She was lucky to spot the retractables, though the cybereyes would have been a dead giveaway. As Mohinder came through the door, the people seated at the counter quickly made a space for his powerful frame. Hand razors made anyone nervous. He strode slowly and deliberately; dermal plating, she guessed. The man had gotten lucky once with a big rollover in east Whitechapel: a bunch of foolhardy pixies had strayed in from Limehouse and some big credsticks had changed hands. That was a long time before Imran knew Mohinder, of course.