The city didn't wake; it dragged itself into consciousness.
Street lamps flickered as if deciding whether to keep standing. The sky above East Sector hung low and heavy, a dull steel sheet smeared with smog that never fully cleared. Trash bins rattled as a stray dog rummaged for breakfast, and somewhere deep in the maze of apartment blocks, a baby cried through a thin wall. The morning wind carried the smell of rain, oil, and last night's fried food.
It was the kind of city you learned to survive before you learned to dream.
Mira Khan shoved her hands into the pockets of her fraying hoodie as she crossed Sycamore Street, her boots splashing through a shallow puddle that reflected the trembling neon glow of a bar sign. She had places to be. A job she hated. A landlord who pretended he didn't hear her knocking. A city that didn't care whether she made it or not.
But today, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.
The air hummed differently.
Too quiet.
Too expectant.
Like the city was holding its breath.
She adjusted her backpack, stepping around a cracked manhole cover marked with red spray paint. Someone had added a symbol over it recently—an eye with three lines beneath it. She'd seen it popping up across the sector over the past few weeks, but no one seemed to know who was painting it. Or maybe they did, and just knew better than to talk.
The metro entrance loomed ahead, steam curling from vents like the streets were exhaling. Mira checked her watch—6:14 a.m. She wasn't late yet, but she would be if she didn't move.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't bother checking it at first. Leena—her best friend—loved to send memes at ungodly hours. But the buzz came again, then a third time in quick succession.
Mira frowned, pulling her phone out.
**Unknown Number:**
*Don't go underground.*
She blinked.
Her thumb hesitated above the screen. Before she typed anything, another message appeared.
*This is not a joke. Stay above ground.*
Her stomach tightened, a knot forming so quickly it made her breath hitch. She narrowed her eyes and slowly scanned the people around her—three commuters waiting near the metro doors and a man selling samosas from a silver cart. No one looked her way.
A third message popped up.
*You're being watched.*
A cold prickle started at the base of her neck. She resisted the instinct to whip her head around.
Instead, she moved her eyes subtly, like she was checking traffic.
East Sector was many things—loud, greedy, restless—but rarely strange. This felt strange.
Her pulse drummed harder. A drop of sweat traced down her spine, more from nerves than heat.
She typed back:
**Mira:**
*Who is this?*
Three dots appeared like the sender was typing—then disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again. No answer.
The metro doors slid open with a mechanical sigh behind her.
And then she saw him.
A man in a charcoal coat. Standing too still. Holding a newspaper but not reading it. His shoulders rigid, his gaze fixed directly on her. His dark hair was slicked back, but what unsettled her wasn't his posture—it was his eyes.
Flat.
Unblinking.
As if he wasn't seeing her, but studying her.
Mira's heart skipped.
Her phone buzzed again.
*Walk. Don't run. Turn the corner. Now.*
She swallowed.
The man lowered the newspaper.
Mira pivoted casually, pretending to check something in her bag, then headed down the street away from the station. Not too fast. Not too slow. The way you moved when a stray dog might bite if you startled it.
The city was fully alive now—motorcycles zipping past, vendors yelling, kids chasing each other to school—but the noise felt distant, muted beneath the rush of her heartbeat.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
She could hear him.
Footsteps.
Measured.
Heavy enough to feel intentional.
Mira sped up, turning down Fiore Alley—narrow, shadowed, lined with closed storefront gates. A cat darted across her path. The hum of an old generator buzzed overhead. She reached for her phone again, fingers trembling.
**Mira:**
*Who are you??*
A reply came instantly.
*Someone trying to keep you alive.*
Her breath caught.
She ducked behind a pillar, just long enough to peek out.
The man in the charcoal coat stepped into the alley. He wasn't out of breath. Not even close. He scanned the shadows slowly, eyes sweeping the place like he already knew she was there.
Mira backed away.
The wall behind her was cold against her shoulders. Her lungs felt too tight.
She had two choices:
1. Keep running.
2. Turn and fight if she had to.
Neither felt good.
The man took another step forward.
He reached into his coat.
Her mind screamed **knife**—or maybe **gun**.
Instead, he pulled out… a small black device. Circular. Smooth. A faint blue glow pulsed at its center.
Not a weapon she recognized.
He held it up, tapping something on its surface.
Mira felt a vibration in her pocket—her phone buzzing again.
*He found your signal. Move NOW.*
Her legs reacted before her brain did.
She burst out of hiding and sprinted down the alley. The man shouted—deep, sharp, commanding—but she didn't stop. She didn't think. She just ran.
Her boots pounded the pavement. She dodged over a stack of crates, slipped between two dumpsters, turned left, then right. The city blurred into shapes and noise.
At the end of the alley, she skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a cyclist. He yelled obscenities at her. She didn't care.
She didn't stop until she reached the edge of the main road again, chest heaving, lungs burning.
Her phone buzzed one more time.
*You need answers. And you won't find them alone.*
Mira stared at the message, hands trembling.
"What the hell is happening?" she whispered to herself.
She looked up.
The sun had finally dragged itself above the skyline.
And in its pale light, she realized something she'd never noticed before—
The city wasn't just waking.
It was watching.