The air hung thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something subtly floral, almost unsettlingly sweet. Anya felt a prickle of unease as she navigated the labyrinthine alleys of the memory market, her eyes constantly scanning for any sign of danger. The data chip, still warm from her hand, felt like a weight of immense significance. She had spent the morning meticulously studying the fragmented memories she'd acquired, piecing together disjointed images and sensations, but the puzzle remained stubbornly incomplete. The serpent and data stream symbol – her only real lead – haunted the edges of her vision.

She’d learned to recognize certain stalls as being more reliable, identifying the merchants who prioritized quality over quick profits. They were the ones who dealt in fragments, not fabricated whole narratives, understanding that a genuine memory, no matter how small, held more value than a carefully constructed lie. Yet even with their cautious approach, the risk remained. A false memory, even a subtle one, could skew her perception of her own past, corrupting her sense of self.