The neon hum of the wasn't just noise; it was the heartbeat of a city that had forgotten how to sleep.

He leaned back, the data-cube finally going cold in his hand. At Terminal 1.39, getting lost was the only way to be found.

Kaelen sat on a bench made of recycled polymer, watching the "ghost buses"—autonomous, translucent pods—glide into their docking bays. Terminal 1.39 was the lowest level of the central hub, a place where the air tasted like ozone and burnt rubber, and the passengers were mostly those trying to disappear.

The overhead display flickered.