[Year 2049 · Early Winter]
Morning in the city always began with the same lie.
That everything was fine.
The sky was pale gray, not because of clouds, but because the air filtration towers had already begun their daily cycle. They hummed softly above the skyline, releasing thin sheets of processed mist that dulled the sun into something tolerable. Not warm. Just acceptable.
I stood at the crosswalk, backpack hanging from one shoulder, watching the light refuse to change.
Red.
Still red.
People waited anyway.
No one complained anymore.
A woman beside me rubbed her wrists nervously, the skin irritated where a biometric patch had been peeled off too quickly. A man behind me kept coughing, short dry sounds that never reached his lungs properly. Further ahead, a group of students stared at their phones, eyes glazed, thumbs scrolling through warnings disguised as news.
Another report about a restricted zone being expanded.
Another article reminding us not to touch unidentified organic material.
Another reminder that the emergency drills scheduled for this month were not a sign of increased danger.
Just preparedness.
Always preparedness.
The light finally turned green.
We crossed.
The street smelled faintly of disinfectant.
It had for years.
Ever since the first biological containment law passed, sanitation trucks ran every night, washing the asphalt with chemical solutions designed to neutralize organic residue. The city called it preventative hygiene.
Most people just called it the smell of home.
I passed a closed storefront. Its shutters were down, sealed with a white warning strip stamped with a familiar symbol.
A circle.
A diagonal line.
Inside it, a simplified cell diagram.
BIOLOGICAL HAZARD
ACCESS REVOKED
I slowed my steps without meaning to.
Through the narrow gap between the shutters, I could see the darkness inside. Something about it felt heavier than it should have been, like the space was holding its breath.
Someone bumped into my shoulder.
"Watch it."
I murmured an apology and kept walking.
No one liked lingering near sealed buildings.
At school, they taught us the rules early.
Cells are life.
Cells are order.
Cells must die.
That last part was always spoken softly.
As if death might overhear.
In biology class, the diagrams were clean and colorful. Cells dividing neatly. Organelles labeled in tidy text. Apoptosis shown as a graceful sequence. Shrinkage. Fragmentation. Removal.
Necessary. Natural. Beautiful.
Our teacher once paused too long on that slide.
Someone asked why it mattered so much.
She smiled, stiff and rehearsed, and said that without death, life becomes noise.
She did not explain further.
No one asked again.
On the train ride home, the screens flickered between advertisements and public service announcements.
A smiling family reminded us to report unusual growths immediately.
A cartoon character demonstrated proper disposal of organic waste.
Then, for half a second, something slipped through.
A still image.
Grainy. Unlabeled.
A shape filling an entire intersection. Translucent. Uneven. Veins or something like veins pulsing beneath its surface.
The screen corrected itself instantly.
Back to ads.
A few passengers looked up, confused.
"Did you see that?" someone whispered.
"See what?"
No one pushed it.
The train continued on schedule.
By the time I reached my district, the air felt heavier.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The kind of pressure that made conversations shorter and footsteps quicker. Store owners stood just inside their doors, hands resting on emergency shutters. Security drones hovered lower than usual, their lenses rotating in slow, deliberate patterns.
Everything was normal.
And that was the problem.
Normal now required effort.
Maintenance.
Constant correction.
I stopped at a convenience store to buy dinner. The clerk scanned my items without looking at me.
Behind him, a notice was taped to the wall.
APOPTOSIS COMPLIANCE CHECK
SCHEDULED THIS WEEK
Failure to comply may result in forced regulation.
I stared at the word regulation longer than I should have.
The clerk noticed.
"Don't worry," he said quickly, voice tight. "It's just routine."
Routine.
I nodded, paid, and left.
Outside, the wind picked up.
It carried that same metallic scent, sharper now, mixed with something faintly sweet.
Rotting fruit.
No.
Something warmer.
Organic.
I paused on the sidewalk, a strange unease crawling up my spine. Around me, other people slowed too. Heads lifted. Noses twitched.
Somewhere deep beneath the city, something shifted.
Not violently.
Not yet.
Just enough to remind the world that growth never asks for permission.
Then, far away, a sound began to rise.
Low.
Dragging.
Wrong.