The market did not wait for you to believe.
It only waited for you to have a price.
Marikka felt it before she saw anything. Not as attention, not as waiting. As measurement. A series of micro-verifications that crossed the space without stopping on her, but returned with provisional results.
Someone was crunching numbers.
The point where the street widened into an irregular square vibrated with silent exchanges. No shouting, no open bargaining. Hands passing objects without looking at each other, glances lasting only long enough for a quick evaluation. The cult would not take root here: too much concreteness, too little mystery.
Yet, there was a sign.
A symbol etched on a side slab, small, almost erased. Not sacred. Recognizable. Marikka felt it react when she passed it, as if it had been waiting for exactly that kind of presence.
She stopped.
She rested her fingers on the stone.
The vibration was double. An ancient, ritual line, superimposed on a newer, sharp, functional one. Someone had reused a sign of faith as a passage marker.
Market over cult.
Serian stirred in the case. A dry, irritated tremor.
Marikka wrote in the notebook:
NOT HERE.
She didn't know who she was addressing. She found out immediately.
"It depends on what you're looking for."
The voice came from the left, too quickly for Marikka to intercept it with a gesture. A delay. Again.
She turned.
The man who spoke was unremarkable. Clean clothes, worn in the right places. Hands that had touched many different things. He wore no symbols. He didn't need them.
"I'm not selling," he added. "I'm evaluating."
Marikka took a step back. The stone under her feet responded with a stable impulse. Not alarm. Compatible context.
She wrote:
I AM NOT BUYING.
The man smiled. "I know."
He gestured toward Serian's case. He didn't point openly. He considered it.
"That's why you are interesting."
Marikka felt Serian's echo contract. Not pain. Forced recognition.
She wrote:
WHO SENT YOU.
"No one," the man replied naturally. "People like me aren't sent. We find out."
A true answer. Not complete.
"I heard the right word," he continued. "In the wrong place. And I followed the discrepancy."
The square around them continued to function. No one was observing them openly. But the vibrations changed direction too precisely to be accidental.
Marikka wrote:
IT IS NOT FOR SALE.
The man tilted his head. "Neither am I."
A pause.
"But some things can be moved without being sold."
Serian trembled strongly.
Marikka felt the saturation rise. Too many overlapping lines: residual faith, active calculation, distant registry. The world was speaking in three different languages, none of which were waiting for an answer.
She wrote:
SPEAK.
The man seemed relieved. "I don't want you."
Marikka stiffened.
"I want the echo," he clarified. "Temporarily."
Serian reacted with a broken vibration, almost a sob.
"A controlled reading," the man continued. "No public exposure. No names. Just access."
Marikka felt the void where a moral vibration should have been. The market didn't judge. It estimated.
She wrote:
WHY NOT FAITH.
The man smiled, this time with a hint of weariness. "Faith wants meaning. The registry wants coherence. I want predictability."
He pointed to the slab with the reused symbol. "See? That was sacred. Now it just indicates where to pass."
Marikka understood.
Faith interpreted.
The market abstracted.
Serian was not a voice. He was not a proof. He was a precedent that could become a model.
She wrote:
IT IS A VIOLENCE.
The man did not deny it. "It is a use."
A word that hurt more than any threat.
"If I don't do it," he added, "someone with fewer scruples will."
Marikka felt the pressure return to her shoulders, heavier. The frame, the notification, now this. Every system proposed a different form of reduction.
She wrote slowly:
AND THE REGISTRY.
"It doesn't like what it doesn't understand," the man replied. "But it tolerates what makes things stable."
Serian trembled again, weaker.
Marikka closed her eyes for an instant. The world was not asking if. It was choosing how.
She wrote:
NO.
The word landed dryly.
The man observed her with renewed attention. Not surprise. Recalculation.
"Then someone else will make the offer," he said. "And they will use the language of faith."
Marikka felt a cold shiver. Not fear. Convergence.
The man took a step back. "Think about it. The value doesn't disappear when you refuse it. It changes hands."
Then he turned and walked away, swallowed by the flow.
The square resumed its rhythm.
Marikka remained motionless.
She felt the symbol on the stone vibrate again for an instant, then fall silent. Compressed faith. Dominant market.
Serian was silent. Too much so.
Marikka closed her hand into a fist. The vibration arrived late. A small signal, but new.
The world had begun to price what it could not possess.
And when the market starts doing that, it's not to buy.
It's to prepare to replace.