Paper Street breathed like a patient between surgeries.
Filter frames stood in ranks along the print shop wall; Juno's chalk Xs marked where the flue would drink. Oren knelt at the new balancer, one palm on the casing as if a dog might bolt if not praised. The Blue Lamp over the back door spilled a quiet ring across bolts, tape, and a boss‑class plate wrapped in towel on a crate.
"Timer," Nyx said, satin over wire. "Corridor Exception hearing in 00:28:12. Hands Channel credit banked. The Saint is…eager. Policy sharpened their bolds."
"Filters first," Juno said. She slid a frame into its cradle with a firm click and wrote AIR LOGS on the casing in grease pencil. "Keep it breathing."
Leon opened the Civic Ledger on a pallet and tapped the cover once to steady himself, twice to warn the part of him that liked applause to sit down. He wrote, in a hand that had learned to make commas save lives: Hands Night (Anchor) — Delivered. Foundry (Phase 2) — Filters. Corridor Hearing — Bowl on table; Hands only.
Oren tightened a bolt half a turn. "Etta's happy," he said. "She likes a friend." He looked up at Leon. "Don't let them make you put a face on a law."
"Bowl on the table," Leon said.
Sister Irena lifted the Blue Lamp and set it on a crate where a camera would try to make a face, if allowed. "No minors," she said, ritual and habit. "No faces. Bowls only."
Mae stacked consent forms—plain language, no God words—like paper bricks. "We'll keep the corridor dark," she murmured. "We'll teach them to count hands."
Kite tapped a cardboard that read HANDS AT THE X with a pencil and straightened, solemn. Murmur slid a fingertip microphone to the edge of the crate and wrote HANDS ONLY on a card with a thin pen.
A small tremor wrote itself under the street, a velvet bass note. The brace at the bakery drain hummed, insulted, and settled. Oren patted the grate with the back of his hand. "Pretty," he told it.
[Hands Channel — Live (Ambient)]
– Hands slotting a filter. – Hands tying a ribbon to the Ombuds pole. – Hands chalking the Paper Street corridor line. – Timer: Corridor Exception Review — 00:24:52
"Dawnshield?" Leon asked without looking.
"Hovering two blocks off," Nyx said, dry. "Banner du jour folded like a throat. Halo hungry. Greed Lobby filed a 'Transmission Efficiency Fee' petition; hearing stapled to yours. Efficiency House sends Thole in a suit with a smile that never changes shape."
Leon tapped the Ledger once, then not again. "We'll bring receipts," he said.
When the timer rang 00:05:00, Nyx changed timbres. "Table in three," she said. "Feed will try to put a face where your hands are. I'll cut it at the wrist. Speak. Show only what we agreed. Bowls; pens; receipts."
"Hands," Leon said.
Juno laid the boss‑class plate on the crate like a newborn and touched it twice as if the city might change its mind if not reassured. "We'll be making grafts by week's end if nobody sues us for breathing," she said.
"Memorial at Unseen Work," Sister Irena replied, a promise to make grief boring on purpose.
The table appeared.
Not wood. Not glass. A tone in the ear that told a room to behave. A rectangle of UI bled into the corner of Leon's vision: a strip with names and sigils like the sides of coins. He set the Blue Lamp's bowl where a face should go. He put the Ledger in the frame. He held his pen where an impatient man would expect a jaw.
[Corridor Exception Review — Live]
[Panel: Category Mercy (Moderator); Censor Office; Reaper (Observer); Efficiency House (Lobby); War House (Spectator); Saint House (Spectator); Trickster (Spectator); Craft House (Spectator)]
[Rule: Visual feed permitted; faces optional; hands acceptable; audio required]
"Last City," said a woman's voice that could have been a scalpel used as a bookmark. "Category Mercy. You requested an exception for 'off‑feed medical corridors.' Dockets show repeated 'dead air' in violation of Live Emotion. You also initiated an ambient side‑channel. We note Pilot credit granted. State your case."
Leon lifted his pen and touched the Ledger's margin, the ink dot he had scribed at Hands Night. He kept his voice level and unimportant. "We move oxygen, insulin, bodies, and grief under bowls, not halos," he said. "We have the receipts."
He slid a page under the bowl. Not graphs, exactly; columns that used to be numbers and were now lives. He spoke like a quartermaster, not a preacher. "Clinic throughput up thirty‑one percent with corridors dark. Riot risk down twenty‑two percent. Mortality down twelve in forty‑eight hours. Hands Channel now meets your 'human interest' credit without filming minors or the dying."
