The instant my palm brushed against the frosted, crystalline texture of the flying dagger⚡, a faint electric current zipped through the neural interface implanted at the base of my neck🔌. Acid rain from New Tokyo’s underground black market sluiced down the corrugated metal eaves into puddles, splashing up dirty droplets laced with neon pigment💧💜. A corporate group’s hovering patrol craft had just swept over our hidden hideout in the upper city; the remains of three teammates still hung tangled in the barbed wire strung across the elevated viaduct🧱🚁. This flying dagger was 3D‑printed from obsidian‑powder I’d pilfered from a corporate mine, crafted in an underground black‑market workshop🖨️🪨. Its fully faceted blade can slice through the carbon‑fiber layers of corporate tactical armor, while the polyhedral ridges of its handle fit snugly into the socket of my neural prosthetic hand. The tail ring clips onto my tactical belt, allowing me to draw and hurl it in a split second🔪🎗️. Three hours from now, I’ll slip along an abandoned subway line into the ventilation shafts of corporate headquarters, drive this dagger into the nape of the executioner who slaughtered our outpost, and reclaim the collective‑consciousness backup they stole🌐🔐. Neon light filtered through the rain‑soaked mist, settling on the dagger; the cool, frosted texture brushed against the palm of my prosthetic limb—like the lingering warmth Akai left on my shoulder during last week’s mission...🌧️🔪