In the cold embraces of a moonless night, beneath the stuttering glow of a dying billboard and the distant rumblings of rail, a gaunt young man reclined in a hammock strung between rusted scaffold arms, swaying gently in the smog-thick breeze of a forgotten sector.
His face, pale as synth-silk, bore a wistful smile.
Twin prosthetic arms, chrome-slick and jointed like praying mantis limbs, were steepled behind his head in a gesture of defiant ease.
"I'm pretty sure I died," he murmured. "And yet here I am, very much alive and breathing."
He paused, watching the mag-train scream past in the distance, its piercing lights cutting through the dimly lit night like ghosts on rails.
"I should be freaking out. I mean, resurrection? That's stuff of legends. But screw it. I'll freak out later."
A chuckle escaped him — low, sardonic, almost reverent.
"For now," he said, "I'm just gonna enjoy the view."