I hit the streets just as dusk was giving way to the dingy, grey-orange gloom of a city at night. The new body was a little off. They never get things like callouses and tan lines quite right. My skin felt smooth and strange against my clothes. My muscles(more) and mind fresh, but somehow not quite hardened to the harsh, grating realities of urban life in the same way I was.
I'd died a few times before, so I knew what I was in for. But you never get used to it. For one thing, it's prohibitively expensive. From time to time, you hear about privileged socialites and crowdfunded internet personalities killing themselves over and over again in the most bizarre ways they can think of. I guess it's easy to talk yourself into when you know your next body won't remember the sins of the last.
I'd never be able to afford the regen on my own salary. But in my line of work, accidents happen. And my employer bankrolled my subscription. Say what you want about the seedy underbelly of the city. We take care of our own.
I'm sure the fact that I helped him rise to power and make money hand over fist didn't hurt my case, either.
As I zig-zagged the blocks on my way to Three Saints, I started to wonder what I'd be looking for when I got there. I knew where to start, but if it was a planned hit, as I suspected, they probably hid the evidence and booked it in a matter of seconds. As I turned the problem over in my head, I suddenly noticed a familiar face. Familiar, but changed. Harder, more weathered.