Today's job was simple: get a sealed metal briefcase from the solar farm at the eastern edge of the sprawl to the old maritime museum on the western coast. Fifty-two kilometers. Sixteen traffic checkpoints. Three active construction zones. And a Category 2 monsoon cell moving in from the south.

"Too slow, big mama," Lina muttered.

She's someone who knows that every rule has a shadow. And shadows are just unblocked paths waiting to be driven.

"Unblocked," she whispered to herself.

She strapped the briefcase to the passenger seat with a bungee cord—her version of a seatbelt—and thumbed the ignition. The electric motor hummed, a low, patient growl. No roar. No flash. Just torque.