The Foundry runs on other people's joy. All night the machines hum, pulling the happiest hour out of each seller. By dawn the canisters land on Mara's desk, warm and faintly glowing. Her job is simple: scan, log, shelve, forget. She's done it for six years. Tonight a canister rolls down the chute with a name printed on the side. Her name. Mara Vance.

Mara doesn't scan it. She slides the canister into her coat and keeps working, logging the others like nothing happened. The cameras blink red in the corners. If anyone checks the count tonight, one canister will be missing, and it'll have her name on it.