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She took the elevator down to operations. The corridors smelled of coffee and ozone, and small drones hummed like trapped bees. At 3 a.m., a maintenance crew with Radimpex badges and tired faces came back from a night shift, carrying a crate of hell-bent server blades labeled, in stenciled letters, "RDX-145." They nodded at Marta without surprise. Her insistence on seeing the crate's chain-of-custody produced only a look that read like friction and habit.

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