Can a soul remember a sword it has never held? In the neon-drenched canyons of Neo-Kyoto, such questions are ghosts. For Kaito, life was a rhythm of recycled air and synthetic ramen. Each day, he rode the mag-lev train to a data-processing terminal, his reflection a pale smear against chrome towers that clawed at a perpetually gray sky. He was just another face in a city of millions that had f...
