As the doors opened and the figures stepped inside, a subtle but immediate shift swept through the hall. The change was instinctive—no one spoke, no one moved by order, yet one by one, every person in the room stood. A quiet stillness fell as heads lowered, not in fear or submission, but in recognition of something far greater: a legacy that demanded reverence.
Twelve City Managers were entering.
Each of them had lived more than 250 years. Time had worn their bodies down. Some leaned heavily on canes, others were guided carefully by aides. A few moved forward in wheelchairs, connected to softly humming medical devices that helped regulate their breathing. Their skin was pale, their movements slow and uncertain. They looked like men nearing the edge of life—hollowed out, fragile, already halfway gone.
And yet, not a single person in that room viewed them with pity.
