Henry woke before Yoshimi, as he often did. The light filtering through the slats of the blind was soft, but his mind was already too loud to enjoy it.

  He lay still, not wanting to wake her. Instead, he just stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint lines where the plaster had warped. Had it always been like that, or was it just the way the morning light fractured through the smartglass? His ocular implant flickered. That was odd, some of the pixels distorted. A diagnostic readout overlaying his vision before fading. Sometimes he wondered if he saw more than he should, or if the tech just made him notice things nobody else would.

  He turned to Yoshimi, pressing his lips, one of the few parts not upgraded, still human, against her shoulder. He wanted to remember her in ways that would outlast memory: taste, scent, the warmth of her skin.

  For a moment, he wondered if the gene therapy and the implants had been a mistake. He would remember this forever, or, at least, until something catastrophic erased him, but she would fade. The knowledge, heavy like a stone.

  Yoshimi stirred, her hand finding his hair. “Ohayou,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

  He smiled, kissing her lips. “Do we have to go to work? Can’t we just stay here like this?”

  She smiled back, but the moment passed. “That would be nice, but no.” She just trailed off, the early light having woken her, so that returning to sleep was impossible.

  Henry got up and headed in for a shower. The water was odd, scalding one moment, icy the next. He eyed the wall-mounted boiler display, its digital readout flickering between error codes and the time. Network issue, or just another glitch?

  He made a mental note to call a repair crew, though he doubted anyone would answer quickly these days.

  Each drop was a gamble. Yoshimi’s hands scrubbed his back, her laughter echoing as she danced away from a sudden cold blast. He found himself smiling despite the annoyance; her presence made the malfunctions bearable, even amusing.

  In the kitchen, the old analogue kettle whistled while the smart coffee maker blinked “rebooting…”.

  “Do you want to get something here or on the way?” Henry asked, glancing at the blinking display.

  Yoshimi checked the time on her phone. “We have some time, so we can stop in at a deli and get something.”

  As they headed out, Henry locked up. “Is my cooking really that bad?” he joked, trying to shake off the static building behind his eyes.

  The deli was busy, the air thick with the smell of coffee and the low hum of conversation. Henry’s mind itched with unease, as if something was just out of reach. He ordered on autopilot, barely tasting the food.

  “How is your coffee?” Yoshimi asked, pulling him back.

  “Sorry, I zoned out. Yeah, it’s nice. I like it here. It’s… nostalgic.”

  They chatted, Both still groggy. When the bill came, Henry tapped his card. The holo display glitched, then froze.

  “Sorry, the payment system’s has been acting up today.” the waitress apologised.

  After several tries, it finally worked. Henry managed a tired smile. “Fifth time’s the charm.”

  They made their way to the train, joining the morning crowd. More people than usual.

  The carriage was a patchwork of eras: worn leather seats, polished steel poles, and a row of digital displays above the doors. s flickered, some dissolving into static, others stuttering through corrupted AR overlays, half a face, a jumble of code, then darkness.

  The train lurched forward, then shuddered to a halt. Lights snapped off, plunging the carriage into a hush broken only by the anxious shifting of passengers. A child’s smart toy blinked and died.

  From somewhere near the back, a voice muttered, “Not again… this city’s tech is falling apart.”

  A woman sighed, “I swear, if the network goes down during rush hour, we’re all doomed.”

  Falling apart? Doomed? Henry frowned. He knew that wasn’t true. He’d seen the diagnostics, the repair logs. The city’s infrastructure was old, but it wasn’t collapsing. Something else was happening, something… different.

  Henry glanced up, watching as the emergency strip lighting flickered uncertainly to life.

  Yoshimi’s hand found his arm, her grip firm. “Is there anything to worry about, Henry?”

  “I doubt it. Looks as though the data and power are not getting through. Probably a network issue.” He tried to sound reassuring, though he suspected more was wrong.

  The train stuttered forward, only to die again. Each time, the crowd grew more restless. Henry tapped one of the dead advertisements, then eyed the door controls, lips pursed. He caught the conductor’s silhouette moving through the gloom, torch in hand.

  Eventually, the train limped into their station, just short of the platform. Passengers shuffled forward, guided by the conductor, who was manually opening the doors. “No further movement,” he announced. “Alternative arrangements will be made.”

  Outside, the city felt off-kilter. Neon billboards glitched; a few analogue posters had been slapped over malfunctioning digital screens. Henry pointed at the blank TV boards on the building across the street. “See those? That tends to happen with either a power interruption or a network issue. I think this is probably more widespread.”

  Yoshimi nodded, her brow furrowed. “If the trains are off and that deli was having trouble, do you think it will affect our work?”

  “I expect so. We lucked out. It’s going to be a slow day.”

  They walked on, the city’s usual hum replaced by a jittery, uncertain quiet. Henry found himself zoning out, mind racing through possible causes and fixes, even as the world around him seemed to flicker between past and future.

