The newly assembled secondhand prosthetic limb creaked ominously🤖 as I squeezed through the throng of people in the Xindong’an slum, clutching a stolen black-market access card🌧. Around the corner, in an abandoned 3D-printing shop, the contact handed me a bright-orange short dagger, pressing it into my oil-smeared palm🔧. This was a training combat dagger⚔️—3D-printed from blueprints stolen by the Resistance from a corporate giant. Its special orange polymer material would be flagged as discarded engineering plastic by the company’s infrared surveillance network, ensuring it wouldn’t trigger any alarms🚨. We, the ordinary folks living on the lowest rung of society, are about to infiltrate the corporate data tower and steal the air-purification formula they’ve monopolized, so that the underground district, poisoned by acid rain for thirty years, can finally reclaim clean air💨. I tucked the dagger behind my waist; the triangular cutout on the hilt fit perfectly into the locking groove of my prosthetic limb, with just the right weight—light enough not to impede my pipe-climbing, yet heavy enough to slice through the wiring of patrol drones when necessary🛸. Looking up, I could see the neon lights atop the corporate skyscrapers dyeing the clouds an ambiguous pinkish-purple. I reached into my pocket and felt the expired nutritional paste I’d saved for my little sister🍼, my knuckles tightening around the hilt. The orange blade brushed against the dusty cuff of my sleeve. No one knows whether we’ll make it back alive after tomorrow’s pre-dawn operation—but at least this knife still holds the promise of the tomorrow I’m fighting for🌌✨