Billy had never truly understood darkness until the Osborn limos were no longer there to chase it away.
It wasn't just the absence of light, Neo-Luminara was never genuinely dark.
Even in the city's lowest quarters, artificial brightness pulsed everywhere: flickering signs, buzzing neon strips, and headlights slicing through smog-choked air like lazy fireflies.
No, the real darkness was something deeper. It was the absence of certainty, safety, and belonging.
He stood beneath the crumbling canopy of the Grievance Line, what locals called the metro rail that sliced through Sector 9 like a gaping scar, and listened as a drunk hurled curses at a vending bot that had devoured his last cred.
Somewhere to his left, an alley cat screamed as it fled from a larger predator, maybe a rat or something worse.
Billy adjusted the hood of his borrowed windbreaker, tucked his hands into his pockets, and walked on.
The coat had belonged to the last unfortunate soul who stayed in Room 24 at
