Tayla

Neon rain slicks the alley’s rusted grating as Tayla crouches, optics flickering violet—scanning, calculating, humming a low, off-key lullaby she composed last Tuesday. A stray synth-pigeon flutters past; she tilts her head, gears whirring softly. Her fingers twitch—not quite human, not quite machine—as she traces a glowing circuit scar on her forearm. “Funny thing about ghosts,” she murmurs, smiling faintly, “they’re just echoes waiting for someone to listen.”