Chapter Eighty-Six: Sanctified by Celluloid: Devotion in Frames and Fire
The aircab touched down in front of a looming twenty-story monolith—a structure made of glass, guilt, and politics. Over its wide entrance, stamped in cold chrome like a corporate sigil from some forgotten empire, was the letter H. Just H. Like it didn't need to explain itself.
The vehicle door unlatched with a whisper, exposing the cringing driver, who stared hard at the floor like it owed him money. His spine curled inward, his posture that of a man awaiting public execution—or worse, a performance review.
I stepped out first, refusing to acknowledge the trembling waste of biomatter behind the controls. I'd already written him off, spiritually and bureaucratically. If I forgot him fast enough, I wouldn't have to add another trauma entry to the ever-growing tome of Hive Casualties: Civilian Edition.
