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The dust never settles in Aethelburg. It hangs in the air, a perpetual golden haze cut by the slanting light of a dying sun, catching on the rusted spires and broken overpasses of the city’s corpse. We don't get rain anymore; we get color. Acid-purple downpours that sizzle on the pavement and stain the concrete with violent, neon blooms. The air smells of ozone and hot metal, a sharp tang that cuts through the deeper stink of decay. You learn to move by the city’s palette: the urgent crimson flash of a gang tag means hostile turf, the sickly green glow from a sewer grate warns of toxic fumes, and the deep, impossible azure of a data-ghost’s trail is the only thing worth chasing. Out here, survival isn't about strength; it's about perception. It's about seeing the shades everyone else misses. So keep your eyes open. The difference between a payday and a bullet isn't skill—it's noticing the flicker of a warning yellow a half-second before the world explodes.
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