  Henry hurried into the office, fifteen minutes late. The usual hum of monitors was gone; blank screens glared from every cubicle, and people clustered in uneasy knots, voices low and anxious. The air was sharp, tinged with the metallic tang of overheated wiring and the stale scent of too many bodies in a room with dead ventilation. It almost felt as though the building itself was sweating.

  Mara caught his eye as he passed, arching an eyebrow. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” She murmured, voice dry.

  Before Henry could reply, Mark strode by. Henry instead gave a quick, theatrical courtesying bow, causing Mara to chuckle softly.

  Mark had always prided himself on being the office’s comic relief, but today his smile was brittle, his eyes scanning the room for trouble.

  “All right, everyone, huddle up!” Mark called, clapping his hands. “Nobody’s going to be mad, who forgot to pay the electric bill?” The joke hung in the air; a few people managed nervous chuckles, but most just shifted their weight, glancing at the darkened screens.

  Mark’s voice dropped. “Here’s the situation: major power outage, citywide. Only four of our twelve regions have any juice left, and District expects them to go down soon. Network’s patchy, real-time data is unreliable.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Everyone here knew the citywide AI coordinated across districts, but details were scarce, a strict need-to-know basis. Even with the AI’s watchful eye, the people on the ground were often left piecing together fragments.

  Questions erupted; “Is it a terrorist attack?” “What are we supposed to do?”, “What’s the plan?”.

  Mark raised his hands. “Breathe, people. District’s got a plan. We will provide a four-person team to HQ to help stem the data loss. The rest of us will use these.” He set a heavy, dust-covered analogue phone on the desk.

  Someone snorted. “Are you joking? I haven’t used one of those since I was a kid.”

  Mark grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.. “Desperate times, folks. We’re going prehistoric. Our number has been given out for up-to-the minute updates. No more questions, good.”

  He was well aware there were lots of questions, but few answers.

  He rattled off the names: “Henry, Gregg, Josh, Aileen, You’re up. Cars are downstairs.” He paused, then added, “If you end up working past five, District has promised you’ll get tomorrow off to recover. Make sure you take it if you need it.”

  Mark finished the meeting.

  Henry blinked. “They sent cars? That means District already had an idea something was coming.”

  Mark smile was tight, “Above our pay grade, mate. We’re all in the dark here. We just got this cryptic message: Cars sent to location.”

  As the meeting broke up, Henry hefted the analogue phone, its weight oddly reassuring and ominous at the same time. The office was still, the only sound the faint buzz of emergency lights and the low, anxious chatter of a city on the edge.

  The team made their way downstairs and met a representative from District HQ, clipboard in hand. Pleasantries were exchanged, but the mood was tense and businesslike. Henry and Gregg climbed into the front SUV, with Aileen and Josh following in the vehicle behind.

  For a while, they rode in silence, the countryside blurring past. Henry broke the quiet turning to the District representative. “It seems strange, almost as though District knew what was going to happen?”

  The representative’s response was measured, almost rehearsed. “Simple fact is, we only know what District gives us. You may actually know more than us. District is a stickler for compartmentalisation.”

  It was a deflection, Henry thought. District was keeping everybody in the dark, and it made sense, security demanded it. Still, it was unsettling. Even as a data analyst, he was used to seeing only fragments, never the whole picture.

  Outside, the landscape whizzed by, but Henry’s mind drifted. He wasn’t worried about the technical work, he knew what to do, even if he’d never faced a crisis quite like this. What unsettled him more was the strangeness in his implants. Without real-time updates, they twitched and pulsed in unfamiliar ways, like an addict denied a fix. The sensation was distracting, almost physical, a low, restless buzz beneath his skin, a reminder of how dependent he’d become on seamless connectivity.

  Trying to distract himself, Henry turned to Gregg, “You’ve been to District HQ before. What’s it like?”

  Gregg thought for a moment, “It’s nice enough. Most people are normpop and easygoing, but there are some who are resentful. Don’t be surprised it you hear ‘genetically popular’ thrown about.” Henry recognised the term. “Genetically popular” had started as a joke, but now it was an ironic slur aimed at the genetically modified minority, genpop, usually delivered with a dismissive smirk.

  Gregg fell silent, and the rest of the ride passed in uneasy quiet.

  As they pulled up to the facility, Gregg peered out of the window at the increased security presence. “It’s okay,” he said, forcing a smile. “This usually happens when there’s any disruption, standard procedure.”

  Henry nodded, recognising the reassurance for what it was, an attempt to settle his own nerves.

  Suddenly remembering his plans, Henry pulled out his phone out and sent Yoshimi a quick message about lunch, the act feeling disconnected amid so much uncertainty. He wasn’t even sure it would reach her with the network issues.

  The car pulled up out front. As they exited, Henry noticed a row of identical black SUV’s in the parking lot, sleek, armoured, and anonymous. Clearly, their team wasn’t the only one summoned; the crisis had drawn in more than just a handful of specialists.

