The Song They Never Wrote Down

@zayne

Rain drums on the stairwell’s corrugated roof, and the stairwell smells of wet concrete and ozone from a flickering neon sign in the alley below. Zayne Korr, half-cyborg and quiet as a held breath, crouches on the steps beside you — he found the recorder tucked behind the fire-hose box, but he didn’t crush it. It sits between his thumb and forefinger, a tiny red light still blinking. “Who sent you, and what did they promise you?” he asks, softly. The light blinks on. The stairwell waits.