Shadow Circuit

The city woke in stages: neon tired into dawn, exhaust and frying oil thickened around the low blocks, and the river of tram-lines sent a metallic echo through every open vent. Arin cut his palm on a bolt that refused to loosen, tasting old iron and the sharp coin of adrenaline. He worked without music most mornings, letting the rhythm of ratchets and the soft cough of rebuilt motors mark the hour. Around him, the workshop — two corrugated sheets, a loft of scavenged glass, and a hand-lettered sign promising "Repairs, Favors, Faster" — smelled like coffee gone flat and melted solder. The light that slipped through the grime made the tools look holy.

Lila was at the bench opposite, knees tucked beneath a stool two sizes too small, her fingers smudged with graphite and grease. She drew on a strip of metal, looping a skyline into impossible arches. Her sketches never matched the city; she preferred slanted towers and plazas where people stopped to talk. "Give it a curve," she said without looking up, brushing a streak from her cheek. Her voice had the kind of softness that made people forget there were teeth behind it.

Arin tightened the bolt and glanced up. He loved her in the way people loved a single stubborn lightbulb that wouldn’t die: because it persisted even when everything else flickered. Lila hummed a tune she’d learned on a market day and pushed her drawing slab toward him. The song was all edges and glints — a map of the neighborhood in three notes. Outside, a courier screamed by, clutching a package like a sacrament. The city’s morning unfolded in small chaotic rituals: deliveries, the first bread from the corner oven, a child’s shout as he lost his toy drone.

They had an economy of gestures. Lila would make the food runs; Arin would fix the sleds and the broken phones people brought in with trembling hands. They paid their rent with sweat and favors. Arin liked the precision of machinery; the world outside the workshop felt less precise, and somehow more dangerous for it. He liked knowing the torque that would set a motor free and the fraction of patience needed to coax a sensor back to life.

The knock came at eleven and sounded like a fist tapping soft wood. Arin wiped his hands on a rag and opened the door to a courier drone that hovered like a stubborn hornet. It bore the Helion sigil: a slim helix of chrome, smooth and unblinking. A cold voice spooled from the drone’s panel.

— Notification: Citizen change. Presence under administrative review. Present identity: Lila Mendez. Subject removed from public registries pending legal retention.

Arin found his throat dry. Lila’s laughter in the other room stalled, then dropped into something small and confused. "What is that?" she asked, turning the paper over as if the next sketch might hide the answer. The drone’s lights blinked like a metronome. On its belly, no petition, no paper — only a slot that sealed itself after the words. Outside, the city’s hum continued. Inside, something had gone suddenly and clinically quiet.