"Live Emotion," Censor Office said—another voice, powdered sugar on a legal pad. "Audiences require affect. 'Ambient' reduces retention."
Murmur nudged the fingertip mic, smoothed a card that read CITIZEN PRESS: AMBIENT ONLY, and didn't speak; the hand on the card did.
Nyx's whisper rode the wire. "Hands Channel retention: eighty‑six percent. Segment skip rate below median. Pilot credit: +42% over threshold. Push it under the bowl."
Mae slid the segment data in neat columns beneath the Blue Lamp's ring. The lamp turned data into a law the way a chalice makes water heavy.
[Hands Channel — Pilot Metrics]
– Retention: 86%
– Skip: −18% vs median
– Anchor delivered: Hands Night (names at Unseen Work)
– Next anchors scheduled: Foundry Build (hands); Unseen Work (hands)
The Glass Saint tipped in the corner of vision with the sound of coins on porcelain.
[Glass Saint tipped +400 Favor: "Emotion as ritual."]
War House yawn‑ticked, bored even in digital.
[War House: −100 Favor ("No elbows, no joy.")]
"Reaper observes," said a third voice that liked minutes more than people. "Your corridors reduce Finale risk by lowering riot triggers. However, the Memo speaks: Dead Air."
"Dead air," Leon said, "did not bury Nadia's mother." He kept his voice flat as a yard of shelf. "Dead air prevented three stampedes across the Blue Lamp last night. Dead air pays a different sort of adrenaline that keeps people alive long enough to buy you episodes."
He slid two more lines under the bowl, written in the language the Network understood because it had invented it: Audience minutes × survival index × episodic capacity.
"Your retention curve will erode if you turn clinics into shows," he added. "People don't watch their own faces die."
Trickster's sigil flickered; a tiny drone icon nosed into the frame like a pie disguised as a question.
"Cut," Nyx murmured, and the drone went into the Complaints box in the corner of the overlay, tagged PIE AGAIN.
Efficiency House cleared its throat through Thole. He had the kind of voice that could shake hands without leaving fingerprints. "Transmission Efficiency Fee," he said smoothly. "Ten percent of captured Ether routed via our blessed converter—as charity, of course. It disciplines excess. We waive penalties for your charming siphon. Exclusive lower‑third opportunity. Tasteful."
Leon slid the petition under the bowl and wrote across the bottom with his pen in calm ink: Public Works Clause — Declared Emergency. Seizure with receipts. No external logos without Council approval. He let the camera see the words, not his mouth.
Matron Feroce's stare reached across the seam like law. "We don't let knives write on bowls," she said, hands only: two fingers on the rim, a scoop on the pallet. Mae tapped the clause. Tarek's notebook tab—USE OF FORCE, PUBLIC WORKS—winked gray.
[Craft House tipped +150 Favor: "Fine print autopsy under lamp."]
[Greed House: −300 Favor ("Hostility to efficiency.")]
"Hands on table, not faces," Category Mercy said. "We accept ambient credit for twenty‑four hours. We require a 'prime‑time anchor' twice weekly, hands only, to maintain. Publish weekly corridor metrics. Panel will apply a dullness credit to your clinic feed in view of Hands Channel performance."
"Anchor is scheduled," Nyx whispered, pleased. "Unseen Work; Foundry Build; Names."
"Approved," Leon said. He didn't smile. He placed the boss‑class plate under the bowl with two fingers—as if it could bruise if mishandled. "Bio‑Foundry online within forty‑eight hours. Organ Donation Opt‑In passed. Hands only. Bowls mandatory. Air logs public. We publish our debt."
Censor Office made a paper rustle sound that might have been offense. "Bodies are content," they started, and then tripped on their own sentence because the Blue Lamp's ring made the word content look ridiculous.
"Bodies are law," Sister Irena said. She touched the bowl's shadow and did not elaborate.
[Glass Saint tipped +300 Favor: "A cruelty that is mercy."]
A bass note rolled under the room; the grate swallowed a complaint. Oren's hand on Etta stilled. "She's jealous," he said, soothing the panel like a friend. "Pretty. Pretty."
"Provisional extension," Category Mercy said, crisp. "Last City Corridor Exception maintained under Pilot protocol for seven days—subject to review. Hands Channel recognized. Efficiency Fee denied under Public Works Clause; petition forwarded to Producer Court, pending receipts. Adjourned."
