The city of Freya breathes in slow, electric sighs. Neon bleeds through smog like watercolors in rain.

In the abandoned subway tunnels beneath Market District, an old man's weathered hands work a brass crank. The pneumatic tube system hums to life. Ancient metal singing forgotten songs.

He slides a message capsule into the brass tube. Thunk. Air pressure sucks it into darkness, carrying secrets through veins the corporate overlords never mapped.

Above ground, the Glitch Church of Saint Mercy locks its doors for the night. Pastor Henderson's key turns in the old brass lock. The church sign flickers overhead: FAITH becomes FA17H becomes FAITH again.

He doesn't fix it anymore. The glitch is the message.

Three blocks east, in an alley that smells of wet concrete and spray paint, a girl in a respirator mask paints fast. Her brush moves in quick strokes across brick. A face emerges. Eyes closed. A single tear falling like silver mercury.

Near the mural's corner, a tiny black and yellow wasp painting looks older than the brick itself. Half faded wings. No one notices.

Footsteps echo off the alley walls. She caps her paint, dissolves into shadows. The crying face watches the empty alley with closed eyes.

The Emerald District.

Glowing green-eyed people walk in perfect lines down spotless sidewalks. Their footsteps sync like clockwork. No one talks. No one laughs. No one stumbles.

A child drops his toy. His mother picks it up, hands it back. Both faces remain perfectly calm.