Day One — The City Breathes

Marcus liked the early route because the city was quieter before it remembered what it owed.

Even at dawn, the air carried the same soft heat — not hot, not cool. Always warm enough to make you aware of your skin. Eighty-two degrees, give or take. The depot fans pushed the air around, but they never really changed it.

Coffee bitter. Diesel sharp. Disinfectant sweet and false. The smell of tired men pretending they weren’t tired.

Green light. Another day.

The bus hummed to life, a vibration that settled into his bones. Marcus liked that part. The hum made him feel useful. Necessary. Like the city needed him to breathe.

A woman in scrubs climbed on, skin already faintly dewy, hair tight in a bun. Two plain brown coins slipped from her fingers and clinked against the step.

“Morning,” Marcus said.

“Morning,” she said, voice dry with sleep.

Three manna. The reader chirped.

Approved.

Marcus watched the counter tick up. Riders. Totals. Flow.

If your route stayed profitable, they didn’t touch your schedule. If they touched your schedule, your life got complicated.

A man in a suit boarded next, phone to his ear, skin shining faintly despite the early hour.

“No, I said five manna was the ceiling,” he snapped, waving a coin without looking.

Chirp.

At a red light, Marcus saw the billboard: PAY YOUR SHARE. KEEP THE CITY STRONG.

The smiling family looked slightly damp, like they’d been standing in warm air too long.

City felt strong enough to him.

Another man boarded. Backpack. Old cloth. Rain smell.

“Take your time,” Marcus said.

The machine chirped.

Same route. Same warmth. Same hum.

Marcus eased back into traffic.

The city inhaled.

The heat made dumpsters smell faster.

That was how Lila tracked time.

Fast food grease. Overripe fruit. Sour paper.

Today, she got lucky. Half a sandwich. Still wrapped. The bread was warm from the air, not the grill. She ate slow, letting it last.

Six manna in her pocket. One bent.

Enough for a shower and maybe coffee.

The transit station air was the same as outside — warm, unmoving. Fans pushed it around, but it never cooled.

Posters everywhere: CONTRIBUTE. BELONG.

Smiling people. Dry clothes. Not sweating.

She fed two manna into the shower kiosk. It hesitated. Then approved.

Hot water hit her shoulders. Steam mixed with the ambient warmth until she couldn’t tell where the shower ended and the city began.

For five minutes, she was just a woman under water.

Outside, the palace towers shimmered faintly in heat distortion.

She flipped a coin.

Same face. Same face.

Today, she’d get coffee.

That was enough.

Richard Hale’s office was glass and light and climate control.

The thermostat read 72, but he still felt the city’s warmth in his skin, like it seeped through the glass.