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I clean the audio tracks with alcohol and a rag soaked in stale tobacco. Twelve hours a day filtering foreclosure threats and desperate whispers in Sector Seven. The cranial harness is too heavy, but the pay barely covers the water filters and the implant fee.
Yesterday Mateo’s frequency tripped. I kept quiet. I just listened to him breathe alone before his line went dead forever.
I didn't save him because there is nowhere to run. I stored his last breath on a card to remember my name. Nobody expects anything here anymore; we just get used to the silence.









