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Chapter 1 - Prologue: Chapter 0 - "The Rooftop Philosopher and the Chicken Cartel"

There are nights Velvora glows like a radioactive womb—other nights it smells like the mayor's lost campaign promises and burnt noodle oil. Tonight? The city's pulse skips for a Chicken Cartel and a detective allergic to stability.

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The city of Velvora folded itself in neon, stink, and capitalist desperation. Some called it the Neon Womb, others a Capital of Crime, and the rest just squinted from a rooftop and wondered why the clouds rained dirtier than the politicians. Up here, the fake sky was less threatening than the billboard for "Toe Waxing for Men—Now Half Off!"

Asher Blackwood hunched under a buzzing antenna, trench coat half-burnt, half-heroic, full of receipts for existential dread. Twenty-three, maybe older in soul-years, and probably banned from decent therapy for "bringing too much cosmic weirdness to group sessions." He told himself: I need a vacation. The sky responded with drizzle as apathetic as city council meetings.

Behind him, Rachel Vex leaned on a rusted dish. "Last time you said that, you tried to meditate in a graveyard and got mugged by raccoon cultists."

He didn't argue. "I still think they were sent by the Syndicate."

"The crime syndicate?"

"No," Asher said gravely. "The Chicken Cartel."

Rachel blinked the way only city survivors do. "You need sleep."

But Asher's mind—wired for trouble—knew better. Velvora felt off, and not just because the street magician accepted union pay. "Politicians are too nice. Crime bosses are fundraising for rescue kittens. I saw a goose dodge a mugging and leave a love note on a traffic cone."

Rachel grinned. "That's just the mayor's new approval campaign. Next week he'll be caught in a karaoke scandal." She nudged him. "So, what's the plan, Sherlock?"

Asher drew out the dramatic pause of a man who'd practiced in bathroom mirrors, then announced, "We infiltrate the Chicken Cartel."

"You once arrested a poet for suspicious coffee."

"It had glitter, Rachel. Who drinks glitter?"

"Strippers?"

He nodded, as if logic had finally triumphed.

Below, the Velvet Market District thrived—shadowy figures swapping karaoke passwords, bribes, illegal cheese, and one unfortunate goose with a bounty. But brewing in the neon rot, something darker whispered.

Rachel tilted her head. "So are we brooding, or eating actual food that counts?"

Asher considered the question that haunted philosophers for centuries. "Vending machines count?"

"They do not. I know a place—good ramen, low crime, only one assassination attempt per visit."

"Sold."

Boots echoed on peeling metal stairs, rain wrapping them with pretense of cleansing. Before leaving, Asher paused. "If I die tonight, avenge me by burning every glitter-based coffee shop in the city."

Rachel grinned. "You got it, drama king."

Whatever stirred tonight, beyond the city's false glows and back-alley schemes, was older than crime and more persistent than debt collectors. A whisper hunting for a name. Not his name. Not yet. But soon.

[End of Chapter 0]

Preview of Next Chapter:"Chapter 1 – Ramen, Racketeers, and Repressed Trauma"

Asher tries to enjoy a peaceful meal, but ends up in a turf war between a noodle chef and a rogue exorcist. Secrets start spilling (along with broth), and a strange encounter hints at a power far beyond Velvora's ridiculous politics.

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