I glance up at the giant clock on the hall that marks the city's heart. 5:32 in the morning. The sun is only half-risen, draping the streets in a soft, golden light. Behind me, my home shrinks with every step, rooted still while I move farther toward the market.

  Windows along the lane flicker awake, lamps casting warm squares into the pale dawn. A few joggers pass by, breath steady, shoes striking the pavement in rhythm. Shopkeepers unlatch their stalls, arranging baskets of bread and jars of pickles for the first buyers of the day. Trucks rumble along, lifting packages from one street to the next. Guards change their shifts, some yawning, some sharp-eyed.

  Above, government drones drift by, one after another, releasing folded newspapers onto doorsteps. "What propaganda are they serving today?" I mutter, voice low enough to drown beneath the city's stir.

  The roundabout comes into view. The light is red, twelve seconds left. I stop beside the pole, watching the line of cars idle, their engines humming like restless animals. The green flickers on. Tires screech forward.

  In the middle of the lanes, a Road Directing Guard lounges in his chair, sipping coffee while holding a newspaper to his face. His partner stands firm beside him, scanning the flow with practiced stillness. They call them RD Guards, men who watch the roads but see nothing else.

  The light turns red again, this time for the cars. I step forward, slipping into the crosswalk.

  Getting to the other side, I notice more people stepping out into the streets. The road isn't crowded yet, though it will be soon enough. The market grows clearer ahead, its sounds and scents drifting toward me, the warmth of food being prepared for office workers, the sweeping of storefronts, the low hum of early chatter.

  Then my eyes are drawn upward. News windows glow across the tall buildings, all displaying the same headline: "Tragic death during new testing."

  I slow my pace. Yesterday's whispers had already spread, but now it's dressed in the government's voice. The story is familiar, too familiar. Another inventor. Another "Accident." They claim the device exploded, killing its creator still inside.

  My teeth press together. I can feel my jaw tighten as I walk. The truth twisted into something neat and disposable. Anger sprouts but I manage control.

  The people around me react in their own ways. Some shake their heads in grief, others laugh bitterly, mocking the dead as a fool who played too close to fire. A few barely glance at the screen, already turning their attention to their day. Acceptance, resignation. It all blends together.

  I continue walking, eyes scanning the market I've known since childhood. Familiar sights, familiar smells, the rhythm of people and stalls that shaped my mornings long ago.

  A man bumps into me, hurried and flustered. "Ah—sorry, sorry!" he mutters, glancing back at a sputtering car parked just off the street. His words tumble over each other as he runs, explaining something about being late to work, about missing the bus if he doesn't hurry.

  I watch him dart down the street, nearly slipping onto the sidewalk in his rush. He makes it just in time, boarding the bus as the doors hiss shut behind him. One misstep and he'd have to wait for the next, another small frustration in a city that barely pauses for anyone.

  I shake off the minor disturbance and continue forward, taking in the movement of the market around me. Each person absorbed in their own rhythm, oblivious to the patterns I quietly observe.

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  Some drones hover above, carrying packages toward the government offices. They're bulkier than the usual delivery models, built to lift heavier loads. Their motors hum a low, steady note as they glide over the streets, casting fleeting shadows across the market below.

  I watch them carefully. One misstep, one mechanical failure… and a falling drone could crush anyone beneath it. Only prayers could matter then, and even those might not be enough.

  The people below barely notice, heads bent over their carts and conversations. To them, the hum of government machines is just part of the morning soundtrack, another rhythm of a city that never truly stops.

  I leave the market behind and step onto the over-bridge spanning the main avenue. From this elevated vantage, the city stretches beneath me. Streets, rooftops, the slow stirring of morning life. The bridge gives me a clear view straight toward the government offices looming ahead.

  I can't enter their grounds. I am not a worker, not a guest, and never someone who would willingly serve the same killers who took my parents. The thought sits heavy in my chest, sharpening my focus.

  From the over-bridge, every detail is visible. Cameras perched on poles swivel lazily, sweeping the streets. Drones cut across the sky, carrying packages, observing, enforcing. Uniformed personnel move through their routines: some slacking, leaning against walls, whispering quietly, while others march in formation.

  A group gathers for morning PT, stretching and jogging in perfect synchronization, followed by the anthem, the anthem of the world confined under their control. People sing because they must, not because they feel. I note each hesitation, each slight flaw, each human imperfection hidden in the performance.

  From the over-bridge, I see the rhythm of surveillance, the predictability of obedience. Even the small cracks, the subtle slacks, speak volumes to someone watching as carefully as I do. Every day repeats like a clockwork, and every day, I observe, quietly, deliberately.

  As I scan the government grounds from the over-bridge, a sudden flicker in the sky catches my attention. One of the bulkier drones, the ones built to carry heavy packages, struggles mid-air. Its motors sputter, jerking it side to side. It hovers uselessly, unable to lift the load beneath it.

  Within moments, a high-ranking officer arrives, striding across the grounds with sharp, deliberate steps. He stops, eyes fixed on the malfunctioning machine. His gaze is cold, piercing, like he expects nothing less than perfection. The drone hangs there, buzzing helplessly, as if aware of its failure.

  The officer raises a hand, giving an order I cannot hear. I strain to catch the words, but they are lost in the distance. Yet, the intent is unmistakable. Within seconds, several men rush forward, gripping the drone, striking it repeatedly. Metal screeches, sparks fly. Blow after blow lands until the machine is nothing more than a heap of twisted parts.

  Finally, the remains are flanked neatly in a corner, discarded like refuse. I watch quietly, noting the efficiency, the brutality, and the casual precision. Even a machine that fails is not spared. In this world, obedience is enforced, mistakes punished, and weakness humiliated, whether human or drone.

  I shift my gaze back to the streets below, the rhythm of the city continuing as if nothing had happened. But I remember. I note. Every flaw, every act of control, every brutal correction is a lesson in the world I live in.

  I linger on the over-bridge a few more moments, letting the scene imprint itself in my mind. Cameras swivel, guards march, drones hum, but nothing can surprise me anymore. The city moves in its rigid rhythm, unaware of who watches from above.

  With the observation of their routine complete, I descend from the bridge. My steps are measured, silent, blending with the mid-morning crowd. The streets are busier now; shopkeepers tend their stalls, street vendors call out their offerings, and the smell of fresh bread and frying oil drifts lazily through the air. It's been more than 3 hours of observation, after all.

  I stop at a small food stall, the kind that always seemed to survive no matter how many new shops opened. A simple meal, enough to carry me through the day, nothing more. I pay quickly, exchanging few words, and tuck the package securely into my satchel. Every motion deliberate, precise.

  By the time my building comes into view, the sun is higher, spilling light over the streets and alleys I know so well. I climb the stairs back to the second floor, satchel in hand, and pause by the window. The day is alive, but I wait... not for the bustle, not for the market, not for the sun, but for its setting. When the sun dips and the moon is asleep, that quiet moment will mark the true beginning of my mission. Outside, the city hums on, unaware of the small, calculated rebellion already in motion.