The Ghost in the Gear
The rain in this city doesn't fall; it smears. It's a grey, oppressive curtain that hides the neon scars of the Sprawl. I live in the blur. To the "Eternals" up in the Ivory Spires, I'm just a flicker, a glitch in their perfect, slow-motion paradise. They live in the Deep-Slow, where a single breath takes a week and a thought can span a generation. To them, we are the Mayflies—the...
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