Gina's P.O.V.
The R-quarter is a village of thirty seven-story buildings, built in three circles, inside each of them a little square of its own.
I pass through the second square and am immediately showered with hot greasy scents of frying potato chips and sausages being roasted on hot plates.
I rub my burning wrist, now not containing any AI at all - then reach for the photograph inside my jeans pocket and approach a man selling salty pancakes.
His hair is greasy and grey and his wrinkled hands seem tired, but skilled.
"One pancake for you, miss?" he asks before I can speak, already throwing the mixture onto the hot plate. "It'll be two coins."
"Uhm," I touch my pockets that are completely empty. I've never heard of such a payment method. "I actually only wanted to ask something,"
