The city never sleeps, not when every building pulses with the glow of neon and the skies are forever choked with haze. Nova stood at the edge of her too-small apartment, the floor-to-ceiling window bathing her in neon pink light. It wasn’t hers, exactly. The glow belonged to the holo-screen ads plastered across the neighboring tower—some fashion conglomerate showcasing bold, impossibly perfect models to the masses below. This week featured a woman donning a neon pink lace bralette and black bottoms that smacked of rebellion and allure. The colors bled over everything in Nova’s apartment, making it seem brighter, cheerier than it was. A lie of light.
“You wear that yet?” a rough voice asked behind her. Nova turned, her gloved hand twitching out of habit—a subconscious brush against the small pistol holstered at her side. She relaxed when she saw who it was.
It was Jace, her neighbor-turned-reluctant-ally. The man walked in like he owned the place, as he did, uninvited but strangely needed. His cybernetic arm whirred faintly, catching a sliver of pink light on its polished surface. His other arm—a flesh and bone gift from nature—held a battered backpack. “You did, didn’t you? Told you not to, Nova.”
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Neon Pink Empowerment: The Bold Case for Vibrant Lingerie
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