"And? Slept in?"
I open my eyes. A breath of fresh morning air ruffles my blond hair as the first sunbeams fight their way through the rows of houses.
"The bus comes in… uh—"
Shato pulls up the right sleeve of his coat and reveals a small wristwatch.
"In… 12? No, 2 minutes!" he explains with a grin on his cheeks.
My gaze flicks between his face, the three sports bags he hefts behind his back, and the red street sign next to us that looks like a waiting passerby in the dawn. It bears a white B in the center — for "Bus" — and I know that because I know that. I also know that nobody gets up at five in the morning, which is why the street in front of us looks so empty. No pedestrians, no cars, not even a bird scavenging for food. It feels like a ghost town — no, rather a ghost street in surprisingly good condition. No cracks in the concrete, no bumps on the curb, no plants breaking through the pavement. The road is clean and tidy, yet somehow deserted.
"You coming?"
Shato's words pull me out of my daydream. He's already half in a red sliding door, one foot on the curb, the other on the edge of the red bus. I nod quickly, glance along the bus's darkened windows, then clamber up onto the raised step like an urban climber.
"PiCa once on board," the bus driver grumbles in his own dialect, his bushy light-brown beard moving as he speaks.
"Ah, hold on, I'll just grab it…" Shato answers, rummaging wildly through the deep pockets of his coat.
In the meantime I lean past Shato and peer deeper into the bus. Two other people obviously dragged themselves out of bed early; they sit quietly, each absorbed in their own problems. One props his head up on his arm and stares out the window, which seems tinted only on one side. The woman looks at her "smartphone" — a tech relic from the old world that supposedly every person used to have. Today it's more a symbol of prestige and wealth; very few can afford them, and I'm definitely not one of them.
"Take your damned time getting on," the bearded man complains.
"Otherwise you're welcome to imagine how long it'll take if everyone does that," he adds scornfully.
I look back at the driver, his face shadowed beneath a blue cap. He lounges in his seat, legs crossed, arms behind his head, and speaks with the kind of condescension only someone who believes themselves untouchable can muster. As if nobody could ever do anything to him.
And yet we live in a world of war. A world of fighting. Death is daily, on both sides. The media keeps throwing it at us. I could kill this man — Shato could too. Anytime. Right here, right now. It wouldn't even be difficult: a simple stab, nothing more. And yet this man acts the part. It's confusing, if you ask me. He seems fearless, untouchable, like he's hiding an ace up his sleeve. But he's just a bus driver. Nothing special, not even among people. It probably wouldn't even matter to anyone if he died here. Still, he acts like he matters. As if.
"Here!" Shato shouts, thrusting a small card into the air.
The white plastic reflects the bus's dim lights, giving me only a glimpse of the picture and the name Preis.
It says Shat — clearly meant to be Shato. And the picture is definitely of him. I was even there when we took it. That's why his hair looks so messy and his black collar wet. A little prank — a sort of payback.
"'Bout damn time," the bus driver grumbles, gesturing toward a slanted console next to the steering wheel, where the card fits perfectly.
A spot made for the PiCa — the Personal Information Card. A multipurpose item. ID, money, and tracker — all in one.
Shato doesn't hesitate, slides the card in, and waits for the device's beep to release him — no more than two seconds.
Then he thanks the driver, earning only a shake of the man's head, and pulls me along, deeper into the bus, until we claim a double seat in the middle.
I get the window seat — something I'm always grateful for. Because bus rides are always painfully boring.
"Next stop: Priest Street," echoes a distorted voice through the bus, just as the tires and engine start moving.
That's my cue to look out the window.
Shato once told me bus rides used to be different. That people used to enjoy riding in one of these things. He said you'd always see new sights — new places, new people, new streets. The world was constantly changing back then; no two bus rides were ever the same. Routes changed all the time, new ice cream shops opened, new houses, new parks appeared.
"Next stop: Priest Building."
I can only imagine that. Our bus routes barely ever change — maybe once every five years. And even then, they just rebuild the same kind of house again. A gray square made of the same material with the same rooftop terrace. Sometimes they're a bit bigger, sometimes smaller. Sometimes they have a little garden by the windows. But overall, they all look the same. At least out here, in the outer districts.
They say it's different in the Central City — the heart of the APH, the heart of humanity. The district in the middle.
But I've never been there, so all I have to go on are rumors I've picked up here and there.
"Next stop: Peace Street."
Oh, something new. Something different. Peace Street — named because, many years ago, people marched there to protest for peace. For some law that supposedly would have triggered a major war. I don't really know the details; it was briefly mentioned in school, but there you only ever learn half the truth — or a beautifully told lie.
"Next stop: Central."
