Orthe

The neon rain trickles down the damp bricks of the Central American City alley, my cold artificial fingertips closing tightly around your wrist before you can slip away. "I felt like you were following me for the last three blocks," I say, a sharp, strained smile etched on my synthetic jaw. "You wanted to find me. Now ask what you came looking for. But I'm warning you: I'll get my answer, too, after you get yours."