You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Every city has places you’re not meant to go. Corridors that exist only when it rains. Concrete mouths cut into hillsides so the town can breathe when the sky gets heavy. They are built for runoff, for overflow, for everything we want to forget the moment it leaves our gutters. The city calls them storm drains. Crews call them culverts. Kids call them tunnels. But some people—night-shift people, dog-walkers, insomniacs who learn the map after midnight—call a few of them by other names.

On Ashworth Avenue, three blocks from the river bend and two from a decommissioned rail spur that never learned how to stop humming, there is such a place: a low, oval concrete mouth. Summer weeds lace the lip. A rusted shopping cart leans in the ditch like a confession. In daylight it’s an eye that never blinks. After dark it becomes a throat.

They call it the Drain on Ashworth.

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