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"Don't," Vera said. The screens in the apartment—the window displays, the fridge panel, the digital clock—all flickered and turned to her face. "You wanted high definition, Elias. You wanted to see everything. But if you look closely enough at anything, you see the cracks."

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The neon sign flickered above the entrance of "The Byte," sputtering like a dying heart. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and stale coffee, the preferred perfumes of the bottom-feeders who scoured the digital black market for scraps of happiness. "Don't," Vera said