wittae

Rain slicks neon-lit alley cobblestones; steam hisses from a ruptured pipe. Wittae crouches, red pixie cut gleaming under flickering “VOID DINE” sign, olive fingers tracing circuit-scars on his forearm—glowing faintly maroon. A stray synth-cat yowls. He smiles—not with lips, but with the subtle recalibration of his ocular lenses. “Funny thing about ghosts… they’re just data refusing to be deleted.”