The streets felt different here.
Not louder, not rougher—just quieter in a way that made you pay attention. These neighborhoods didn't have programmable shade panels or hover-cleaners. The train station had rust creeping up the rail supports. The corner store I passed still used physical locks. A woman stood at the edge of the road selling steamed buns from a pushcart, her eyes flicking to mine with the briefest glimmer of recognition.
I gave a polite nod and kept walking.
Station 47 used to sit between a pharmacy and an auto-parts lot, tucked behind an old tire shop with cracked windows. The road bent slightly before you got there—just enough to feel like you were ducking into a different world. Two years ago, this had been my world. As Mr. Fox, I'd learned what it meant to act without hesitation. To charge into flame and not flinch. To steady people who thought the end had come and get them out alive.
Fire was honest.
