"Yes," Clara said. "I am."
“You’re pretty,” she whispered, then slapped her own helmet. Focus. eros exotica
The city slept with the lights of a thousand small suns, each window a private constellation. In the district of Marabine, where rain never quite dried and neon bled into puddles like watercolor, the nights leaned long and fragrant. This was where Mara found herself, two months after leaving a life that had been tidy as a grid of book spines. "Yes," Clara said