If you've ever been watched by a city, I don't recommend it.
Every street I walk feels like it's staring back. The walls twitch. The ground hums. Even the shadows seem alive, leaning in, listening.
Clipboard floats along beside me, scribbling away. "You're being cataloged," it says like it's no big deal.
"Cataloged by who?"
"Not who. What."
Before I can press for more, the crowd parts. Not because of me. Because of them.
Three figures approach, draped in black‑and‑red robes stitched with symbols I don't understand. Their faces are hidden by masks shaped like animal skulls, but I can feel their eyes on me.
"New arrival," one says. Its voice is wrong — like three voices speaking at once. "Unprocessed. Unclaimed."
Clipboard bows slightly. "He's under review."
"Not anymore," the robed figure says. It gestures, and the ground splits open behind it, revealing a staircase of bone leading downward. "The Heart wants him."
"The Heart?" I echo.
Clipboard sighs. "Lucky you. The City's central consciousness noticed you. I was hoping we'd avoid this."
"Wait—consciousness? You mean the City's… alive?"
The robed figure tilts its head. "You are in the Heart. It decides who stays, who serves, and who is repurposed."
I take a step back. "Yeah, no thanks. I've had enough creepy death bureaucracy for one day."
But Clipboard floats in front of me. "Declining isn't an option."
And then the street beneath my feet pulses — once, like a heartbeat — and I feel it. Something massive, ancient, and aware.
The City is alive.
And it wants me.