The new Exchange was a gutted fish-packing plant on the south side of the harbour, a cavernous space that still smelled of brine and old ice even after three days of industrial cleaning. Axel had chosen it for its anonymity—the building was owned by a shell company that was owned by another shell company, and the power was drawn from a generator that didn't register on any municipal grid. It was a far cry from the brass chandeliers and curved monitors of the old trading floor, but it was functional. Bare concrete floors, folding tables sagging under the weight of salvaged servers, a single string of work lights hanging from the ceiling like a row of pale suns. The walls were lined with soundproofing foam that Axel had scavenged from a bankrupt recording studio. The windows were bricked ove
