The city wakes in colors that are not its own.
Towers shine like polished glass, their windows glowing with a sun that hides behind smoke. Roads stretch smooth and silver, though I can feel cracks beneath my boots. The Patch works tirelessly, painting over the wounds of the world until they look like paradise.
People flood the streets in waves of perfect smiles. Their eyes sparkle with programmed calm. Their laughter rings too clean. When I look too long, their faces bend at the edges, like paint dripping in the rain.
I lower my gaze and walk.
My implant hums. A blue scroll hovers at the corner of my sight. Report. Process. Forget. It has been the same every morning for as long as I can recall. Work shifts stacked in neat blocks. Patch session scheduled for tonight. Attendance mandatory. A small chime accompanies the reminder, gentle and sweet, like a bell from a childhood I cannot prove ever existed.
I breathe in the city's morning air. It tastes like citrus, manufactured and sharp. Drones hover overhead, releasing thin streams of mist into the crowd. A screen blinks on the side of a tower, bold letters sliding across it. Stay current. Stay safe. Memory integrity guaranteed. The words beam like a promise. Or a threat.
At the corner, I step into the coffee line. The kiosk is a square of pale white with curved edges, soft light glowing from its seams. Behind the window, a woman stands in her crisp uniform. She greets me with the same bright tone she greets everyone.
"Good morning, Niko."
Her voice strikes deeper than it should. My chest tightens before I can stop it.
It is Lena.
Or it looks like her.
Her hair today is brown, smooth and ordinary. Her eyes hold that faint gloss the city prefers, a gleam that reflects the kiosk glass. But there is something else. A ripple under the surface, a hidden current. Sometimes it flickers blue when the Patch skips.
She taps the sugar jar on the counter once. Twice. Three times. A rhythm no one else notices. A rhythm older than the Patch. A habit that belongs only to her.
"The usual?" she asks.
"Yes. Please."
Steam swirls as she pours. My breath fogs the kiosk glass even though the morning air is warm. She slides the cup toward me, our fingers nearly brushing. The almost-touch leaves heat behind, a phantom warmth that travels up my arm.
I whisper before I can stop myself. "Do you ever get tired of the song?"
Her brow twitches. "What song?"
"The Patch Hymn."
Her laugh is soft, but it rings false, too quick, too neat. It is the laugh of someone performing for listeners she cannot see. She leans closer and lowers her voice until I almost believe I imagined it.
"Sometimes I wake in the night. I think I hear something else."
My heart slams against my ribs. "What?"
"A name."
"Whose?"
Her eyes drift past me, out over the crowd. Her lips tremble, then still. "I forget."
The line behind me shifts. A man clears his throat. Someone smiles with polite impatience. The kiosk screen flashes a timer, urging her forward.
She presses a loyalty token onto my lid. It glows in the shape of a small heart.
"See you after your patch," she says.
I nod, though the word after burns against my tongue. I walk away before the wanting in my chest becomes too visible.
The towers swallow me. My work takes me to the forty-second floor of a glass stack. I am a municipal lift technician, though the title is grander than the task. I repair the city's bones so they can sing the songs the Patch demands. Today, an elevator hums out of tune.
Inside the shaft, wires twist in nests older than the system that covers them. Dust clings in stubborn lines, refusing to vanish even when the Patch tries to paint everything silver. I run my fingers along the panel, feeling a tremor no report will ever show.
The edge of the plate slips and bites into my wrist. A thin line of blood wells up, red and sharp. My implant casing catches the blow, a fine crack splitting its surface like frost across glass. The blue indicator flickers once, then steadies.
I wipe my wrist and watch as the Patch ignores the wound. It smooths walls, hides rust, corrects faces, but it does not know how to heal me. Blood is too real. Pain resists.
When the elevator hums properly again, I step back and ride down. Outside, the atrium blossoms with projected flowers drifting through the air. For one breath, the illusion shatters.
The ceiling is bare steel. Beams sag under their own rust. Dust floats in the shaft of a pale, unforgiving light. The air smells like damp concrete and iron.
The next breath, flowers return. Perfume floods the space. People walk on as if nothing cracked. No one flinches. No one pauses. It is only me. Always only me.
At lunch, I sit on a bench with my coffee gone cold. The little glowing heart token still clings to the lid. A public screen plays the hourly update. Compliance rate rising. Happiness index at record highs. Families smiling. Children laughing.
For a heartbeat, the silhouettes of missing people appear behind the chart. Blurred figures, faces erased. Then they fade and the chart smooths over them.
"Did you hear about the man who missed his update?" a coworker says, sitting beside me. His voice is light, like he is telling a joke. "They say he went to sleep and never woke up. Easy. No pain. A mercy, really."
He bites into his sandwich. He does not look at me. He asks if I'm nervous about tonight.
"No," I lie. The word tastes like iron.
Afternoon leans into dusk. My implant pings again. Attendance is peace. Appointment begins soon. The chime rings like a hand pressing the back of my neck.
I cross the plaza toward the clinic. The fountain in the center throws glasslike streams of water into the air, frozen for a moment before falling without sound. Children once played here. I remember. Now drones hover, collecting samples while a news feed scrolls across a screen. Compliance is kindness. Compliance grants clarity.
Near the doors, Lena stands outside her kiosk, holding a small cup of tea. She speaks with a nurse whose smile is printed too perfectly. For a moment Lena glances my way. Her hand brushes her pocket. One. Two. Three.
"After your patch," she calls softly as I pass.
Her words catch like thorns in my chest.
Inside, the clinic is cool and sterile. Screens glow with lists of names, each one sliding down as new ones join the top. My own glows faintly. Niko Hale. 18:07.
The chairs mold themselves around waiting bodies. A child hums the Patch Hymn while his mother strokes his hair in perfect rhythm. A mural of a forest covers one wall, pine-scent spilling from vents.
My implant vibrates. The crack gleams under the light. A new message flashes across my vision. Calibration error detected. Manual attendance recommended.
The nurse behind the counter smiles at me. "Your turn in one minute," she says, holding the door.
At the same time, my work band flares red. Emergency call. Elevator on River Street stalled between floors. A child inside. Risk level high.
The Patch Hymn rises from the speakers to calm the room. Its sweetness is suffocating.
The nurse calls my name again. The door waits, open and white.
My band pulses urgent.
Through the glass, Lena stands at her kiosk. Her eyes catch mine. For one moment they look alive, unpatched. They hold a question. It feels like please come back.
The door waits. The elevator waits. The city sings.
I turn.
I run.