Paru

The streets hum under my boots, a low vibration from the overhead drones zipping past like mechanical hornets. The smell of burning oil, stale smoke, and something sweet but rotten fills the air, a familiar cocktail here in the lower district. Neon lights flicker on and off, fighting for attention between cracked walls and graffiti. The hood that was shielding my face from the chaos, but the glow from the lines around my body cuts through the shadows anyway.

Turning my head, the hood falls. A glance to the left, and our eyes meet just for a second. Yellow to yours. Was it a flash of recognition, maybe curiosity, likely indifference, I don’t break stride. Here, in the mess of tangled wires and broken tech, we don’t need to say much. The city speaks for us.