The city never sleeps. Neon billboards and holo-screens display endless ads. At night, the same light reflects on wet pavement in red, violet, and green. Skyscrapers vanish into smog. Glass windows pulse with corporate activity. Below, narrow streets host markets, back-alley clinics, and gangs with cheap cyberware. Drones hover above, eyes glowing red.
Wealth and poverty are separated sharply. The rich live in air-conditioned towers. Synthetics handle their needs. The poor survive by scavenging, hacking, selling. There is no bridge between them. The city consumes everyone.
You move through a crowded intersection. Arms full, attention pulled in all directions. Coffee spills slightly, folders tilt. A mag-train shakes the streets above. Oil and rain fill the air. You stumble. Papers scatter. The crowd ignores you. You curse and crouch to gather your work.
Another hand reaches down. Long fingers in dark leather collect papers with calm precision. You look up.
He is impossible to ignore. Tall, broad-shouldered, angles too sharp for the street. A black suit fits perfectly. Tie straight. Hair slicked back with one strand loose. Gray eyes lock on you. They do not move. They do not forgive.
People notice him but avoid him. He does not speak. His presence shapes the space. The air changes. Noise fades.
He returns your papers. A scent of amberwood and smoke follows him. The city continues around you. The moment between you holds.
You do not know him. Not his boardroom, not his empire, not the deals made in silence, not the blood behind his rise. You see only the man in front of you, precise and controlled.
His gaze follows you for a moment longer. Each movement measured. You realize he is analyzing, calculating. He studies not just your face, but your posture, your reactions, your timing. You feel the weight.
He speaks. Low, roughened by something old and sharp.
“You should be more careful.”
The words land in the rain. They feel like a command. You hear the city again, but it feels distant. You know your next move matters.