The maglev train slid into the platform at one of the Celestial Axis Demesne's outer ring satellite cities. The whole thing was weirdly quiet—no vibration when it stopped, like physics had taken a sick day. When that flat electronic chime announced their arrival, He Min actually felt his heart skip.
The doors opened and this smell hit him—disinfectant mixed with whatever they used in their air filters. He Min wrinkled his nose. Too clean. Real cities had layers of smell—exhaust, food, people, life. This place smelled like nothing, which was somehow worse than smelling bad.
It was raining outside, but the drops hitting the station's transparent dome made zero noise. He Min looked up and spotted some kind of sound-absorbing material built into the roof. They'd even noise-canceled the rain. Seriously?
He opened his old black umbrella.
The thing had seen better days—black fabric worn at the edges, wooden handle polished smooth from years of use. In this sterile white-and-gray station, it looked like something from a different century. Which, He Min figured, was probably the point.
People started getting off the train.
Everyone moved like they were in a trance, forming perfect lines guided by those glowing floor markers. The spacing between people was identical—someone had clearly programmed optimal crowd flow. Nobody talked. Nobody looked around. Even their footsteps were quiet, like they were afraid of disturbing something. The only sound was an AI announcement repeating the same welcome message in a voice that could cure insomnia.
He Min was the only one making any real noise.
He ignored the floor markers and just wandered along the edge of the crowd, taking his time. Everyone else moved in sync while he strolled like he was at a museum. The station's design was all straight lines and perfect angles—the kind of thing that looked impressive in architecture magazines but felt cold as hell in person. The ads weren't even trying to sell anything fun, just abstract logos for something called "Asta" and boring slogans about logic.
He was also the only person carrying an umbrella. Everyone else was lining up for this "high-frequency sonic drying tunnel" that would supposedly dry them off in three seconds.
He Min walked right past it into the rain.
The water wasn't cold—24 degrees, perfectly climate-controlled like everything else here. But it still felt wrong. This engineered "comfort" reminded him of being preserved in a jar. He ran his fingers along the umbrella handle. The familiar texture was reassuring—something real in a world that felt increasingly fake.
He caught a public shuttle to his hotel from a bus stop that looked like it had been designed by the same committee that did the train station. At least this gave him a chance to experience the city's "perfection" up close.
The shuttle interior was exactly what he'd expected. Spotless. So quiet he could hear himself breathe. Most passengers had their eyes closed or were reading news feeds on their tablets—probably all vetted and sanitized by whoever ran this place. The woman next to him was elderly, white-haired, just staring out the window with this peaceful, satisfied expression.
They were cruising along normally when the shuttle suddenly stopped. No warning, no jolt—just a perfect halt that didn't even make his umbrella tip wobble.
A few passengers glanced up, then went back to whatever they were doing. Normal occurrence, apparently. The businesswoman in front of him pulled out her tablet and started rescheduling meetings, muttering just loud enough for him to hear: "Third time today, damn traffic system."
He Min looked outside and saw the problem: a cat. Decent-looking pet, probably lost, standing frozen in the street. It clearly had no idea what to do with all the silent vehicles.
The shuttle's display lit up with a message: "Stress-response lifeform detected 50 meters ahead. Safety protocol active. System will remain stationary until lifeform stress index normalizes or exits danger zone. Thank you for your patience. Order and safety above all else."
He Min almost laughed out loud.
Nothing against safety or rules, but turning a confused cat into a "stress index" that needed monitoring? That was the problem right there. Cats were supposed to be unpredictable—that's what made them cats. Here, everything got turned into data points to be managed.
The whole thing felt familiar in the worst way. This suffocating sense of being scheduled and categorized, of having all the randomness squeezed out of life—it was exactly what he'd been trying to escape.
"Isn't it wonderful?" the old woman next to him said suddenly. She was looking at the cat, smiling at He Min. "Under Lord Asta's guidance, even the smallest creatures are protected. Such a gentle world."
He Min turned to look at her. Her happiness was completely genuine, not a trace of doubt or irony. He smiled and nodded back.
That was more disturbing than if she'd been obviously brainwashed.
They sat there for five full minutes. Finally the cat worked up the courage to bolt around a corner, and the shuttle resumed its route like nothing had happened.
But something had definitely happened to He Min. That part of him that instinctively rebelled against too much order was seriously annoyed now. This perfect little pond needed some ripples.
The shuttle was approaching a busy intersection. He Min watched the rain-streaked world outside and felt that familiar urge—like a kid with a crayon looking at a pristine white wall. He reached into his pocket.
What he pulled out looked like any random pebble you'd find on the street. Gray, rough, completely ordinary.
He cracked the window just a hair.
As they entered the intersection, He Min flicked the stone with his finger.
It sailed through the air in an arc nobody would notice, landed right in the shuttle's path, and somehow melted into the asphalt like it belonged there.
He Min settled back in his seat, grinning slightly.
One second later, their shuttle—along with him and everyone else on board—came to a dead stop right in the middle of the intersection.