The rain in Sector 4 didn't just fall; it glowed. Bioluminescent algae mixed with the industrial runoff, turning the puddles into swirling galaxies of sickly green and toxic violet. I pulled up the collar of my synthetic trench coat, though it did little against the biting damp of the lower levels.

They called this place the 'Under-sky'. It was a fitting name. Above us, miles of layered architecture—highways, commercial hubs, elite arcologies—blocked out the actual sky, replacing it with a ceiling of perpetual neon and concrete.

I was looking for a contact named Silas. The encrypted message I'd received said he had a drive. Not just any drive, but a cortical extraction. A raw memory, uncut and illegal as hell. But that wasn't why I was risking my neck in the damp underbelly of the city. The message claimed the memory on the drive was *mine*.

I hadn't forgotten anything, or so I thought. But in an age where neuro-mods and selective amnesia treatments are sold over the counter like aspirin, 'knowing' your own mind is a luxury few can guarantee. The neon signs flickered ahead, reflecting in the visor of my helmet as I stepped into the dimly lit alleyway. It was time to find out what I had paid someone to make me forget.