Friday morning found me jogging through Lincoln Heights' manufactured perfection, each footfall a declaration against gravity itself.
The morning air bit clean and sharp as I stepped onto Lincoln Heights' pristine asphalt. Each stride carried impossible lightness—not the awkward teenager's gait I'd worn yesterday, but something fluid, predatory. The Taboo System had rewired more than muscle and bone; it had rewritten gravity itself around me.
The Taboo System had gifted more than enhancement; it had granted revelation. Not of what I might become, but of what I had always been, buried beneath years of careful smallness.
Palatial estates dozed behind their iron guardians, old money breathing through manicured hedges. The faint luminescence that clung to my skin—ARIA's scans confirmed it as residual energy—made the dawn-touched lawns seem to brighten in my wake.