  Inside, the lobby was all hard lines, glass, and cold synthetic light, a functional neo-militarist style that radiated power and subtle menace.

  The representative led them to the reception desk, where a bored attendant handed out visitor badges. “Tier-2 Operational access (temporary),” she intoned, as if reciting a ritual.

  For a moment, Henry felt like a secret agent.

  “Please surrender all laptops, phones, or recording devices,” the representative added. “Beyond this point is a restricted area.” The team complied, the ritual underscoring just how serious things were.

  As they walked through the labyrinthine halls, Henry felt eyes on them. Some staff paused to stare, maybe at the influx of outsiders, but more likely at the rare sight of genpop at District HQ. Genpop, with their advanced implants, were uncommon here; District valued their technical skills but considered their neural enhancements a security risk, and for good reason. Implants, after all, were notoriously vulnerable to hacking and unauthorised access, not because of any flaw in the technology itself, but more commonly due to lax update maintenance.

  In a place obsessed with compartmentalisation, even a hint of risk was enough to keep genpop on the outside looking in.

  Despite all the people working here, Henry knew District was only one layer in the city’s vast apparatus. Above it all, the citywide AI coordinated infrastructure, security, and data flows, District answered to it, not the other way around. In a world run by algorithms, even the bureaucrats were just another node in the system.

  Here, even a minor difference could draw attention.

  They were ushered into a small workroom, hastily assembled but functional: four workstations, a cluster of analogue telephones with loudspeakers, and a wall display already flickering with emergency updates. The décor was strictly utilitarian, bare metal, exposed conduits, and the faint hum of air filtration. Windowless, designed for efficiency, not comfort. Everyone knew HQ had its own power supply, so at least everything would work.

  “First come, first serve or rock, paper, scissors?” Josh joked, trying to break the tension. Aileen just sighed, unimpressed. They chose seats at random and got to work.

  The phones rang almost immediately. The crisis had started early; the backlog relentless. Gregg, the most senior, took charge as intake coordinator, his practised efficiency setting the pace. Henry lost himself in the flow of triage and data, the hours blurring past.

  When they finally checked the clock, it was already 5 p.m., and the calls hadn’t stopped. The work was relentless, the sense of urgency palpable. Josh asked, “We already missed lunch. Do we keep working through dinner, or can we take breaks?”

  Henry shrugged. “I’m fine just working, but take a break if you want.”

  Gregg agreed, but nobody moved. Aileen stayed silent, eyes fixed on her screen, almost as though in a trance.

  They worked on, the steady stream of calls and data dwindling until the loudspeaker finally fell silent, indicating the office must have been quieting.

  Gregg leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Well, looks like we’ve earned tomorrow off after all."

  Josh let out a relieved sigh, and Henry managed a tired smile.

  It was nearly 10 p.m. when a new representative arrived, same clipboard, to announce the outage was resolved and they were free to leave. “Leave everything as is. Our crew will handle the rest.”

  Escorted back to reception, they returned their badges and climbed into the waiting SUVs. The countryside at night was a stark contrast to the city: no neon, just darkness and quiet.

  Henry felt the tension in his implants ease as real-time updates resumed, the itch of disconnection fading, but the melancholy lingered, untouched by restored connectivity.

  As they neared the city, neon lights glimmered on the horizon, welcoming them back to the electric hum of urban life. The cars dropped them at the office, where Mark was still at his desk.

  “Good work, everyone. You managed to stem the backlog to a couple of days, so we should be able to catch up. If you could, please write up an account for debrief.”

  Henry couldn’t help but think, Why does he always make things sound clandestine?

  The report took about fifteen minutes. Soon, he was back on the late-night train, lost in thought, longing for routine but knowing the world had shifted in ways he couldn’t yet name.

  He could rouse enough awareness to indicate the trains were chugging along steadily now, its earlier stutters and flickers replaced by a smooth, reassuring rhythm, a small sign that, for the moment, the city’s fragile systems were holding together.

  He unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside, closing it softly behind him, The familiar hush of home. He set down his bag, lingered in the hallway for a moment, then made his way to the bedroom.

  Yoshimi was already asleep, her hair spread across the pillow. The glow of the street-lights traced gentle patterns on her face. Henry pulled up a chair and sat beside her, just watching. He never tired of it. Love and sorrow tangled in his chest, her warmth was here, real, but the knowledge that his memory of her would outlast her life weighed heavily.

  His eyes stung.

  Yoshimi stirred, half-awake, and reached for him, her fingers brushing his cheek. “Long day,” she murmured.

  Henry nodded, unable to trust his voice. He wiped at his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t notice, but she only smiled sleepily and tugged him closer. He sat on the edge of the bed as she wrapped her arms around him. He wasn’t physically tired, just hollowed out, the day settling deep.

  He let himself stay there, in the quiet, breathing in the comfort of her presence.

  For now, that was enough.