The sun beats down on Mirai Central, warm enough to warrant rolled-up sleeves but not so hot that the trendy crowd abandons their fashionable layers. I lean against the wrought iron railing outside Cloud 9 Café, watching the flow of people like a leopard observing a watering hole.
A businessman in a too-tight suit hurries past, briefcase clutched to his chest like it contains state secrets instead of spreadsheets. A group of teenagers hover near a VR station, their laughter too loud, too performative. Everyone moving with such urgency, such conviction that their little lives matter.
They don't know what I know—that gods are watching, that we're all just characters in some cosmic joke.
