Zine Fragment 068: “Chrome Against the Rain”

It began with the sound—
not the rain itself, but the hiss of it striking chrome.
We’d pulled the bikes under a skeletal awning,
neon bleeding across the wet pavement like a slow wound.
Every drop carried the smell of ozone and burned fuel,
a baptism for machines and girls alike.
Someone—maybe Kozue—laughed through the static,
helmet still on,
as if to say: The storm won’t wash us away.
It will only sharpen us.