"Bloody weather," he muttered, wiping water from his eyes. The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. He was supposed to drop off this burger ten minutes ago, but the customer's flat was buried in a maze of alleys even Google Maps couldn't crack. Typical.
Tom slowed near a dumpster, fishing his phone from his pocket. It was a third-hand piece of junkscreen spiderwebbed with cracks, battery stuck at a stubborn 17%but it was all he had. He swiped to the app he'd been fiddling with lately: Grok 3, some AI writing tool he'd stumbled across on a sketchy forum. Supposed to be good for brainstorming, or so the weirdos online claimed. He wasn't much for writing, but he figured he could use it to kill time between deliveries.
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