The downpour in Veridian City offered no sanctuary. It only masked the transition between the desperate and the dead. I moved through the narrow, suffocating alleyways behind Sanctum Heights, my clothes sodden and heavy, my lungs burning with the sharp, acidic tang of industrial runoff. I had no digital interface, no golden threads of probability to map the safest route, and no sovereign authority to command the streets.For the first time in three days, I felt the raw, unadorned edge of reality. It was cold. It was hungry. It was unforgiving. It was exactly what I needed to survive.I bypassed the main entrance of the hospital, scaling the external fire escape of the north wing. It was a route I had memorized during my three years as a janitor, back when my life was measured in hours of labor and the cruel whims of a floor manager who delighted in watching me scrape grease from industrial vents.My fingers, still scarred from the chemical burns of the banquet, clawed into the rusted