The hallway was a flicker of fluorescent hums and stagnant air that tasted like ionized dust. I leaned my weight against the cold industrial paint of the alcove, trying to find a center of gravity that didn't involve the failing hardware of my legs. My calves were heavy, a dull, rhythmic throb settling into the bone that felt like a background process hogging all my system resources.
Every shift of my weight sent a spike of data to my brain—pain, friction, exhaustion—reminding me that I was no longer a ghost in the machine.
I was a meat-suit in a high-gravity environment.
The damp denim of my jeans felt like a second, unwanted skin.
It was coarse, restrictive, and salt-crusted from the sweat of our session, the fabric grating against the raw heat of my inner thighs with every minor movement.
