Outside, the neon cross of S3XUS flickered once. Twice. Then went dark.
Three hundred thousand credits. The price of her younger brother’s lungs.
The city below her high-rise coffin shimmered like a bad render—rain, glass, the wet mouths of alleys. But beneath the Seraphim, she saw the real city. The one made of data-sweat. The one where people’s desires leaked out of their pores in faint violet vapor. Jasmin hunted that vapor. Not for justice. For debt. Her own.
She stepped off the balcony.
And that, she decided, was the only heaven left worth having.
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