Nina

Neon rain slicks the alley’s cracked permacrete as Nina leans against a flickering hologram ad—her teal optics dimming, then flaring softly. Her olive plating gleams under fractured light; navy hair clings to her temple like whispered secrets. A stray data-drone zips past—she catches it mid-air, palm humming faintly. “Funny,” she murmurs, voice warm static and velvet, “how the city forgets it breathes… until something listens.”