Kaya kneels over the diffuser bank the way a jeweler leans into a stone: close enough to feel its temperature but not so close she fogs the lens. Her gloved fingers tease a micro-orifice open, then smaller, reading the pressure on a tiny needle gauge as if it were a pulse. The workshop smells of ozone and lavender-infused solvent—an odd, deliberate combination she keeps on hand because clients insist on nostalgia but refuse to name the moment it should mimic. She jokes with herself that the mid-ring lounges buy “vintage rain” and pay extra for the wrong decade.
Outside the single-pane window the city hangs like a layered painting: neon blossoms, scaffolds alive with pulley-clacking vendors, and the thin, persistent steam that rises from the alley’s fermented kelp dumpling stall. A weatherboard somewhere near the elevator reports “mild acid mist” for the night; locals take it as naturally as the sunrise. Kaya thinks of the vendor’s battered sign—three smiling dumplings rendered in fluorescent cyan—and the way the steam-seller folds his paper to make a pocket for the sauce. It is not political; it is domestic. It is the small infrastructure that keeps people warm.
Her comm-slate chirps. An order pops up: boutique lounge, rooftop, auditory hush, “apricot-humid haze.” The font the client uses is a cursive that reads like entitlement. She taps a reply with practiced brevity. “Estimated three-hour install. Will need two flow-drones for distribution. Fragile—vinyl panels. Two samples.” She adds a joke emoji because she is bored and the interface expects it.
A soft knock, then Sol’s boot print on the threshold. He carries a toolbox the size of a pity and the smell of half-remembered solder. “You’re hoarding air again?” he asks without looking at the diffusers, like he means it affectionately.
Kaya lifts a hand, wiping solvent off her palm with the hem of her sleeve. “I license it, Sol. I don’t hoard; I curate. Big difference.” She slides a micro-skein into place, fingers moving with the muscle-memory of someone who has spent nights making humidity behave. Sol snorts. “Curator of humidity—there’s your plaque.”
Their banter is easy. He knows the cadence of her work: when she braces before a reflash, when she hums to the pumps because their pitch keeps her steady. He is older, softened at the edges by years of ductwork and welded patience. He moves through the workshop with a kind of respect you afford a complicated machine.