A rain-soaked underground modified fighting arena in Neo-Tokyo💧, where the leaky, rust-streaked corrugated metal roof is bathed in an ambiguous purplish-pink glow from the neon tubes at the alley entrance🔮. I grip the handle of this ice-blue blade, my nerve-interface–implanted knuckles trembling uncontrollably⚡. This is a custom training blade I commissioned from a black-market bionic artisan; its honeycomb-patterned grip perfectly matches the altered palm ridges on my prosthetic hand🐝, while its lightweight, edgeless blade is tailored for my first combat calibration with my augmentations🖐️. No one knows that I’m entering these underground underground fights not to earn hefty prosthetic maintenance fees, but to track down my twin sister👯, who vanished three months ago in a mega-corporate industrial park. I run my fingers over the blade’s crisp, layered 3D-printed texture🌊—it feels like caressing the last distorted communication signal her voice left behind in my neural implant. Outside the ring, the countdown timer roars ominously🔔: my opponent is a street thug whose bones have been augmented threefold, and he’s already taken out three newcomers in just one week🦴💀. I draw the blade, and as the icy-blue blade slices through the neon glints, I suddenly feel something tucked away in the hollow groove of the handle—a tiny chip no bigger than a fingernail🔌💻, etched with a jellyfish–exclusive mark only my sister and I would recognize🪼. I jerk my gaze up to the judges’ stand, where the hooded man’s collar sports a silver brooch that matches the mark exactly🕶️🌃.