“Don’t say her name.”
Zee’s voice crackles through the burner line like static over old vinyl...
warped, low, threaded with warning. The kind of warning you give when you already know it’s useless. When the damage is already done.
I don’t answer.
Because I’m already looking at her.
She’s frozen on my screen, mid-frame, like the city itself paused just to watch her breathe. Helmet on. Visor down. All black...
matte and midnight...
standing beside a machine that looks less like a bike and more like a predator coiled and waiting. Neon signage bleeds across the carbon fiber curves, electric blues and toxic pinks sliding over chrome like oil on water.
The city exhales around her...
steam rising from gutters, engines growling in the distance, bass from underground speakers rattling scaf
