The rain was a baptism no one asked for. It hammered the corrugated tin roofs of the Lower Warrens, turning the alleyways into rivers of rust and regret. Inside a concrete box of a room, lit only by the flickering bioluminescent glow of a dying lamp-fungus, Kaelen pressed a syringe to a bruised vein.
The crack was immediate. Absolute.
Jakes didn’t look at the slate. He looked at Kaelen’s soul. “You’re on your seventh crack. You know what happens at the tenth.” trikker crack
Lyra shook her head, and for the first time, he saw sorrow in her eyes. “No, brother. The crack showed you what you needed to see to come here. The Trikkers needed a new architect for the basement levels. And you were always better than me.” The rain was a baptism no one asked for