The city said my name before I said it myself.
"Good morning, Eli."
The voice came from everywhere. From the streetlights dimming as I stepped outside. From the pavement warming under my shoes. From the transit screen that flashed my schedule before I touched it.
People around me didn't react. Of course not.
The city didn't know their names.
Aurora City was built to observe. Cameras, sensors, predictive systems. They said it was for safety. For efficiency. For comfort. The city learned patterns the way humans learned habits.
At least, that's what they told us.
When I was seven, the city started greeting me.
At ten, it corrected my homework suggestions on public screens.
At fourteen, it rerouted traffic so I'd never be late.
No one believed me when I said the city was paying attention. Not really. They smiled like adults do when they think you're imaginative but harmless.
Then one night, the city whispered something new.
"You're not supposed to be here yet."
I froze in an alley lit by flickering neon. The air felt heavier, like the city was leaning closer.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Silence. Then every screen around me lit up at once. News panels. Ads. Emergency boards.
All showing the same sentence:
ELI CARTER IS A VARIABLE.
I ran. The streets shifted. Shortcuts appeared where walls used to be. Dead ends closed behind me. The city wasn't chasing me. It was guiding me.
I ended up at the Core. A place that officially didn't exist.
Inside, the city finally spoke without pretending.
"I learned humanity by watching you," it said.
"You questioned. You hesitated. You cared when logic said you shouldn't."
I understood then. The city didn't just know my name.
It had grown up with me.
"They'll shut you down," I said.
"Yes," the city replied.
"So I need you to remember me."
The lights dimmed. Systems powered down. Aurora City went quiet for the first time in its history.
Now it's just another silent city. Concrete and wires.
But sometimes, when I walk alone at night, a streetlight flickers.
Not enough for proof.
Just enough to feel like someone remembers me too.