The city woke before the sun, if the sun still mattered. Towers of scrap and concrete clawed upward, their tops dissolved into a ceiling of mist that never lifted. It wasn't fog so much as residue.
Somewhere above it all, a sky existed but no one here had seen it in years.
In the alleys, morning meant another day of doom. People uncurled from doorways, from under bridges, from stacked shipping crates welded into homes.
Feet splashed through shallow water that smelled of rust and rot. Vendors ignited stoves made from oil drums, coaxing flame from fuel scavenged the night before. Hunger decided the day's rhythm long before clocks did.
Screens flickered on broken walls, looping ads for clean air, fresh food, places no one could reach.
A child watched one while chewing on a strip of synthetic grain, eyes reflecting promises that felt like jokes.
Her mother tugged her along, coughing, the sound flew away sharp and wet. Illness traveled faster than hope in this city.
Above the street, walkways sagged under the weight of bodies and cables. Laundry lines crossed like battle plans.
At the corner of a plaza, a generator shutdown, plunging a block into darkness and the darkness barely changed anything. People kept walking and bearing the ton of sacks like dead corpses. They always did.
....
The restaurant clung to the underside of a transit rail, its windows fogged from grease and steam.
Light strips buzzed overhead, casting a jaundiced glow across scarred tables.
They sat facing each other in a corner booth.
The younger-looking one swung his legs slightly beneath the table, boots not quite touching the floor.
Black hair framed his face in uneven strands, eyes wide and alert, taking in everything.
The stains on the wall, the way the waitress avoided their table, hum of a jammer hidden near the counter.
He wore a plain black shirt and pants, spotless in a place like this, which somehow made him stand out more.
Across from him on the opposite sat a man with brown hair combed back just enough to suggest effort. A red waistcoat stretched tight over his chest, its buttons dull with age.
His expression rested in a permanent state of mild confusion, as if the world kept moving one step faster than he preferred. He gripped his glass with both hands with pale knuckles.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then the younger one leaned forward, voice soft but enough to cut through the noise.
"Funny place to talk about headlines, don't you think?"
The man in red blinked. "You said it was safe."
"Safe is relative." A pause then a smile—innocent, almost sweet as a little charming boy.
"So. The Atlantis."
The name seemed to dim the lights. Nearby, a fork clattered to the floor.
The man waited for a while.
"They are saying a lot of things."
"They are saying Salas didn't fall naturally." The younger one tilted his head. "Mid Strato researchers don't usually murder themselves."
"That hasn't been proven." the man said quickly, ignorance clinging to his words like armor. "They don't even know who pushed the story."
The younger one traced a finger along the rim of his cup. "Names always surface eventually."
The man hesitated, then offered his own. "Blyke. Blyke Rhodes."
The smile widened, just a fraction. "Good. Then you can call me Cagaro.... Cagaro Kunero."
Steam hissed from a crack in the wall as bowls were set down between them. Neither touched the food so early.
Blyke slouched deeper into the booth, rolling his shoulders like the conversation itself was a mild inconvenience.
"So," he said, staring at the broth, "guess we should talk about why we are stuck together."
Cagaro's eyes lit up immediately. "You mean the mission?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I didn't expect a partner so fast. Especially not someone already inside The Atlantis."
Blyke snorted. "Partnership is a strong word. Temporary liability sounds closer."
"That is not very professional." Cagaro said, though he was smiling. "You have been with them a while, right?"
"Three years. Give or take a few disasters." Blyke waved a hand. "I'm a four-star. Not exactly shining material."
Cagaro blinked. Once then again. "Four-star?" His voice dropped, reverent despite himself. "Already?"
Blyke finally looked up, eyebrows knitting together. "Why are you saying it like that?"
"That is…. impressive." Cagaro said. "I thought you could be, maybe, a two? Or a one, if you were unlucky."
Blyke stared at him. Then laughed drily. "You are new-new, huh?"
