It was raining today.
The car crawled through the slick streets, tires whispering against the wet pavement, a subtle counterpoint to the steady drizzle. Inside, a hushed silence hung heavy in the air, punctuated only by the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of raindrops on the windshield. Haze, glued to the window, found solace in the metronomic patter, a lullaby in the symphony of the storm.
This city, a stranger to his eyes, unfurled its vibrant core before him. Buildings, impossibly tall and adorned with neon halos, pierced the misty sky. It was a feast for the senses, a heavy contrast to the sterile, ravaged Zenith he called home. Yet, the blurring raindrops on the window pane seemed to distort the scene, turning the bustling crowds into a mix of phantom limbs and fleeting silhouettes.
