The substation room has no clocks.

  No notifications.

  The transformers hum, steady and indifferent.

  Kam sits on the concrete floor with his back against a pillar. Steam threads off him, thinning as his breathing evens.

  The heat holds.

  Maya watches from across the room.

  Leo is knee?deep in cables, tablet open but silent. His hands stay still.

  Taylor paces.

  Marcus eats a protein bar.

  “So what’s the over?under on them pretending we never happened,” Taylor says.

  “They already started,” Leo says.

  He tilts the tablet.

  A news clip plays. Clean graphics. A calm voice.

  Earlier reports of a sanitation incident in the financial district were the result of a routine infrastructure failure. Authorities confirm there is no ongoing risk to public safety.

  “That’s it?” Taylor says.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “That’s all they need,” Leo says.

  He scrolls.

  Another article.

  Then another.

  Different outlets. Same wording.

  Routine maintenance.

  Unknown technical fault.

  Resolved.

  No drones.

  No debris.

  Marcus snorts.

  “Mad how fast the world forgets when it’s told to.”

  Kam doesn’t look at the screen.

  He closes his eyes.

  The hum fills the room. His heat settles into its rhythm.

  “They’re sealing the hole,” Kam says.

  “Yeah,” Leo says. “But they can’t patch what they can’t model.”

  He gestures around them.

  “This place sits outside their systems. No wellness layer. No optimisation mandate.”

  “So what do they do with people who don’t exist,” Maya says.

  Leo pauses.

  “They wait,” he says. “They assume you’ll reappear.”

  “And if we don’t?” Taylor says.

  Leo looks at Kam.

  “Then they start inventing reasons.”

  The utility tunnel stretches ahead.

  Brick walls. Arched ceilings. Paint peeling in layers.

  They walk.

  Not running.

  Not hiding.

  Just moving.

  A door stands open.

  Warm light spills out.

  The room beyond is plain.

  Folding tables.

  A kettle on a burner.

  A few people talking quietly.

  A woman looks up as they enter.

  No alarm.

  No surprise.

  “You lot took the long way,” she says.

  “Sorry?” Maya says.

  The woman nods toward Kam.

  “We felt it,” she says. “When the lights flickered.”

  A man at the back chuckles.

  “Always something rattling the grid.”

  Taylor scans the room.

  “Who are you people?”

  “People who fell out of things,” the woman says.

  Kam feels that land.

  “You live down here,” Kam says.

  “We stay down here,” she says.

  She gestures to a chair.

  “Sit. You look like you’re still burning.”

  Kam sits.

  The chair holds.

  Time moves.

  Tea circulates.

  Leo talks quietly with a man about routing load — not theft, balance.

  Marcus laughs with someone explaining how to heal without a hospital record.

  Taylor plays cards with a kid who cheats in full view.

  Maya settles beside Kam.

  “You alright?” she says.

  Kam nods.

  Then shakes his head.

  “I don’t know what ‘alright’ is without them measuring it.”

  Maya thinks on that.

  “Maybe that’s the point.”

  Across the room, the woman watches Kam.

  Not judging.

  Just seeing.

  “You won’t cool all the way down here,” she says.

  “I don’t want to,” Kam says.

  She nods.

  “Good. Cooling was never the goal.”

  Kam exhales.

  The heat stays.

  Low.

  Steady.

  Unresolved.

  Somewhere far above them, systems reroute. Thresholds adjust. Models quietly admit error and compensate around it.

  Down here, no acknowledgment arrives.

  No ping.

  No correction.

  The silence doesn’t mean safety.

  It means the question is still open.

  Kam opens his eyes.

  “Let’s not stay,” he says.

  No one asks where.

  They stand.

  The tunnel waits.