The city was quiet—not because it slept, but because it remembered. Ash floated in the air like whispers of forgotten fire, and beneath the cracked surface of every road lay secrets, buried too deep to burn.
He walked alone, coat flapping in the synthetic wind, boots crunching over broken glass and lost time. They said he had no name—only a designation: Echo. But that was a lie. Everyone had a name before the Collapse.
The sky above him was smeared with code: clouds that weren't clouds, stars that pulsed with artificial intelligence. Somewhere beyond the neon horizon, answers waited. But answers came with pain. And pain was a language he had unlearned.
In the alleys of dead districts, he searched. Not for people—they were gone. Not for hope—it was currency now. But for something else.
Truth.
Truth, in a world designed to forget.