[Corridor Exception — Provisional (7 days)]
[Hands Channel — Recognized (24h category credit; renewed by anchors)]
[Efficiency Fee — Denied (Appeal pending)]
[Trust: +6]
[Merit: +10]
[Saint: +100 Favor]
[War: −100 Favor]
[Craft: +150 Favor]
Nyx exhaled like porcelain cooling. "We bought a week," she said. "Hearing moves Efficiency's petition into the long corridor. Reaper filed a footnote: 'Monitor riot triggers.' Hands Channel credited. You just taught mercy to count."
Leon tapped the Ledger once. He didn't need the second tap.
"Hands to filters," he said. "Unseen Work—now."
Foundry work resumed as if a court had not just decided to let a law breathe. Juno slid a filter into frame; Mae logged a seal; Oren bolted a brace with a lullaby clink. Brutus took a doorway. The lamppost blinked honest: blink, two, three, four, blink.
"Message," Nyx added, voice back to sugar over wire. "Greed House filed an injunction on your tram coil at Producer Court—claiming 'grid stability' and 'brand damage.' They want the coil back. Thole will bring a smile. Hearing tomorrow."
"Complaints box," Leon said. "Receipts. We'll argue with bolts."
Murmur plucked a folded note from COMPLAINTS. "Pie, again," they announced dryly. "Also, 'Vines ate my kiosk sign.'"
"Trim," Leon said. "We pay in shears."
Dawnshield's halo tipped around a corner, sniffed for a face, found bowls, drifted. Kade's voice—pleasant iron—carried down the block, offering donors a clean table. The lamplighter lifted a Blue Lamp, and the table obeyed.
Oren's panel pinged twice—Etta's polite cough, then a note too sharp. He frowned and tilted his head. "Widow's latency is down," he said. "She remembered the dissonance. She'll come faster next time you grab a coil."
"Night," Nyx said, "we have Hands anchor number two scheduled: Unseen Work montage—mops, drains, bowls. Then we sleep two hours and teach Mercy to count again in the morning."
"Works," Leon said.
He closed the Ledger and felt the weight of the plate in the crate—the promise of printing grafts without asking a camera to approve. He took a breath; the inside of the mask fogged and cleared.
"Hands Night again in three days," he said. "Bring an object you'd keep in a flood. We're teaching receipts."
"Motion," Sister Irena said, out of habit and affection. "Seconded."
The street made a small, contented sound—a shop stool pushed back, a kettle lid settling. The brace at the bakery drain held. The Blue Lamp over the back door made a law out of a rectangle of air.
"Leon," Nyx said, businesslike and soft. "Producer Office sent a post‑hearing note. 'Performance review': your bowl is a 'compelling prop.' They want to merchandise it."
Leon tapped the Ledger once, and then he wrote, very neatly, under a line that already knew how to live without apology: Bowls are law, not brand.
"Put the memo in Complaints," he said.
"Done," Nyx said, delighted.
Juno snapped her glove and set a final filter. "Phase two done," she said. "Phase three: vent stack mount. I'll need two pairs of hands and a penitent."
"Brutus," Leon said.
"Blue Hands," Brutus replied, smiling only with wrists.
Matron Feroce stamped the day's last receipt and set the scoop on the crate next to the chalice. "You made dullness dangerous," she said, satisfied. "Good."
"Dullness keeps people alive long enough to have dramas later," Leon said. "We'll charge extra for tears."
Hands moved—filters, bolts, bowls—and the Hands Channel let the room watch without sneaking.
Across the map, a small red pulse flickered on Nyx's overlay like a rumor deciding to be a report. "Heads up," she said, and dropped her voice to the wire. "Subway vent at Iron and Sixth. Widows nesting. Dawnshield sent a crew to film; their wire makes the note sweeter. They will light themselves unless someone unpleasantly dull detunes the song."
Oren looked at the map and swore affectionately. "Etta's cousin down there hates opera," he said. "I can sing her country instead."
Leon put the Ledger under his arm and the bowl in his hand. "We mop," he said. "Then we hunt. Again."
He lifted the bowl and the ring turned weather into a rule. The lamppost blinked honest. The grate pretended to sleep. The city earned one more minute by choosing a corridor over a cliff and writing it down.
[Cliff: Dawnshield baiting a Widow at Iron & Sixth; Leon's team moves to detune; Efficiency Fee injunction scheduled; Foundry Phase 3 (vent) under way]