Page 1 of 65
In a neon city where memories can be bought and rewritten, a former architect turned cutter uncovers a flagged shard tied to a corporate program. Her discovery spirals into a clash between a powerful corporation, emergent net-intelligence, and citizens trying to reclaim truth.
Neon rain turned District Eleven into a bruised watercolor: colors bled off chrome signs and pooled in gutters, while holographic billboards tried to outshout one another above the crowd. The market ran like a vein through the district — a living artery that pulsed with information and desire. Vendors hawked physical wares, but it was the liquid memories that drew the most attention. They glowed beneath glass vials and in braided data-strands, tasting of sunlit kitchens and long-forgotten laughter; they smelled, when you leaned close, faintly of ozone and the antiseptic tang of someone's private truth.
Kara Voss kept her stall narrow and efficient, a slit between a noodle vendor and a repairer who specialized in ocular overlays. The sign was an old neon slat repaired with hand-painted letters: