City of Shadows
The city had neither a beginning nor an end. It simply existed — like the wind, like a pulse, like the rush of blood in your veins, like the pounding of your heart when you stand atop a tall building.
Virelia.
This city was never built all at once. Each of its layers was constructed atop the previous one over many decades, like sedimentary rock, layer upon layer concealing ancient secrets. First came the smooth, white architecture of the Old Center, where glass domes were meant to reflect the dawns. Then the concrete bridges stretched over the streets. Then came pipes, cables, holographic screens. And then — endless narrow alleyways sprouting on their own, like mold in a forgotten pot. And at the very bottom lay the Corridors — old tunnels and passages where it was always dark and damp.
The city glowed with the intense light of advertisements and countless signs. It glowed the way deep-sea fish glow — not to light their way, but to lure prey closer to their gaping jaws.
He was standing at the edge of a crossing between two city levels. Below him stretched a street, its many puddles reflecting the words sliding across neon screens.
“LIVE SOMEONE ELSE’S LOVE”
“ERASE YOUR SHAME. CAPSULE. 999 CREDITS”
“HELP WITH SPECIAL MEMORY ERASURE”
Each slogan flickered, as if teasing: buy your own experience.
He looked down. The damp air smelled of ozone, metal, and something faintly sweet — like blood that beads up on your lip after a bite. Down below, people bustled back and forth. Everyone moved quickly, avoiding each other’s eyes. No one looked anyone else in the eye. Because in this city, eyes were dangerous. In someone’s eyes, you could read everything: who was afraid, who was drowning in debt, who had betrayed someone — or was about to — and who had just purchased a stranger’s life.
He was in no hurry to leave. The wind tugged at his light chestnut hair, as if trying to scatter his thoughts or blow away everything weighing on his heart. At times, he squinted slightly — against the flashing lights, against the poisonous purple glow of the ads. But his eyes were clear and deep. Greenish-brown, like autumn forests on the last warm day before winter’s chill. He was quiet. He rarely smiled. But when he did, there was something warm and dangerous in it all at once.
A train rumbled beneath his feet — an underground monorail. The vibration lifted a fine dust. The glass floor beneath him shuddered. He glanced downward. Through the dusty, almost opaque surface, he could glimpse a tunnel lit by white lamps. People moved through it — some in the black uniforms of Nova Corp, others in cheap coats with QR codes stitched onto them, encoding their debt histories. He knew: below this level, there was another. And another. And another. All the way down. Down to the deepest dark, where only rats, mold, viruses, and the people no one counted as human anymore lived.
He began walking slowly along the railing. His steps were light, but there was caution in every movement. He walked as though listening to the space around him — picking up sounds an ordinary person would never notice: the rustle of wires in the walls, the clicks of magnetic locks, the faint crackle of electronic freezes.
He turned into a narrow tunnel strung with thousands of tiny lights — green, pink, blue. They blinked like a malfunctioning string of Christmas lights. The air smelled sharp, tinged with dust and rotting pipes.
He passed a shop window behind which stood rows of multicolored capsules — red, gold, black.
“HAPPINESS — 1,200”
“GUILT — 800”
“CHILDHOOD — 3,000”
People who entered there never left the same. Some came out crying. Some came out laughing. But no one remained unchanged.
He stopped by a screen where an advertisement played on an endless loop:
“Tired of being yourself? Become someone else. Nova Corp — anything is possible.”
For an instant, something like anger flickered in his eyes. But it quickly faded. He moved on.
The city had a strange rhythm. Sometimes it sank into a graveyard hush — as though someone had turned off the sound of the entire world. Then, suddenly, a roar would erupt, turning everything upside down. Now was exactly such a moment: a police drone wailed just around the corner. He froze, pressing himself lightly against the wall until the spotlight swept past and disappeared around the bend.
He emerged onto a square. There, on a huge screen, a beautiful woman laughed, dancing amid showers of golden sparks. A voice off-screen declared:
“Memory is your capital. Give up the excess. Live lighter.”
Beneath the screen lay a man curled into a ball, his eyes empty. His pupils were cloudy, like old mercury.
He looked at the man and sighed. Memory was a commodity. But sometimes, in paying with their memories, people lost themselves entirely.
He turned into another alley. This time, no lights were shining. It was dark, the glow of distant ads only reflected in puddles, mixing with rainbow gasoline slicks. He felt for a capsule in his pocket. It was cold. Like a piece of ice. He closed his fingers around it but didn’t take it out. Not now. It wasn’t time yet.
He kept walking. He didn’t yet know that in just a few hours, his name would appear on a Nova Corp wanted list, and his whole life would hang by a thread. He didn’t know that the city would turn against him, that the thing he carried in his pocket wasn’t merely a capsule but a key to something that should never be unlocked.
But for now, he simply kept walking. And no one in this city yet knew his name.
