The rain in Neo-Kowloon never stopped. It just changed intensity—sometimes a fine mist that made the neon signs bleed into the pavement, sometimes a torrent that turned the lower levels into canals of oily water and discarded circuit boards.
Marcus Cole sat in his office on the forty-third floor of the Sprawl's residential tower, watching the rain trace paths through the grime on his window like tears on a face that had forgotten how to cry. His neural implant hummed at the edge of consciousness, a low-level static that never went away, like tinnitus for the soul. The data package arrived at 23:47, encrypted with a key that...
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