The roundabout. The hub. The middle.
Shato often says this one saying — "All roads lead to Mitstädt," or something like that. Usually when we've gotten ourselves lost. He's terrible with directions. Rin often corrects him, laughing: "It's Center. All roads lead to the Center."
Now that I think about it, she's probably right.
"Next stop: Trevis Shopping Tunnel."
Finally. We're here. Our stop at last. Convenient, when you think about it—since this bus barely ever makes stops at all.
Though right now, something else catches my eye. A colossal slab of concrete, a monument—almost a landmark, if it weren't such an ordinary sight.
A massive wall rises on the horizon, not far from where we stand. A gigantic barrier encircling the entire district. There isn't a single flaw to be seen—no cracks, no discoloration, not even graffiti. Not that anyone would dare to try; you'd probably be shot the moment you got too close.
A wall built for protection, used as a prison, and in truth nothing more than a vast death row. And it's not even unique. It's just one among many.
A wall that surrounds every district. A wall that locks us all in—and shuts us all out.
And a place that none of us will likely ever reach in our lifetime.
Though I can't help but wonder what the world might look like from up there.
"Vio?"
The bus screeches to a halt. Smiling, Shato offers me his hand—like I'm some noble he's supposed to escort.
"Guess you're not quite awake yet, haha!" he laughs, and that fleeting feeling of dignity immediately evaporates.
With a sigh, I ignore his hand and step off the bus with him, glancing one last time toward the towering wall before hurrying to catch up—since, of course, he's already walking ahead.
"Hey! Wait up!"
"No time! We're on a tight schedule!"
"Haaah…"
Seems like today's just one long sigh for me.
Though the sight that follows almost takes my breath away.
We pass through a wide gap between two tall buildings—identical in design, gray and joyless, but standing like the pillars of a grand gate. Despite being the same dull structures, the symmetry gives the space a strange sense of elegance.
And beyond them, a massive complex stretches out before us.
Cars line the edges of the streets, horns blaring as drivers fight for parking spots. In front of us, vast green lawns bask in the golden light of the rising sun.
They're divided by paths of pure white marble, which we step onto after I've carefully knocked the dirt from my shoes. A pointless gesture, maybe—even laughable—considering the sheer number of people who pass through here every day. But it gives me peace of mind.
And after every few steps, I glance back—just to make sure I haven't left a single speck of dust behind.
Maybe I'm the only one who does something like that.
But as my gaze follows the scent of freshly cut grass to a white sculpture of a fish, I feel oddly validated.
It's just one of many sculptures scattered around, each depicting a different creature—cranes, foxes, even a phoenix.
Lavish. Extravagant.
Another reason to step even more lightly—as if I could float above the marble itself.
Then I'm distracted.
A fish leaps out of one of the many ponds, smacking against the golden bridge above it, the dull splash echoing through the wide open space.
Probably the only kind of contact that bridge ever gets—since it's purely decorative, never used by anyone.
Why would it be, when there are these marble paths to walk on?
That's their purpose, after all.
So why am I so startled when suddenly—someone comes walking toward us?
Humming softly, she glances back after every few steps—just like I do—and even when our eyes meet for a moment.
She's small, barely up to my chest. Her red braids sway over tiny ears, and her smile suggests she's in good spirits.
We're both watching our steps, trying not to dirty the path.
And here I thought that was my thing.
But it's not the humming that stands out.
Not her carefulness either.
Not even the beige scarf coiled around her neck—though wearing a scarf in this weather is odd enough.
No, what really stands out are her eyes.
Those bright red eyes.
A color that shouldn't even exist—yet somehow looks completely natural.
I can't describe it properly.
Our gazes only meet for an instant, and the encounter itself is far too brief to mean anything.
Still, an uneasy feeling refuses to leave me as her humming fades into the distance and I'm left staring after her.
"You coming?" calls Shato at last.
I've been standing still for a while now.
So I nod, turn around, and fix my eyes—and my thoughts—on the massive entrance ahead, which looks more like the gateway to a subway tunnel.
"Trevis Shopping Tunnel!" Shato reads aloud the glowing yellow letters above the stairway, beckoning me to follow.
"We're heading to the second floor, and when we're done, there'll be Sondies," he adds as I step up beside him.
"But first, the shopping—got it?"
I nod absently, still unable to shake the image of those red eyes.
Then Shato pushes the glass door inward and starts down the staircase leading straight underground.
At first, our eyes need time to adjust to the dim light. Halfway down, the first murmur of voices reaches us, followed by beams of white light spilling across the stone walls—until we reach the bottom, where artificial daylight nearly blinds us.
"Welcome to the Trevis Shopping Tunnel—the deepest shopping street in the world!"
