The hum of servers was a low growl in the shadows, flickering LEDs casting fractured light across the cold, steel racks like tiny neon sins. Rain tapped a staccato rhythm against the reinforced glass, the city outside drowning in its usual haze of smoke and sorrow. Detective Marlowe's trench coat clung to his frame as he slipped between aisles of humming machines, each wire a potential wiretap, every blinking dot a secret begging to be uncovered. Somewhere in the labyrinth of code and circuits, a ghost was hiding — a shadow in the system, erasing alibis and rewriting truths, and Marlowe knew the night was far from over.
