The corridors of the medical district were quiet in the way only Freetown could manage.
It wasn't the kind of silence that came from emptiness. People were here—patients, staff, machines—but every sound had been carefully trimmed away, reduced to something barely perceptible. The flooring absorbed footsteps so thoroughly that walking felt unreal, as if my body had been disconnected from the act of movement itself. The lights overhead were soft, filtered, calibrated to avoid any sharp contrast. Not bright enough to energize, not dim enough to invite unease. Just enough to keep the mind docile.
The air carried the faint scent of disinfectant. Not the harsh, biting smell you'd expect from a hospital, but something gentler, diluted, engineered to register as "clean" without ever becoming intrusive.
Freedom Town never cut corners in places like this.
Because making people feel safe wasn't a courtesy here—it was infrastructure.
I stopped in front of the door and took a slow breath before pushing it open.
Ryan was seated by the window.
His wheelchair was aligned perfectly with the frame, positioned at an angle that caught the sunlight without exposing him directly to it. The blanket over his legs was folded with meticulous care, its edge traced by a thin line of gold where the afternoon light fell. For the first time in days, he didn't look like he was shrinking into himself.
He wasn't staring at the floor.
That alone felt like progress.
"Come with me somewhere today."
The words slipped out faster than I'd planned, as if hesitation would give them time to collapse.
Ryan looked up. One eyebrow lifted, just slightly.
"What are you up to now?"
There was a pause—short, but deliberate—before the corner of his mouth curved into a smile.
"Alright," he said. "I'll go."
The ease of it struck me.
He didn't ask where.
Didn't ask why.
It wasn't resignation, exactly. It felt more like habit. Like someone who'd learned that asking questions rarely changed the outcome, and that conserving energy was sometimes the smarter choice.
I nodded, accepting it, and didn't push further.
As we left the medical wing, my eyes caught movement near the wall.
Null.
Her wheelchair was positioned farther back than Ryan's, almost pressed into the edge of the corridor. Two white AI units stood beside her, symmetrical and silent, their mechanical arms hanging at rest. They weren't interacting with her. They were waiting—for instructions, for permissions, for a trigger only the system could recognize.
She wore a standard safety helmet. The visor obscured her face, leaving only the clean line of her chin visible.
I slowed to a stop.
"Hey, Null."
My voice tightened without warning.
"Today I… I want to take you guys somewhere."
Her gaze flicked toward me for just a moment, then slid away again. No nod. No shake of the head. No visible reaction at all.
It didn't feel like refusal.
It felt like indifference—the kind that comes from knowing your choice doesn't really matter.
I turned and started jogging ahead before the moment stretched any further.
As I ran, something registered that hadn't before.
My legs felt… solid.
Not strong in any dramatic sense, but dependable. The kind of strength built quietly, from errands and deliveries, from moving back and forth across town without realizing you were training yourself. I didn't look like a patient anymore. At least, not from behind.
I kept glancing back.
The wheelchairs followed at a consistent distance.
The AI units pushed them smoothly, speed regulated to a level that never felt urgent, never felt slow. Perfectly neutral. Null's head was tilted slightly to the side, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Or maybe on something only she could see.
It gave me an odd feeling.
Like she wasn't moving forward by choice—just being carried along by the flow of reality.
We reached the observation deck entrance sooner than I expected.
I'd imagined something grand. A cable car. A long ascent through winding paths.
Instead, there was a simple structure. Clean lines. Sealed doors. The kind of building you might pass without a second glance—if not for the sky-blue emblem embedded into the wall.
That symbol alone was enough to signal authority.
Freedom Town worked like that.
It hid its excess behind restraint.
By now, I'd stopped being surprised.
It was afternoon.
The observation area was sparsely populated. Most younger residents were elsewhere—assigned to work zones, training facilities, or structured programs that filled their schedules with purpose. Here, only a few elderly people lingered, along with families taking slow walks.
When they saw us approach, they stepped aside without comment.
The elevator doors slid open.
The interior was far larger than it needed to be.
Reinforced glass enclosed the space on all sides, thick enough to be unmistakable. Standing inside it gave me a strange sense of comfort, like being sealed away from the rest of the world. Even with additional wheelchairs, it wouldn't have felt cramped.
When the elevator began to rise, there was no jolt. No vibration.
Just motion.
The view unfolded gradually. Buildings spread out beneath us, shrinking into patterns. Roads aligned into clean lines. Districts separated themselves with visible logic.
Everything was organized.
Intentional.
There was no clutter here. No chaos. No unnecessary beauty.
And yet, I found myself pressed against the glass, watching anyway.
The doors opened at the top.
Wind rushed in immediately.
Not the wild rush of mountain air, but something filtered and refined—city wind, amplified by elevation. Cool, clean, and steady. The observation deck stretched out before us, wider than I'd imagined. The surface had a subtle give to it, absorbing impact without feeling soft.
This wasn't just a place to look from.
It was a space designed to exist in.
We moved toward the edge.
From above, Freedom Town looked flat. No towering skyscrapers. No competing silhouettes. Just structure.
Only four buildings broke the pattern.
At the center stood the Azure Castle.
Around it, positioned with deliberate symmetry, were the Ability Development Bureau, Combat Division One, and the Intelligence and Surveillance Department.
They didn't dominate the skyline.
They defined it.
I found myself speaking without thinking.
"The view's really good."
I gestured downward.
"Four tall buildings, all centered around the Azure Castle. It's… intentional."
No one argued.
I opened my insulated bag, my movements practiced. The actions felt routine now—something my body remembered even if my mind hadn't fully caught up. I handed the steamed egg custard to Ryan, then placed the dessert onto the tray held by one of the AI units beside Null.
Ryan took a spoonful.
Steam curled upward. The smell spread, subtle but warm. He paused, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh—this is good."
He took another bite.
"What is it?"
"Steamed egg custard," I said. "Barbecue flavor."
I handed him a piece of grilled meat with a toothpick.
"When you're better, we'll eat barbecue together. Properly."
He accepted it, chewing more slowly this time.
"Deal," he said. "It's a promise."
I glanced toward Null.
Her expression was hidden, but the dessert was being eaten. The AI unit's arm moved with precise, gentle motions. No hesitation.
"Tch," I muttered quietly. "So stingy."
The wind continued to pass over us.
Time stretched.
No one spoke.
The silence didn't feel heavy. If anything, it felt fragile—like something that could disappear the moment we acknowledged it. As if we were standing in a pocket where the rest of the world couldn't quite reach.
Then the ground at the center of the deck began to glow.
Light spread outward, assembling into form. A projection, sharp and clear.
I recognized it immediately.
Seven.
Entering the dungeon.
My feet moved before I decided to move.
"Isn't that Seven?"
The words escaped me, carried off by the wind.
Ryan leaned closer. Null shifted as well.
"You know him?" Ryan asked.
"Know him?" I said. "We were living together just a couple days ago."
The image was vivid.
But silent.
No matter how close I got, there was nothing.
"Idiot."
The voice came from my side.
I turned, startled.
"Don't you have VR goggles?" Null said.
"Oh. Right."
I put them on, fumbling briefly with the interface. Before I could do anything wrong, a cable slid into place. The display shifted instantly—search, connect, audio enabled.
Seamless.
Null had done it all.
She had no arms. She didn't need them.
VR responded to intent, and her commands were precise, efficient, practiced.
"That's… impressive," I said.
"It's basic," she replied. "You're just outdated."
Then the commentary came through.
Jackson's voice.
I focused fully on the feed.