The city wakes all at once.
Light erupts from the Spire like a pulse, rippling across glass towers and mirrored streets.
Every window flashes in perfect unison—one beat, two, three—then stillness.
**07:00.**
The alarm hums.
Riven opens his eyes before it finishes the third note. He always does.
> "Good morning, citizen," says the wall. "Continuum thanks you for your service."
The voice is soft, synthetic, and inescapably kind. It fills the room like oxygen—precise, measured, rehearsed.
Riven sits up, blinking against the sterile glow. His hands move before his thoughts do—same sequence, same motions.
Boil the water. Pour the tea. Stare at the sunrise that isn't one.
Outside the reinforced window, the city gleams like a simulation.
Birds glide in identical arcs. The clouds hold their shape.
Every morning looks this flawless, and yet every morning feels slightly… tired. Like the world's been practicing the same smile too long.
The kettle hisses. The tea tastes of lemon and nothing.
Then—
a flicker.
The skyline stutters, one frame missing from reality. The light jumps forward, and the sun is half an inch higher.
Riven blinks. "Again?"
He looks down at his clock. **07:03.** Still on time. Always on time.
---
The corridors hum with white noise as he walks to work.
Each reflection he passes lags a fraction of a second behind.
He tells himself it's the lighting, but his stomach doesn't believe him.
An elevator door slides open. Inside, a calm blue screen reads:
> **CONTINUITY IS CARE. TOMORROW WILL BE IDENTICAL.**
He stares at it longer than he should.
Something about the promise feels like a threat.
---
On the street, everything moves too smoothly.
Pedestrians march in rhythm; vendors repeat their greetings word for word.
When a woman drops a bag of oranges, they roll across the tiles—then roll *back* to her hand as if pulled by an invisible string.
No one notices.
No one stops.
Riven does.
The wind shifts. The same ad drone hums overhead, announcing,
> "Your city loves you. Your city keeps you safe."
He wants to believe it.
He really does.
Then a small yellow bird lands on the railing. One eye missing. The other glints like glass.
Riven freezes.
He remembers this bird. The angle of its head. The exact moment the tram bell rings.
He doesn't know how—but he remembers.
The bell rings. The bird flies.
For a second, the air tastes electric.
He grips the rail until his knuckles ache.
Someone bumps his shoulder.
A young woman, silver hair, technician's coat identical to his.
She looks straight into his eyes and says quietly:
> "You almost stepped out of sync."
And before he can reply, she's gone—swallowed by the crowd.
---
Riven stands alone in the rhythm of perfection.
The Spire hums overhead, sending another pulse of light through the city—one, two, three.
He feels it echo in his bones.
He looks up and whispers,
"Day One… again?"
The city answers with silence.
But the reflection in the window behind him smiles a moment too late.