The descent felt less like a commute and more like a contamination protocol.
Isabelle Crimson sat in the back of the Obsidian-7, her anti-grav limousine, as it pierced the cloud layer separating the Upper City from the lower districts. Sealed in the sterile bubble of the vehicle, she felt the pressure change. Not atmospheric—economic. The weight of inefficiency pressing against the glass.
She checked the holographic interface projected from her white glove. The numbers on the screen were clean, sharp, and comforting. The world outside was not.
As the car sank below the smog line, the golden sunlight of the Spire was replaced by the bruised purple of the under-city neon. Rain began to drum against the shielded glass—acidic, heavy, and smelling faintly of burning tires, even through the f
