Neo-Technopolis, 2096
The city never slept.
That was the first thing the boy noticed as he stepped off the maglev train, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The air hummed with the energy of a thousand unseen conversations, carried through invisible networks and broadcast into the minds of millions. Neon lights—blue, pink, and electric green—danced across the glass and steel of Neo-Technopolis, painting the night in a restless glow. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, feeling the weight of the city's expectations pressing down on his shoulders.
He had been called here for business.
His father's old friend, Mr. Smith-Wang, had promised him a job at one of the tech conglomerates that ruled the city's skyline. But the boy, whose name was Leo—though he rarely used it outside of official documents—hadn't been able to shake the nervousness that coiled in his chest. He had stopped taking his medication a week ago, convinced he didn't need it. The city, with its endless crowds and ceaseless noise, made him think otherwise.
As he wandered, he found himself in a quiet side street, away from the main thoroughfares. The hum of the city faded, replaced by the soft murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of a passing drone. It was here, between the glowing storefronts and the sleek, automated kiosks, that he spotted a cluster of tents—smaller, cleaner than the ones his grandmother had told him about, but unmistakably the homes of those who lived on the streets.
Leo paused. The sight was unexpected. In his grandmother's time, homelessness had been a plague, marked by disease and desperation. But now, in 2096, the most prevalent indicators of illness had been largely solved. The tents were equipped with basic sanitation, and the people inside looked healthier than the stories he'd heard. Yet, they were still here, still on the streets.
It was clear that something else kept them here—not just a lack of shelter, but something deeper. Family issues, psychological struggles, the lingering specter of "drugs," or the crushing weight of job loss in a city that prized efficiency above all else. These were people who had slipped through the cracks, not because they had to, but because the world had left them with nowhere else to be.
Leo felt a pang of empathy. He had never been one to look down on those society dismissed as "less fortunate". His family had left the city years ago, driven out by his grandmother's fears and the stories she told of a place that chewed people up and spat them out. But standing here, seeing these people—real people, each with their own stories and struggles—he felt a quiet kinship, a silent understanding.
He moved on, scanning the storefronts for a quick meal before his planned destination. He stopped at a tiny automated pizza kiosk, its neon sign flickering in the dim alleyway. With a few taps on the screen, he ordered a personal pizza—hot, cheesy, and comforting. As he waited, the scent of baking dough filled the air, softening the city's sharper edges.
The pizza arrived, steaming and fragrant. Leo took a bite as he walked, savoring the warmth. Ahead, a voice called out—
"Hey, Boss!"
He turned to see an old, wizened man hunched on a folding stool beside one of the tents. His face was lined with years, but his eyes sparkled with a knowing warmth. The man gestured to a small, battered table.
"Care to split a pie?" he asked, a grin crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Leo hesitated. He already had his own pizza, and he was on his way to his next destination. But something about the old man reminded him of a distant relative, the kind of person who always had a story to share and a plate to offer.
Why the heck not? Leo thought.
As he sat down, a fleeting idea crossed his mind: he could turn on his contact device, record this moment, maybe even share it with his small online following. But the impulse passed as quickly as it came. He'd never been comfortable with social media, even as a kid. He was socially awkward, always shying away from the spotlight, preferring the quiet of his own thoughts to the noise of online chatter. Always hiding behind his digital avatar when necessary.
No, he decided. He wasn't here for content or clout. He was here for the pure experience—for the warmth of shared food, for the chance to listen to a stranger's story, for a moment of connection in a city that despite it's hustle and bustle, felt cold and indifferent.
The old man handed him a slice and began to ramble, his voice low and rough with memory. "You know, back when I was a boy, this city wasn't all glass and neon," he said, gesturing at the skyline. "Used to be pavement as far as you could see, old government buildings, and the largest data center in the country—just a windowless fortress humming away. Whole streets where folks knew each other's names. Then the tech boom hit, changed everything. Towers shot up, money poured in, but so did the troubles—blackouts, layoffs, people sleeping under bridges. Things got dark for a while. But the city, she's always found a way to bounce back. Even now, after all the ups and downs, she's still standing. Still dreaming." Leo listened, the old man's words painting a picture of a city as alive and complicated as the people who called it home. Leo finished his pizza, thanked the man, and continued on his way.
As Leo continued, his eyes scanning the storefronts for something familiar—something that felt like home. He wasn't looking to get to his job interview as soon as possible. Not yet.
He was searching for a place to disappear.
At last, he found it: a narrow alleyway, tucked between two towering skyscrapers. A sign flickered above the door—"Net Haven"—the modern equivalent of the old PC bangs from his father's stories. The promise of anonymity and escape drew him in. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of instant noodles and energy drinks. Rows of sleek VR pods lined the walls, their occupants lost in worlds of their own making.
Leo paid for an hour and slipped into a pod. The familiar hum of the machine settling around him was a familiar comfort. As the neural link connected, he closed his eyes and let himself dissolve into the digital tide.
Somewhere, beyond the neon and the noise, he looked forward to returning to the place where he could finally breathe.