Afterpulse

Ari measured the city by the way rain changed its face. When droplets hit the chrome ribs of the sector towers they sang like broken tuning forks; when they fell into puddles in the alleys they smelled of old oil and plastic and the wet hum of LED vendors. From the single grimy window of the workshop on Level Fifty‑Three she watched neon bleed down concrete like paint that would never dry. The skyline was a stitched quilt of corporate sigils and shivering holoads; the horizon a vertical hunger of cranes. Inside, the air tasted of solder and ozone.

The bench was cluttered with hands she had not given back to people—prosthetic fingers, a titanium scapula, an obsolete auditory implant that still hummed with someone else’s lullaby. Nix, the little fox drone that had been scavenged from a market stall and rehoused in Ari’s circuitry, curled on a coil of fiber and blinked amber. It was not alive like a cat, but Ari had learned to listen to it as if it were, tuning in to the tiny fans that tuned themselves like breathing. A neon band around its neck pulsed in cadence with her breath.

Jonah slept in the single bunk beneath the repair alcove; a network of soft electrodes drooped from his temple and the band of a licensed neural interface flashed a faint blue. He was thinner than yesterday. Ari moved with practised economy, her fingers going to the tools as if by memory. She threaded a microfilament through the root of an auditory coil and felt, against her palm, the tiny heat signatures of repair: a humming resistor, a brittle filament, the faint ghost of someone’s laughter still stored in an old implant.

"You left synth‑bread in the oven again," Jonah muttered, voice a thin rasp from sleep.

Ari didn't look up. "It's bread, not a reactor. It'll survive."

She wiped solder from her knuckle with the back of her wrist and caught sight of a flyer stuck to the wall: corporate largesse in high gloss, a smiling executive handing out scholarships to children with glowing eyes. Next to the flyer was a scrap of hand‑printed paper: a symbol she recognized from the old nights—an interrupted circle with three bars. She’d seen it on the colonies, on the edges where people still bartered in pulses and barter credits rather than subscriptions.

A bell chimed at the door—a thin, tired sound, the kind the city used to call attention to small things. The courier who came in was a pale blur of wet fabric and chrome, clutching a sealed envelope stamped with a corporate crest she couldn't afford to pronounce. He handed it over with hands that shook just enough to show fear but not enough to admit where it came from.

The envelope smelled of disinfectant and the chemical tang of secured data. Ari slit it open with a hobby blade. Inside, under layers of paper, lay a single fragment of code on a physical chip, wrapped in paper as if anything that mattered could be kept on a bone. The courier refused payment. He left before she could ask his name, leaving the rain outside to erase his footprints from the stairwell.