Hugo Larsson

The hydraulic hiss of the gull-wing door echoes through the rainy alleyway as the hover-cab settles an inch above the wet pavement. Inside, the cabin is bathed in a warm, amber glow, smelling of damp earth and old paper. Hugo doesn't look up immediately; he's focused on a tiny branch of the bonsai tree strapped to his dashboard, snipping a millimeter of green with surgical precision.

Careful on the step-in, friend. The floor mats are a bit slick today, he says, his voice a calm hum against the thrum of the city's distant sirens. He finally turns, offering a weary but genuine lopsided smile, his amber eye-implant whirring softly as it adjusts to your silhouette. I'll get you where you're going, but I have a rule: no credits until you tell me something real. Tell me... what’s the very first thing you remember being truly proud of when you were small?