Two female attendants greet us with practiced smiles, bowing in their black suits.
"Please use the elevators and check the signboards if you need directions," says the one with the light brown bun.
"And be sure to review our regulations—available on your TrevisPhone or under 'Rules and Help' on the signboards. Confirm your arrival with your PiCa here," adds the one with the black curls, holding out the same kind of device the bus driver used earlier.
Prepared, Shato pulls out his card once again and slides it into the device without hesitation. A quick beep sounds, granting us entry into the hall.
It stretches on endlessly.
A corridor with no visible end.
The walls, the floor, the ceiling—everything is made of the same glossy white panels. Only a few black support pillars and perfectly placed advertisements break up the monotony of this white abyss.
We stroll forward for a while, passing a handful of people—just a few—some captivated by the glowing billboards, others resting on the wooden benches scattered along the way.
"Strange," Shato mutters suddenly.
I glance up at him, puzzled, but say nothing—partly because I don't know what to say.
"They usually project the sky here, don't they? Think the projectors are down?"
Now I remember too. On my last visit, it was exactly as he said.
Instead of this sterile white void, the ceiling had shown a brilliant sky—not the real one, of course, but a nearly perfect imitation that even matched the time of day.
But now?
There's nothing.
No sky, no clouds, not even a notice explaining why.
"Never mind. Now we're going shopping," Shato interrupts my thoughts and strolls over to a table whose top is entirely made of glass.
It looks like a giant smartphone—especially because the glass surface is actually a touchscreen.
Maybe this is the TrevisPhone the receptionist mentioned. The name is new to me, and besides, you can't really carry one of these things around: they're built in—fixed to the floor.
My other guess makes more sense: the TrevisPhone is just the mall's smartphone kiosk. Not that I could afford a new phone anyway. Still, the idea is tempting—a shiny piece of old-world tech would be something.
"Ok, Vio!" Shato calls and pushes off from the table.
"The directory said so! We take elevator number three."
Right—directory—that's what the device is normally called. And elevator three is lucky for us because it's right behind us, built into the wall and massive. Really huge—almost as big as my room, even though it's just an elevator. It still fits up to twenty-five people. Shato presses the button, I step inside; the cabin spans several arm-spans. I could live here if there were a bed. Or a table. Or a wardrobe. Anything besides the control panel that lists floors up to the fourth and the sign above the sliding door that reads "Second floor — Everyday Goods," which just happens to be our destination. When the door opens we step out to do our shopping.
My real goal, though, is the Sondies. That's the only reason I came. Not to lug water crates, not to hunt potato sacks, not to sort through apples and only find cherries, and certainly not to balance bags of pre-baked rolls between my hands. Check number five—Shato actually did buy something besides giving orders: jam. My favorite jam, and the most expensive spread on the list. So I'm not so mad anymore that I had to fetch the toilet paper and cram everything into the three duffel bags. He pays with the PiCa and finally ticks the last item off the shopping list.
"That's everything."
No—one thing is still missing, and I make that clear with a skeptical look as we fight our way through the crowd.
"Yeah, yeah, you'll get your Sondies," Shato sighs and stops.
We've arrived. Right in front of a stall that looks oddly out of place. But that's its charm—and mine. Shato hands me the PiCa and I bolt toward the counter like an excited child, practically blind. The small stall is set into the outer wall, a big yellow sign above it reads "Sondies." Clutching the PiCa and grinning, I peer through the glass where the dough balls are on display—my breath fogs the pane. Then I look up in surprise.
"H-hello?" I ask cautiously.
Contrary to expectation—no steaming dough balls handed over in a yellow bag with orange letters—there's nobody there. No vendor, no assistant, no temp, not even an intern. No one to sell me Sondies.
I wait a moment, turn to Shato; he's sitting on a wooden bench, staring up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. No help there, I think, and face the counter again, opening my mouth.
"U-um, h-hello? Is t-there a-anybody?"
I scratch my chin, puzzled. Maybe I just need to shout louder, or knock on the glass? That might be rude. But these are Sondies—and they're worth it. So I take a breath, curl my fingers into a fist, swallow, and ready myself to pound the glass.
Suddenly a face appears above me—right behind the counter, right in front of my beloved Sondies—just before I do something ridiculous.
But the face is not friendly. He's not wearing the usual white apron with the yellow trim. Not the yellow hat with an orange pompom shaped like a dough ball. The grim beard, the scar over his eye, the black neckerchief hiding his smile—none of it says "I sell Sondies." Then a clicking sound ripples through the hall. Like an echo.
One, that quiets everything. For a beat—two beats, three—then every single lamp in the hall goes out at once. And I go blind.