Nothing about the moment felt wrong—until Calyx noticed how carefully everyone was avoiding looking at him.
The transit hall was busy in the quiet way the lower tiers preferred: footsteps softened by layered polymer, voices reduced to murmurs that never quite overlapped. He stepped off the platform with the rest, adjusted his pace to match the flow, kept his hands visible. Ordinary. Correct. He had learned the shapes of correctness a long time ago.
A woman ahead slowed to check her wrist display. Calyx slowed too. When she glanced back, her eyes slid past him, stopping on the space just over his shoulder, as if she were checking for someone else. She frowned—not at him, not exactly—then moved on.
He didn’t react. Not because it didn’t register, but because it did. The sensation settled
