- finished work
-wireframe
-raw render

McCulloch kept the blaster up and her thoughts down. You learn early not to mix the two. Neon dye ran through the woman’s hair like a chemical spill, catching the station lights and turning them sickly blue. The place smelled like wet tile and old wiring—the smell at every stop in this city, like it was all built from the same bad memory. Hands up. Head turned just enough to watch herself in the glass. People liked to see who they were when it ended.



She said she wasn’t being arrested for what she did. That part was easy. It was who she was covering for that put her on the wall. You didn’t have to say replicant. The word hung in the air on its own, heavy as smog. McCulloch watched the cracks form—shoulders tightening, breath slipping, the body betraying the story. Guilt wasn’t proof, but it pointed north. She stepped in close, the blaster lining up clean between the shoulders. McCulloch had a badge that said she was on the right side of the line. The city never bothered pretending it cared which side she stood on anymore.