Echo Bloom
## Echo Bloom The rain tasted like static on my tongue. Not the sharp bite of ozone, but a dull hum, layered under the city’s grit. January in Detroit always felt like a slow unraveling. I pulled my collar higher,…
Noir
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The Weaver of Lost Feelings
The rain tasted like static. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though nobody knew if he *was* an old man anymore, or just a construct wearing the skin of one. His shop, a cubbyhole wedged between a noodle stall and…
The Memory Weaver
The neon smeared across the slick pavement, fractured by the downpour. Rain tasted like ozone and regret. Kai traced the glyphs blossoming on the wall – not spray paint, but *rain graffiti*, ephemeral code blooming in the moisture. It pulsed,…
Ghost Protocol
Rain lashed the ferroconcrete, slicking the corridors of the Exchange to a sheen. The air tasted of ozone and desperation. Jax traced a finger across the chipped Formica of the broker’s desk, ignoring the static cling. The man, Krell, didn’t…
Ghost Code
The slick, obsidian tide crept up the cracked plasteel of Fremont Street, reflecting the fractured neon of a dying city. Rain wasn’t water anymore, not here. It was data – corrupted, fragmented, *wrong* – leaching from the ruptured servers beneath…