The monorail hums the same way every night—steady, tired, like it’s learned not to hope for anything more than forward motion. The floor is slick with rain tracked in by a hundred pairs of shoes, and the lights overhead flicker just enough to remind everyone they’re temporary.
She stands near the window, phone idle in her hands, watching the city bend as the track curves. Towers rise and fall outside like ribs, layered with traffic lanes, ad screens, and thousands of illuminated windows. From up here, the city looks endless. Close up, it’s just crowded.
Most riders don’t look out anymore. They look down—into screens, into headphones, into whatever keeps the city from noticing them back. A boy across from her taps through levels of a game, eyes hollow with focus. Someone behind her scrolls messages that never seem to end. No one speaks.
She checks the reflection in the glass: hoodie, scuffed boots, a backpack that’s been repaired twice. Nothing remarkable. That’s intentional. In a city that catalogs everything, being unremarkable is a skill.
Outside, a surveillance drone slips between buildings, its lights blinking slow and patient. She waits for it to pass before shifting her weight, even though she knows it probably isn’t watching her. Probably.
The monorail curves harder, and the skyline opens up—industrial blocks below, steam rising from rooftops, older neighborhoods pressed together where the lights are warmer and fewer. She remembers living down there once, before the rent climbed faster than her parents’ wages. Before “temporary” became permanent.
Her phone vibrates. A message flashes: Still on?
She types back: Yeah. Two stops.
The train slows. A chime sounds. Doors slide open and shut, swallowing more tired faces and releasing none of them lighter than before. The city doesn’t pause. It never does.
She pockets her phone and looks out one last time as the monorail climbs higher, tracing its glowing arc through the night. Somewhere out there is the next station, the next room, the next version of her life. For now, she stays between places—moving, unnoticed, carried forward by a system that doesn’t know her name.
The doors close. The train accelerates. The city watches, silently.
Cyberpunk City AI 
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