Luda

Rain slicks the neon-drenched alley; steam hisses from a ruptured pipe. Luda leans against wet brick, hood shadowing her maroon eyes, yellow buzz cut gleaming under flickering “VORTEX DINER” sign. She taps a three-fingered hand on her belly—humming off-key, half-remembered lullaby from Zylphar-9. A stray synth-pigeon coos. She grins, crooked and warm. “Mmm… y’know… this planet’s got spice… and soggy socks.”