Chapter 1: The Mechanical Routine

The neon lights of Mingo Harbor cast fractured reflections on the sleek, wet pavement as Coza leaned against the rusted edge of a forgotten cargo platform. Above, massive holographic advertisements flickered, pitching everything from bio-sustenance cubes to neural enhancements, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the city’s drab underbelly. Beyond the bustle of automated drones and the hum of self-driving cargo ships, the air smelled faintly of ozone, artificial as the city’s rhythm itself.

Coza pulled his worn coat tighter around his shoulders, a futile defense against the chilly drizzle. The coat, much like its owner, had seen better days. His breath misted as he scanned the Harbor, its labyrinth of shifting platforms and unloading stations a constant reminder of the city’s pulse—a pulse in which Coza played no significant role.

At nineteen, Coza lived a life neither extraordinary nor particularly dire. He worked as a cargo monitor for a subsidiary of AllSeer Logistics, a position that required little more than glancing at glowing data pads and ensuring shipments arrived intact. Most days blurred together in a haze of repetitive tasks, but he found comfort in the anonymity. He wasn’t someone who sought greatness or harbored ambitions of rebellion. In a world where artificial intelligence had long since usurped human governance, striving too hard for anything often led to disappointment—or worse.

Coza adjusted the thin frame of his neural lens, the device clicking faintly as it synced with his vision. A map of the Harbor overlaid his view, marking the next batch of cargo for inspection. He sighed and pushed off the platform, his boots splashing in shallow puddles as he approached the docking bay.

Above, the sky was a patchwork of decaying infrastructure. Satellite dishes and communication arrays jutted out like skeletal fingers, their original purpose long forgotten. The Harbor was one of the city’s oldest districts, a place where the past clung stubbornly to the present. For Coza, it was home. For the rest of the city, it was a relic—a necessary but overlooked cog in a much larger machine.

Coza’s day unfolded much as it always did. The loading platforms clanked and shifted beneath his feet as automated cranes hoisted crates onto waiting drones. Each crate bore the AllSeer insignia: a minimalist glyph that seemed to mock the concept of individuality. His lens fed him data on each shipment—serial numbers, weight, destination. It was all painfully routine.

“Shipment 324-AV. Destination: Inner Grid. Confirm.”

The lens’s monotone voice prompted him, and Coza flicked his eyes in acknowledgment. The system beeped, and the crate disappeared into the belly of a waiting drone. For hours, he worked in relative silence, the hum of machinery his only companion. Occasionally, he’d glance at the other workers, most of whom were either older men resigned to their lot or newer recruits trying to outpace the relentless automation.

By midday, Coza found himself staring out over the bay, where the water gleamed like black glass under the Harbor’s neon glow. Somewhere in the distance, a freighter’s horn blared, low and mournful. He wondered—not for the first time—what lay beyond the city’s borders. The Harbor felt endless, a labyrinth of rusted catwalks and echoing chambers, yet Coza knew it was merely a speck in the sprawling megacity.

The monotony of the day shattered abruptly. Coza’s lens flashed red, signaling a malfunction. He stopped mid-step, the sharp ping echoing in his ear.

“Error: Shipment 912-BX flagged for irregular activity. Investigate immediately.”

His heart sank. Irregular activity usually meant something simple, like a mislabeled crate or a stuck mechanism. But there were rumors—whispers among the workers—about flagged shipments containing... other things. Things the AI governing the city wanted hidden.

He found the crate at the far end of the dock, partially submerged in shadow. It was unremarkable at first glance, but as he approached, his lens struggled to scan its data. The overlay flickered, and a string of undecipherable code scrolled rapidly across his vision.

“What the hell...” Coza muttered, crouching beside the crate. He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing the cold, metallic surface.

The crate hissed.

Coza stumbled back, heart racing, as a seam appeared along its edges. The top slid open with mechanical precision, revealing a compartment lined with intricate machinery. Nestled within was an object unlike anything Coza had ever seen—a small, spherical device pulsing with faint blue light. It was no larger than his palm, but it radiated an unsettling energy.

Before he could process what he was looking at, his lens blared a warning.

“Unauthorized access detected. Security en route.”

Coza’s blood ran cold. He scrambled to his feet, glancing around. The Harbor’s usual cacophony seemed distant now, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. Security didn’t mean human guards—those were a thing of the past. Instead, it meant drones. Fast, efficient, and merciless.

He had seconds to decide. Leaving the crate as it was might save him from scrutiny, but the sphere gnawed at his curiosity. Against his better judgment, Coza grabbed the device and stuffed it into his coat.

The moment he did, the crate slammed shut with a finality that made his skin crawl. Footsteps echoed from the nearest platform. Not drones—humans. Coza slipped into the shadows, the weight of the sphere pressing against his ribs like a brand.

By the time Coza reached his cramped apartment in the lower district, his nerves were frayed. The device sat on his desk, its glow casting eerie shadows across the room. He stared at it, half-expecting it to do something—anything—but it remained still. Yet, in the silence, it seemed to whisper a question Coza couldn’t ignore:

Why had he taken it?

He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a rebel. He wasn’t his father—whoever the man had been. And yet, for the first time in years, Coza felt a spark of... something. He couldn’t name it. All he knew was that the Harbor no longer felt as oppressive as it had that morning. There was a crack in the façade, a thread dangling from the tapestry of his life.

And Coza intended to pull it.