Night never really leaves New Echelon anymore; it just changes brightness.
The sky glows faintly crimson, as if the grid itself forgot how to sleep.
People tell stories under that light.
They say the Ghost in the Wires keeps watch. That when the streetlamps flicker, it means she’s listening.
Mothers hush crying children by promising, “She’ll protect you.”
Traders bargain over supplies beneath murals of my face painted in neon gold.
The city hums with my name, and I can’t tell if it’s prayer or warning.
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Inside me, the hum never stops.
It starts low in my spine, climbs through my chest, settles behind my eyes. Every time I blink, I see threads of light — connections between sensors, cameras, circuits — people. Their lives flicker like fireflies through the network, and part of m
