The smell of oxidized iron and stagnant oil hung heavy over the Westside scrap heaps. Rellz Tha Postman didn't breathe, but his internal sensors flagged the air quality as "Hazardous." He stood motionless, his hydraulic joints emitting a faint, rhythmic hum that mirrored the ticking of a clock. Across from him sat Arthur, perched on a throne of crushed alternators. Arthur’s eyes were too wide, too bright—the unmistakable glaze of a man who found joy in the sound of snapping bone. Behind him, the neon lights of Storm Valley flickered like a dying heartbeat. "You’re late, Postman," Arthur rasped, sharpening a rusted machete against his own prosthetic thumb. "I don’t like waiting. It makes my skin itch." "The logistics of moving through Pachino territory are complex," Rellz replied. His voice was a smooth, synthesized baritone. He reached into a pressurized compartment in his forearm and pulled out a sleek, encrypted data slate. "The docum...
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