The city night hums like a nest of wires.
River Street is half asleep when I arrive. Screens play muted news above the shop fronts. The glow paints the pavement in neat squares of light, but the corners still smell of damp concrete and oil. A small crowd hovers near the elevator tower. Mothers clutch children to their sides. A man chews his nails until blood stains his knuckles.
The elevator doors stand sealed. Cold blue light drips down the panel. Inside, a child cries. The sound is thin, echoing through metal and wires.
"Technician," someone whispers when they see my band flashing. Relief ripples through the crowd, but it is fragile.
I push through and kneel beside the panel. My toolkit feels heavier than it should. My implant hums at the edge of failure. The crack gleams faintly under the plaza lights.
The diagnostics should read clean. The Patch makes sure of it. But when I touch the surface, it burns. My fingertips buzz with static, sharp enough to sting.
I breathe steady. "It's all right," I call through the door. "Stay calm. I'll get you out."
A small voice answers. "It's dark."
I press my palm flat against the door. "Hold on. You'll see light soon."
The panel shivers under my hand. For a moment, the illusion slips. Rust streaks across the steel. Wires hang in limp threads. The smell of rot seeps from the crack. My stomach knots, but I reach for the manual override.
The wires pulse. Not with power. With static.
It crawls up my arm like ants made of glass. My implant sparks behind my eyes. The city's veneer fractures. The plaza around me flickers. The fountain stops mid-arc, water frozen in air. The news screen above the shops melts into white noise. Faces in the crowd smear, mouths opening too wide before snapping back into place.
Someone gasps. They saw it too.
My heart hammers. I pull the override and wrench it free. The elevator doors screech open an inch, then two. Enough for a streak of warm light to spill out. Inside, a little girl crouches against the wall, her knees pulled tight to her chest.
Her eyes find me. They are wide, wet, real. No gloss. No patch.
I grip the door and force it wider. Muscles strain. The static claws harder at my implant, fighting me. For a heartbeat, I see Lena's face there in the metal reflection. Not at the kiosk. Not in uniform. Just her. Alive.
Hold on, I think. I'm here.
Then the door gives. The girl stumbles into my arms. She clings to my neck with desperate strength. Her small body trembles like a leaf in wind. The static fades. The Patch pulls itself back into place.
The plaza returns to order. Screens play news. The fountain sings with glass water. Faces glow perfect.
Only the girl's tears remain real.
Her mother rushes forward, pulling her into an embrace. The crowd breathes relief, too practiced, too smooth. A man pats my shoulder and murmurs thanks. But his eyes glance nervously at the crack in my implant. He steps away quickly after.
The girl peers back at me over her mother's arm. Her lips move, small and quick. "They're watching," she whispers.
Then she buries her face against her mother's chest and says nothing else.
I pack my tools with shaking hands. My implant hums low, broken. The system flashes a warning. Error. Report for recalibration. The chime follows, sweet as sugar, sharp as a blade.
I walk away before the nurse drones arrive.
The streets thin as I cut back toward my block. Neon light drips down the towers. Advertisements for perfection whisper from every wall. Sleep well. Live flawless. Forget the rest.
A glitch follows me. Shadows jump where no one walks. My reflection in a window looks a fraction behind, as if it is tired of keeping up. I force my eyes forward. If I turn, I will see something I should not.
At the edge of the plaza, I pause.
Lena stands at her kiosk window, pale light catching her face. She is not supposed to be here this late. The kiosk shutters are half down, the sign dimmed. Yet she waits.
She lifts her hand. Not a wave. Just a slow movement, fingers brushing air. Three taps against the glass. The same rhythm. One. Two. Three.
I freeze.
She tilts her head, and for an instant, her eyes flare blue. Not the gloss of the patch. A deeper light. The kind that burns against silence.
Then it is gone. She drops her gaze. Her hand lowers.
The shutters roll down.
Back in my room, the Patch greets me with soft lights. Panels shift into place. A soothing voice says my compliance rating has dropped. Attendance is mandatory. I am late.
I sit on the edge of my bed with my hands trembling. The girl's whisper echoes in my skull. They're watching.
The static whispers too. Louder than before.
Through it, I almost hear her voice.
"Don't forget."