lights off rolls to a stop outside the pawnshop.