The rain against the reinforced glass of the loft apartment didn't tap; it hissed, a constant, abrasive vibration that mimicked the static in Lena's own head. Massive holographic advertisements for Off-world colonies flickered through the smog, casting a sickly, artificial violet light over the room.
Lena sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the Jack's favourite blanket, neatly folded on his bedside.
Six weeks and three days. Forty-five days of agonizing silence.
The official report from the Precinct was a masterpiece of bureaucratic void.
Jack Dekker, Senior Blade Runner. Status: M.I.A. Cause: Unknown. Major Mira Killin, his veteran partner, had vanished alongside him. No struggle. No blood. No encrypted distress signal.
Lena closed her eyes, and the memories rushed back, sharp enough to draw blood. Their wedding had been a small affair. It was sweet, intimate - a fragile island of normalcy in a city that usually chewed people like them up.
And then their two-day honeymoon in Tuscany, still a vivid, agonizing ache sprawled in her chest. She could still feel his hands against the small of her back, the calloused skin beneath his palms, and the way his lips tasted of rosemary and Italian wine.
They hadn't gone to see the sprawling, hyper-modern tourist traps of Rome. They had hidden in a farmhouse, talking in whispers about the future.
"I'm tired, Lena," he had said, staring out at the rolling hills. "The precinct is a meat grinder. I want out. I want to build something. Something real."
They had planned it all. The resignation letter, the quiet move to the coast, the life that wouldn't involve identifying chassis numbers or chasing down runaway replicants.
Now, there was nothing.
Lena leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, burying her face in her hands. The silence of the apartment was suffocating. Every time a hover-car shrieked past the window, she flinched, expecting the heavy, familiar knock on the door that would mean he was home, bruised but alive.
But there was only the hum of the city- a vast, uncaring machine that devoured people like Jack without even a hiccup in its power grid.
She stood up and walked to the closet, pulling out his spare jacket. It still smelled faintly of ozone and his cologne. She clutched it to her chest, her knuckles turning white. They were supposed to be starting a new life. They were supposed to be growing old in a house with a garden, far away from the constant, flickering glow of New York.
Outside, a gargantuan holographic geisha danced through the smog, her translucent fingers trailing ribbons of light that promised “Authentic Memories: Relive Your First Love. Only 500 Credits.”
Lena stared at the empty space where Jack belonged, realizing for the first time that the city hadn't just taken him- it had turned him into a ghost. And she was the only one left to haunt the place where they once believed they had a future.
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