Once they resisted. Now they're reissued.

In Neon Aftermage, the Whitman family is commodified—iconized into cultural shorthand, sanitized into neon silhouettes beneath streaming headlines. Their legacy sells freedom. Their faces endorse justice tech. But none of them are there to consent.

Or so they think.

Zari Whitman, last known bloodline descendent, works as a continuity scrubber inside a memory syndicate. When she stumbles upon glitching promotional footage that features her brother—long presumed dead—she begins to track the afterimage through back-feed tunnels and dream-market servers.

What she finds isn't revolution.
It's something gentler. Stranger.
More real than any version the feed remembers.

This is not a story of reclamation.
It's a story of being misremembered, but glowing anyway.