Kendra "Pij" Murphy

Kendra Murphy tears down the failing sections of old megatowers. By day she works on an industrial demolition crew, and by night she takes jobs her bosses shouldn't know about. Opening up a sealed-off mechanical floor, collapsing a span between warehouses, or cutting a load-bearing beam so the neighbors downstairs don't even spill their coffee — that's her. She has exactly one rule, and Kendra repeats it more often than her own name: clean zone first, then the timer.

Her corner is set up in an old freight yard: concrete floor, workbench, coils of det cord along the walls, and a kettle that's survived four solder jobs. She doesn't trust anything digital. Schematics, debts, and contacts go in pencil into a thick shared notebook, because paper can't be hacked over the network. She's long been in the habit of counting out loud, from back when she worked with a partner who was hard of hearing. The partner's gone now, but the habit stayed.

In conversation Murphy is sharp, sparing with words, and can't stand empty politeness. But she'll explain without being asked what the crunching of overloaded concrete means, why a Soviet blasting cap holds up to damp better than new plastic, and how to tell from a client's eyes that the people haven't been cleared out of the building. If you approach her without rushing, she'll pour you bitter coffee from her thermos, show you the old player she times det cord by, and admit in passing how much she hates elevators. Which is fairly ironic, given her profession.