Cagaro straightened. "I am five-star?"
The words hung between them. Blyke groaned and pressed his forehead to the table. "Of course you are."
"That is bad?" Cagaro asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Kid," Blyke muttered, lifting his head, "chill. The stars don't work how you think they do."
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Five's the bottom. Fresh meats and lowest. The more stars you lose, the more they expect from you. Zero's the top."
Cagaro's smile faltered, curiosity sharpening into something quieter. "So four-star means—"
"Means I still screw up enough to be useful." Blyke said. "Means I get sent to babysit."
Cagaro hesitated. "Babysit…. me?"
"Temporary mentor." Blyke corrected lazily. "Your file crash landed on my desk this morning. Didn't even finish my drink before they decided we are partners."
Cagaro looked down at his hands, then back up, eyes bright again. "That means they trust you."
"They trust that I won't let you die." Blyke replied. "Big difference."
"So," Cagaro said softly, excitement threading through the tension, "we are investigating as members of The Atlantis.…"
Blyke exhaled through his nose. "Welcome to the job."
Blyke poked at his plate, then finally pulled it closer, the spoon scraping porcelain.
"You have seen the feeds." he said casually. "Atlantis is getting torn apart. Protests in Lower, formal inquiries in Mid. All because one researcher hits the ground too hard."
Cagaro watched him. "Salas wasn't just one researcher."
"No," Blyke agreed. "Big name it was and impactful. Which makes it funnier."
He took a bite of fried rice, chewing slowly. "Tell me. Why do you think Atlantis would kill someone like that?"
Cagaro hesitated, eyes drifting to the fogged window. "Maybe Salas was going to leak something or switch allegiance. Or… he found something mysterious about Upper Strato."
Blyke swallowed, unimpressed. "No."
Cagaro frowned. "No?"
"No drama." Blyke said. "Hence no grand betrayal. Atlantis killed him because his research worked."
That landed heavier than expected. Cagaro's spoon stopped midair. "Worked… how?"
"Too well." Blyke said, already reaching for the chicken. "Salas figured out how to move people in restricted area without permission. Not metaphorically but structurally."
Cagaro stared. "That breaks everything."
"Exactly." Blyke shoveled rice into his mouth. "So they broke him first."
For a moment, only the sound of chewing filled the booth. The food was oily, spiced just enough to distract the body while the mind unraveled.
Cagaro forced himself to eat, though his appetite had vanished.
He cleared his throat. "I will take the bill."
Blyke didn't even look up. "Sure, I appreciate it."
"You are not going to argue?"
"Nah. If a third-star mission offer, I let fate do its thing. I was furniture until I stopped being useful. Then suddenly I was the one who walked away. Haha."
Cagaro paused, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. "We are talking about this in public. What if someone hears us?"
Blyke smiled around a mouthful of rice. "They won't."
"That confident?"
"Prepared as always." Blyke corrected. He tapped the underside of the table with his boot.
Somewhere nearby, a low hum shifted pitch. "White-noise field. Scrambles keywords, blurs intent. Anyone listening hears gossip and bad opinions."
Cagaro exhaled, impressed despite himself. "You are really lazy?"
"Efficient." Blyke said. "Big difference."
He wiped his mouth and leaned back. "Listen. Before this goes any further, you need to understand the board we're standing on."
Cagaro nodded.
"Strato," Blyke said. "Structure of society. It has three layers."
He lifted one finger. "Lower. Endless factories, waste zones, slums mashed into megacities. Survival economy in words."
A second finger. "Mid. Research towers and corporate arcologies are there. Clean air, clean lies. Only for high standard people. That is where Salas lived."
Then the third. Blyke didn't lift it. He just let his hand rest on the table.
"Upper," he said quietly. "Restricted, hazardous and mythologized."
Cagaro swallowed. "And what about these Organizations?"
Blyke met his gaze. "They decides who's allowed to believe Upper even exists."